There’s blood on my leg. This happens more and more at this time of year. I feel a scratch, look down, and a blackberry vine has reached out and grabbed on, snaring my clothes and embedding thorns in my skin.

Our land is full of blackberries. Before we moved here, the back half of our property had been clear cut, all the timber removed and sold, leaving an open field for the blackberries to move into.

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer explains that when land is traumatized, either by fire or storm or a clear cut like this, nature has a method to repair itself. The first to move in are what she calls the pioneer plants. These are vigorous growers that need little and spread easily, much like human pioneers.

Often these plants have berries, so that they can be picked up by birds and spread even beyond the immediate area, to the next clear cut where they can do their work.

Kenn has been battling these tough plants for five years, trying to contain them to a few stands that we can harvest from without letting them own the entire property. It’s hard work. They are wild and dense and often dangerous.

But in late summer, they also produce the most glorious abundance of deep purple fruit. Even Gordy has learned to pick them, braving the sharp thorns that scratch his nose in order to find ripe berries close to the ground. He hunts berries and munches happily with me.

It’s hard to stop, once you begin picking. You start to recognize the dull sheen of perfectly sweet berries, just on the cusp of rotting. The ones that fall apart in your hand taste best, but the tart and shiny ones hold their shape and are nice for baking. For every handful that go in my container, at least a couple go in my mouth.

I spend a lot of energy trying to keep chaos at bay. It’s the human way, to fear the unpredictable and to make every effort to control the world, and therefore control the future.

And because we humans can see so far into the future (or at least believe we can), we take even greater effort to control it. I fight back blackberry bushes, but I also fight back my to-do list, my projects, the entropy of life. Everything grabbing my attention, snagging me here and there.

This is helpful, and maybe even necessary. But it’s easy to take it too far, to destroy the good in an effort to keep everything in order. Sometimes that wildness is absolutely delicious, and exactly what you need.

Wild Blackberry Curd

This recipe comes from Chez Panisse Desserts, perhaps my all-time favorite cookbook when it comes to sweets. It’s simple to make, and is the perfect thing to swirl into greek yogurt (with peaches, apples, or more berries), to top some oatmeal, or to spoon onto vanilla ice cream.

Ingredients

• 3 cups wild blackberries

• 6 T unsalted butter

• 3 T sugar (or to taste)

• 2 T lemon juice

• 3 eggs

• 2 egg yolks

Instructions

1. Purée the blackberries in a blender, then strain the seeds out with a fine strainer.

2. Measure out 1 1/2 cups of the strained purée into a saucepan and add the butter. Heat until the butter has melted, stirring constantly.

3. Add the sugar and lemon juice and taste to adjust (my blackberries were very sweet, yours might be more tart).

4. Place eggs and egg yolks in a bowl and mix. Stream in a little of the hot purée to temper the eggs (this prevents them from getting scrambled).

5. Pur the eggs into the saucepan and cook, stirring constantly, until it reaches 170 degrees F and can hold its shape when dropped from a spoon.

6. Poor into jars, let cool, then chill.

You can keep this in the fridge for a week or two. I’ve also recently learned that fruit curds freeze beautifully, so you can make a few jars and pop some in the freezer for your fall baking. It would be perfect with any sort of apple goodie, and you can even bake it in a pie crust to make a pie.

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I have a little wooden basket I keep on the kitchen counter in the summer, so that I can grab it along with a sharp pair of pruners at any time. I pick it up and head out to collect some food for lunch.

It’s been a mild summer, so the tomatoes have just started to ripen. The ones I harvest are a bright scarlet, deeply ridged and firm in my hand. I put a few in my basket along with some basil and a few golden nasturtiums. In August, I garnish everything with flowers that I can.

It’s the middle of a Tuesday, and the list of things I need to do by the end of the day feels daunting. Part of me resisted even coming outside, the part that deeply believes that one day I’ll feel caught up if I only work hard enough.

Luckily, a wiser part of me prevailed, at least for now. That part knows that summer is moving quickly, and that each summer will feel quicker than the last.

And the tomatoes. You can only taste a tomato like this for a short time each year, a matter of weeks really. They’re still warm from the sun and there’s the sharp green scent of tomato leaves on my hands. They taste like nothing else, because they taste like summer.

I eat a slice off the cutting board with a little sprinkle of salt, and for a moment, I feel a twinge of sadness that they will be gone soon. There is nothing like a summer tomato, and I’ll need to wait another 11 months to experience one again. It’s almost painful, how fleeting it all is.

But that is the most wonderful thing about them: that they taste like summer. They aren’t meant to last forever. They carry within them, in their specific smell and taste and color, the memory of summer. They are of their own time and place, just as we all are.

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Back in May, I took my mom to Paris.

She was turning 74, and I’d just turned in a substantial creative project I’d been working on for the better part of a year. So these were our excuses to celebrate.

We rented an apartment overlooking a park in a quiet neighborhood, and would start each day with slow, lazy mornings of coffee, fruit, and fresh pastries from the nearby boulangerie. We’d sit on the balcony and just read, journal, and sketch each morning.

When I was about 13, my mom gave me drawing lessons. She taught me how to see perspective, how to sketch facial proportions, how to visually analyze a scene. I’d show her my work, and she’d say, “Isn’t it wonderful? It really gives you a whole new way to see.”

At 13, you’re starting to get messages about what you ought to do with your life. Most well-meaning adults try to impress upon you that you need to start building a secure future by getting good grades and developing some marketable skills. Art can be a fun hobby, but it’s dangerous to take it too seriously. It’s not a career.

Amid all these adult voices, I had my mom. She believed that creativity was essential, and that thinking only of career and security was an impoverished way of looking at the world. It is just as important to learn to see in different ways, so that you can make sense of yourself and the world around you.

I don’t think this is something she was consciously trying to impart; she was simply teaching me to draw. But the lessons changed the course of the rest of my life.

One morning in Paris, I sat at the little metal balcony table in the sun and read. In her spiral notebook, she drew a quick sketch of me with a pen on lined paper. She loves to draw portraits.

Impressed, I said, “Drawing with a pen seems hard. I don’t think I’m confident enough to do it.”

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“I feel like I won’t be able to get the proportions right. I have to start with a pencil sketch so I can get the proportions correct.” My drawing skills are a bit rusty, and I couldn’t imagine doing it without an eraser nearby.

“Sometimes proportions don’t matter,” she said. “Sometimes it’s just about the quality of the line.”

Since then, I’ve been drawing with pen and ink almost every morning. I put together a little sketching kit to take with me, with my favorite Copic pen and a few other tools in a little leather pencil case I bought at Charvin in Paris. I bought a dip pen and some nibs, and little pots of ink. I tried out some brush pens and a fountain pen. I’ve even started adding watercolor.

And she is right. I’d been so focused on drawing well, on not making mistakes, on capturing something objective, that I missed the opportunity to capture something even more meaningful: the actual experience of drawing. The sense of an instrument in a real human hand, guided by a unique human eye.

How often do I avoid the full experience of a messy, complex, human life in order to keep from making a mistake? Aren’t I always anxiously laying down hesitant marks, trying to make things just so and agonizing around shortcomings, instead of diving whole-heartedly into the experience of life?

Isn’t it sometimes easier to work really hard to do things “right”, instead of truly investigating the deeper truth?

Since I returned from that magical trip, I’ve been drawing with ink just about every day, usually with my morning coffee. I often get so consumed by the experience that I have to force myself to get up and do the normal adult things: take a shower, eat, start work.

I’ve also been bringing my sketchbook with me everywhere, doodling whenever I’m free for a minute instead of pulling out my phone and looking for a distraction.

A world has opened up to me, a world I first glimpsed at 13 when I started drawing. It’s a world in which there is no right way, no wrong way. Just different ways of seeing.

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Since moving to the country and far from a grocery store, I’ve had to get much better at cooking from the pantry and freezer. In this series, I’ll share my favorite staples that I make and keep on hand.

These are things you can keep in your fridge, freezer, cupboard or pantry. Use them to dress up simple meals, from oatmeal to a pot of beans, and you’ll never run out of delicious things to eat.

This week, as I pawed through our garage freezer, I discovered a bag of cherries I’d frozen late last spring.

It was the first year that our tree produced more fruit than the birds could steal away. At first, we weren’t sure how to harvest it all without a cherry picker. We stared up into the branches and saw bright red globes 20 feet in the air.

Kenn suggested he lift me up in the tractor bucket, but I am a chicken in most matters of personal safety. Luckily, we had friends visiting who were not so timid, and so up our friend Tom went to gather bags and bags of cherries for me to pickle, can, and freeze.

Somehow, this last bag had migrated to the back of the freezer and escaped me. Since cherry season will soon be upon us again, I thought it best to use them up and make this wonderful cherry compote. The hint of rose makes it taste like spring, but you can leave it out if you don’t like floral flavors.

It’s very easy to make once your cherries are pitted. Alternately, you can use purchased frozen cherries for this.

Ingredients

1 lb pitted sweet cherries
Juice from 1 lemon
2 Tablespoons maple syrup
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp rosewater

Directions

Place all ingredients except rosewater in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium heat.

Lower the heat and allow to simmer for 20 minutes, until it becomes syrupy and slightly thickened.

Turn off the heat and stir in the rosewater. Ladle into a jar to cool (or serve warm).

In a jar in the refrigerator, it should keep for a few weeks. You can also freeze it. I guess it should last a few months, but obviously I like to live a little dangerously when it comes to freezer longevity.

It’s delicious on greek yogurt, vanilla ice cream with a little chopped dark chocolate, or spooned over oatmeal dusted with some freshly ground cardamom.

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When I was young, one of our cats fell in love with a cardboard box… as cats so often do.

My mom had placed it on top of a bookshelf, and our black cat Leila had found it to be the perfect perch for surveying her household.

Finally, someone took the box out to the recycling. Enough was enough, and this box had been sitting around for weeks.

Yet, a few days later, I came home and the box had returned, right back on top of the bookshelf. Leila lounged on it once again. “I thought you finally threw out this box,” I said to my dad.

“Leila got depressed, so we had to bring it back in.” They’d actually gone out to the recycling, retrieved the box, taped it back together, and put it in her preferred spot.

My parents clearly have a deep willingness to oblige their animals, and an unwillingness to get rid of things. I have inherited both of these qualities, for better or worse.

What to do if you hate decluttering

I am pretty terrible at decluttering. I tell myself all the usual stories: I could use this (even if I don’t), it feels wasteful just to get rid of it, I might need it someday, etc.

And yet, when you get to a certain age and have been collecting, thrifting, and making for your entire life, you cannot just continue to accumulate. The stuff filling up your life begins to feel overwhelming. It takes time to maintain it all, to find places to put things, to keep it organized. The things you do truly cherish become buried amongst the clutter, with no room to breathe and feel appreciated.

And if I don’t give thought to what I really need in my life, my tendency is to continue to acquire more. Decluttering is a practice, a reminder that I already have plenty and that the stuff in my life is ultimately not that important.

Because I find decluttering difficult, the massive Kondo-style clean outs never really worked well for me. I tend to hem and haw over everything and become overly sentimental. I also find that integrating decluttering into my daily life, rather than just doing periodic purges, keeps me more aware and consistent.

So these are my 3 favorite easy ways to declutter if, like me, you do not excel at it.

Implement a 1-in-2-out policy

There are certain categories of things that I just keep buying.

Hair products are one of them. I keep trying to find that one perfect cream or serum that will keep my long, fine hair from turning into a giant snarl, and half-used products were piling up in our bathroom.

So I’ve implemented a 1-in-2-out policy. If I want to buy something new, I must get rid of 2 things.

This is surprisingly effective. The other day, I bought a new nail polish and while going through my drawers in order to find two to get rid of, realized that I had about 10 I could part with right there. With very little effort, I’d decluttered my nail drawer, something I would probably never have even thought about otherwise.

This has the added benefit of getting me to question every purchase. Do I really need a new pair of jeans when I have several I already love? Or do I have some I will never miss if I donated them? How much will I actually wear a new pair compared to what I already own?

Give yourself an easy daily challenge

When I start to feel like I have more than I need, I’ll occasionally give myself a 30 day challenge to simply get rid of one thing a day.

It could be something large or something small, it doesn’t matter. As long as I find one thing I can part with, it’s fine.

I love this because it serves as a consistent reminder of how much I have. I begin to notice my stuff a lot more, and even to appreciate the things I do get use out of every day.

A time limit is also useful for me when it comes to anything challenging. It can be daunting to start decluttering on a daily basis, but if you tell yourself it’s only for 30 days, or 2 weeks, or even one week, it becomes a lot more managable.

Keep a donation bin at all times

This is a common decluttering hint, but it’s one that works well for a lazy declutterer like me. Just keep a bag or box for donations accessible at all times.

Currently, we keep one in the attached garage, but a basket in the closet works even better for me whenever my closet needs a refresh. When I notice something I never wear, I just set it in the basket right then and there. I still have time to change my mind, but I rarely do.

Over time, I find myself thinking about what I wear and why, and even giving new life to old garments I haven’t worn in years. It gives me another sense of perspective on what I really need in my life.

I will never be a true minimalist. I take pleasure in having and making beautiful things, and I am far too nostalgic and sentimental. Also, I’ll admit that I simply like a bit of cozy clutter.

But it’s far too easy to fall into mindless accumulation. We are hardwired for it. Finding easy ways to temper those acquisitive urges not only helps me keep myself in check, it nurtures an appreciation for how much I already have.

Thanks for reading Making Time. If you’re new here, you can subscribe for free to receive new posts a few times a month.

Years ago, we all took one of those tests at work that purports to find your greatest strengths.

In fact, we’ve done a few of these. They’ve all been my idea, because the premise makes a lot of sense to me. Instead of trying to be everything to everyone, find what you’re naturally good at and do more of that. Not only is it a better way to serve others, but it usually makes you happier too.

This particular test is supposed to identify your top five strengths. I answered each question as honestly as I could, hit submit, and waited for the praise to rush in.

But when I saw my top strength, I deflated immediately. According to this test, my greatest strength was this: ambition.

It’s not that I felt it wasn’t true. In fact, it confirmed all my worst fears about myself. I wasn’t actually that good at anything, I was just a striver.

The problem with striving

I knew that my ambition had helped me gain a lot throughout life. I am not terribly money motivated, but I am very achievement-oriented. Run a marathon? Why not. Write a book? Sure, I can do that. I’ll art direct it too. All while running a small business.

Oliver Burkeman calls this type of personality an “insecure overachiever.” Accomplishing things is my way of self-soothing, of putting things in place, of feeling I have some control. It’s also long been the locus of my self-worth.

But I also knew that it did little to actually alleviate the anxiety of life as a human. In fact, all it did was create ever higher standards that I could never quite meet.

That’s the thing about strengths. They’re helpful until they’re not. Sometimes, you learn to lean so hard into them that they seem to flip like magnetic poles and turn into your greatest weakness.

My neurosis about not meeting my own unrelenting standards bothered me. But what I hated even more was this feeling that I was always in a tremendous rush.

When you feel like you’re never doing enough, you start to feel that every activity must be finished as quickly as possible so you can move to the next thing. Everything is a checkbox. You skate along the surface of life, marking things off a list and moving on, never stopping to feel anything.

Maybe “not feeling things” is part of the point. But it is a frenzied and joyless way to live.

I felt that I was never giving anything the attention it deserved. Working in the garden on a sunny afternoon was pleasant, but also felt like a chore I needed to finish so that I could do ten other tasks before the weekend ended. No matter how much I told myself, “Just slow down!”, there was another voice with a, “But…” to counter it.

I wanted to be mindful. I wanted to feel like I was caring deeply for my world, and putting my heart into a smaller number of activities instead of trying to do everything.

Over and over, I would try to pare down my to-do list. I’d try to convince myself not to push so hard, that I just needed to accept that I couldn’t do everything that I wanted to do in my limited time on earth. This helped to an extent, but I’d still find myself sneakily adding more into my days. I’d still be working on one project, and fretting about the next. It’s hard to undo a lifetime of habit, especially a highly rewarded one like Getting Stuff Done.

The other way to “do less”

So if I couldn’t bring myself to do less, what if I approached it from a completely different angle?

What if, instead of trying to mold myself into someone less insecure and ambitious, I simply tried to pay attention to each and every activity in my daily life?

With this approach, I’d stop multitasking all the time, and focus only on what I’m doing. Instead of catching up on email or texting someone back while I gobble down my breakfast, I’d just sit by the window and enjoy my food. I’d notice the taste of the porridge and fruit, sip my milky morning tea, and just be open to that moment.

When pulling weeds in the garden, I’d sink into the feeling of caring for a little place on earth, of creating something through dedication and care. I’d feel the stems in my hands, the smell of fresh soil, the progress of the little seedlings. I’d let myself, in that very moment, go deep.

The slow life is a life of caring

What I discovered was twofold.

First, if you approach even some of your everyday activities with care like this, you no longer need to think about “slowing down.” It takes care of itself. If you are committed to this, even some of the time, you will not be able to accomplish as much, so tasks will naturally just have to fall off your plate.

You no longer feel in control of how much you can get done. It feels like you’ve discovered a natural barrier, a way of organically filtering yourself. At the end of the day, instead of chasing a feeling of pride in having ticked off 20 items, you feel the sense that you put yourself into each one. If there’s more to do, there’s more to do.

Second, it is far more enjoyable. You notice things that were a blur before. You actually get better at things and gain skills through paying attention. You find that there is pleasure to be taken all around you, every day, in nearly every activity. What once felt like work starts to feel like play.

This goes for people and other creatures too. By giving them the attention they need, you not only build stronger bonds, but get to feel the pleasure of loving someone.

If you feel too busy for this approach to life, you may need it even more. It can feel impossible to dedicate your full attention to every single part of your day, from doing the dishes to commuting to work to dealing with the laundry. I’ll be the first to admit that I still find myself rushing and list-making in my head constantly.

But just because I can’t do it all the time, or do it perfectly, doesn’t mean I can’t practice. The more I try, the more natural it becomes, and the more deeply that sense of care goes.

Thanks for reading Making Time. If you’re new here, you can subscribe for free to receive new posts a few times a month.

For the last 2 weeks, our house has been torn apart. We finally decided to replace our stained, dog-trampled beige carpet with wood floors, and it feels as if we’ve been living in a snow globe that’s been turned upside down.

Everything is in boxes, dust and debris are everywhere, and the house is screaming with saws and hammers.

Each morning, I’d wake up in the dark with a knot in my stomach.

This is what anxiety feels like to me. My mind isn’t quite sure what’s wrong, so it skips around, turning over every rock looking for the source of all this stress. And when I look for problems, I always find them. I start to worry – about work, about my to do list, about my family, about the future.

But sometimes the stress is not a problem that needs to be solved, but just the way the world around you is at the moment. Sometimes things are simply an uncontrollable mess.

I wasn’t anxious about anything in particular. I was elated that we’d finally saved enough money to do these renovations. It’s just that I’d just been surrounded by ear-piercing noise, unable to concentrate, for over a week.

Instead of fighting my anxiety, I decided to spend at least a part of each day outside. Most days, I’d head up to the garden, the dogs happily trailing me.

As I stepped through the rose-covered arbor into the fenced area where I grow my vegetables and flowers, I could feel my jaw begin to unclench. As I puttered around, pulling weeds here and there, checking on the progress of each seedling, it felt as if I were turning the volume down somewhere inside.

We’re more sensitive than we realize. Our great capacity to think and solve problems leads up to believe that thinking is the answer to everything. Thinking through things helps us over and over in our daily lives, so we come to believe that it is the only tool worth using.

As a result, we lose touch with other vital capacities, like feeling and experiencing. But that doesn’t mean they go away. I still felt the stress of all that noise and chaos in my house.

But my logical brain responded to that feeling in an unhelpful way: by looking for a sense of control, by worrying, by finding more problems.

So what do you do when the world is too loud? When the ugliness and chaos feels uncontrollable, and you find yourself in the grip of an unknowable anxiety?

We are porous creatures, and we absorb far more than we realize. So when the world is crazy, sometimes you just need to extract yourself from it, even just for a little while.

Think of it as a sanctuary. We all need a place to go where things are quiet.

We can create a space that is intentionally wholesome. There, we can absorb goodness, beauty, and peace instead of all the ingredients of anxiety.

Whether it’s a garden, a writing desk, a sewing room, or a neighborhood park, just having a place to go and be with yourself gives you an alternative to worrying. Instead of useless churning, you can create a place that lets you come back to your true self.

Try This

Give yourself a quiet place. If it’s in your home, decorate it with anything that encourages calm, whether it’s artwork, family photos, a candle, fresh flowers.

When you’re there, just take a moment to let the goodness inside. Give your mind a chance to dissipate.

Thanks for reading Making Time. If you’re new here, you can subscribe for free to receive new posts a few times a month.

I look forward to starting each day with a book. I pour steaming black coffee into my favorite William Morris mug, give each dog their morning biscuit, start the fireplace if it’s cold, then settle in on the sofa with some non-fiction.

Within 30 seconds of getting comfortably settled, Duke jumps on me. Being a cat, he does not understand the purpose of books, nor does he care to. He stands on my stomach and immediately begins nudging the book or kindle out of my hand. If I try to ignore him and continue reading, he finds a way to get between me and the book. He simply does not understand why this object should get more attention than him.

This often annoys me. I love my cats, but I just wanted to read in peace.

I think: I only have a half hour a day for this. Half an hour where I have the free time and the brain capacity to read non-fiction. I have a backlog of books I want to get through. And you’re ruining it.

One day, I just gave up. I set the book down, looked Duke in his big blue eyes, and just gave him my full attention. I felt how soft and sleek his white fur is. I listened to his breathy purring. I felt his warmth and let myself simply love him.

Of course, he immediately settled down, curled up in my lap, and went to sleep.

Since then, I’ve created a rule for myself. Whenever a cat jumps in my lap and demands love, I stop whatever I’m doing and give him my full attention for at least one minute.

Rather than a distraction, I’ve found that this is a welcome reminder to refocus my mind on something I care deeply about: love for my fellow creatures.

Now, when Duke jumps on me each morning… well, I admit it. I still get annoyed.

But then I remember that I love him, and that I enjoy cuddling him. It’s like my teacher has arrived to remind me to practice.

I have come to believe that we each carry within us two selves. I think of these as Big Self and Little Self.

Big Self is what zen teacher Kosho Uchiyama refers to as “universal self.” In Opening the Hand of Thought, he describes it as “a self that is living the whole truth of life.” It is the self that is beyond the small, constricting realm of the intellect. It is connected, vast, yet simple. It operates without judgement.

It is just my experience, not my thoughts about the experience. When I simply sit with Duke, give him my care and attention, and feel my love for him, this is what I’m practicing. When I’m drawn into a creative project like drawing or painting, I feel that same sense of attention. When I’m out in nature, feeling a sense of awe, I practice then too.

Little Self has a much more narrow field of concern. Little Self worries and ruminates, because it is entirely self-focused. It is full of anxious thoughts about the future, about getting things done, about self-preservation or getting what it wants.

It wants to finish the book, because that’s what it planned to do. It wants to make the most of the first half hour of the day, because time is scarce. It gets annoyed when someone else’s needs get in the way.

And when all the anxiety and rumination get to be too much, Little Self looks for distraction. It wants to shut off completely, so it looks for something else to occupy. It alternates between churning thoughts and completely zoning out.

It’s like two different pairs of glasses you can put on to see the world. One makes the world bigger and clearer, showing you things you may not have seen otherwise. The other pair narrows your focus, like blinders on a horse. Both can be useful. But just noticing which pair you’re wearing gives you a new perspective.

Try This

This week, notice which self you’re wearing. When do you feel expansive and present? When do you feel trapped in small, churning thoughts? You don’t need to fix anything—just notice.

Thanks for reading Making Time. If you’re new here, you can subscribe for free to receive new posts a few times a month.

There’s a mesh bag full of bulbs on the kitchen counter, the papery skin flaking off as I unwrap them. I’d found them in the back of our garage fridge, where I’d put them to cool in the fall. I’d nearly forgotten they were there.

Hyacinths need a period of chill in order to bloom indoors. Now, after a few months of cold, I take them out and set each one in its own glass vase. I fill them with water, so it just kisses the bottom. Too much water and the bulb will rot, too little and the roots won’t grow.

I set each near a window. The water and sunlight will wake them from their dormancy. A thick green stem will shoot up, tendrils of roots will float down, and a fragrant bloom of pale spring yellow will open. Hyacinth Orientalis, “City of Haarlem,” the color and scent of spring.

Forcing bulbs is easy, but it takes time and I’ve never considered myself a patient person. I had trouble even getting these started. I’d see them in the refrigerator each time I ran out to grab something, thinking, “I’ll have to do something with those soon..” or “I wish I had time for that right now” before slamming the door closed and moving on with my day. After a while, I barely noticed them.

There’s so much I must do, I think to myself. It’s a constant refrain, whether I’m tidying the kitchen, at my desk working, or sewing a dress. I think of everything else, my body in one place and my mind skipping ahead. This has come to feel normal.

But that greedy, impatient voice is not the only one I have. I’ve found that there is another, much more quiet voice. It speaks in feelings and sensations, in a sense of being fully alive. It is wordless, but always speaking.

Back in the 70s, May Sarton wrote, “Machines do things very quickly and outside the natural rhythm of life, and we are indignant if a car doesn’t start at the first try. So the few things that we still do, such as cooking (though there are TV dinners!), knitting, gardening, anything at all that cannot be hurried have a very particular value.”

When I am in the middle of these humble and ordinary acts, I have a choice. I can do them as a machine would, attempting to control and speed things up. I can skip over the seemingly inconsequential details and move on to the next task. This is a default mode.

Or, I can practice being human. In the coming weeks, I’ll watch the bulbs carefully. I’ll hold the vase close to my eyes to make sure the water line is just right. I’ll notice the first white roots start to grow, give them sunshine, and then wait.

In time, I may be rewarded when those star-shaped blossoms burst out from the stem. Or perhaps the bulbs will rot after all that attention. In either case, I’ve practiced. I’ve noticed the slow, steady pulse of life.

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I have a penchant for shiny old silverplate, so when I saw this picture frame recently at the thrift store, I snatched it up. It’s one of those album frames: the black velvet back opens up to slots where you can store more photos. I thought it would be nice to finally frame a wedding photo after all these years.

Who knows how long this frame has sat in storage somewhere? It was unused, but dull with a coppery wash of tarnish on the surface and a black tinge settled into the ridges. I left it waiting on the kitchen counter, piled up with my seed catalogs and mail and other things I mean to get to soon.

Saturday, puttering around the kitchen, thinking of all the chores I need to get to, I saw it. I’ll take care of this now, I thought.

So I settled into a chair by the window, where the winter sun was unusually bright. With a bit of silver polish and a sponge, I carefully wiped away the grime, working in small circles and pushing the sponge into the crevices.

I thought of nothing but the act of cleaning. I worked at it carefully. I wiped the polish, found areas I’d missed, and cleaned again until it shone like a mirror.

The gleaming silver felt satisfying. But it wasn’t the end result that mattered. It was the five minutes of pure attention that I’d given it. It was taking the time to devote myself wholeheartedly to caring for something.

The frame now feels ready for the photo. It isn’t just a pretty object I picked up at a thrift store, but something that feels imbued with love.

Try This: One Small Act of Care

Here’s my invitation to you today. Find one thing to give care to for a few minutes, and give it your undivided attention.

It could be a sweater that needs mending, plants that you water, or a nightstand that needs tidying (I’ll raise my hand for that one).

Spend just a few minutes on it, but in a spirit of caretaking.

Instead of checking it off a list or thinking about the end result, just approach it with love and commitment for a few short minutes.

Notice what your hands are doing, and how the object or area changes as you care for it. Look for areas that need your attention. Enjoy the feeling of care. Let time fall away.

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Our home is on a small cliff, and from the south-facing windows, I can see out onto our lower few acres. When we moved here, it was choked with wild blackberries. Now there are a few stands left for picking fruit in the summer, but the rest has been cut into sloping grassy fields.

From the windows of my upstairs office, I look out. In winter, the shadows are long and the light a paler gold. A small family of deer move across it in the morning. I watch them move from one corner of the window to another.

It feels distant. From up in my office, my mind swims with deadlines and work still undone. Another ping comes in, pulling me back to my phone.

On my desk, a small notepad lists my tasks for the day, like an incantation. If I can only get it exactly right, everything will be ok. Tomorrow there will be a new one. Perform the steps, live another day.

My focus shifts to the long shadows cast on my desk from the window, the dark outlines of trees projected onto the paper. In that moment, for only a second, the spell is broken. There’s a buzzing under my skin, an urge to move.

I glance back at the list on my desk. For a moment, I hesitate. There is still so much to do today.

But my body insists. I march myself downstairs, before my mind can catch up. I pull on wool socks and my old trail shoes, throw on my favorite ratty red coat. Come on, dogs. Let’s go.

Across the yard, through a gateway of trees, we climb down the muddy slope to the gravel road. In a few minutes, I’m in the field, open to the sun. I follow the dogs as they explore the edges. I close my eyes and let my eyelids bake until they’re warm. I carefully pick a path through the torn brambles on the ground, nothing particular on my mind now.

Oddly, I feel the urge to read a poem, so I pull my phone from my pocket and find an old favorite. I lean against a stump and read it to the dogs, to no one, to myself. It’s a luxury to read a poem where no one is listening.

When I look up, I can see my office window from here, small and far away. The notepad is still on the desk. The messages are still waiting. But from down here, they’re just shapes behind glass.

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In winter, it’s so cold when I enter the shed that I have to keep my coat on for the first hour. Sometimes, I wear fingerless gloves to keep my hands warm as I cut the little shapes from scraps of fabric.

It’s different in summer. On those days, I go out there early, before the sun is too high, and keep all the windows open. I hope for a breeze to come through the lace curtains, even if it scatters the smaller bits of fabric around.

Each month of the year, I created a new block for my quilt from whatever scraps I had lying around. At the end of the year, I pieced them all together and created a patchwork of a year of my life.

For each block, I only used what I already had. These were the leftovers from other projects that I collect in milk crates, or small lengths of fabric that I picked up years ago and never used. They’d otherwise be discarded, so I use them freely.

It’s not precious. If it looks beautiful in the end, that’s nice, but while I’m making each block I’m just trying things out, seeing how different colors look together, coming up for a use for what’s in front of me right then. I am playing.

Play is scarce. So much of our lives are driven by pressure. We have to make a living, manage the chores, take care of families, take care of ourselves. The obligations accumulate on our minds like a film of dust.

Everything starts to feel like work, because everything has a goal. I walk the dogs on a crisp and sunny winter afternoon, but I’m checking my watch and thinking of the unfinished email I need to get back to. I make lunch, but I’m trying to squeeze in some reading while I eat and don’t really taste the lemony dressing I made for my salad.

I want things to be a certain way, to get it all done finally once and for all. All day long, I think must, should, need. This is the nature of work.

But then I go back to the shed to play with my quilt. Laying out little shapes of color like a small child, I listen to my own intuition. The questions are simple. Do I like this? What about this? What if I tried this one instead? It’s like a game. It matters, but it’s not serious.

In only a few minutes, I’ve wiped away that dusty layer of obligation. Yes, the dust will accumulate again, because there are always more to replace them. But I can clean them off, again and again.

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Every morning starts with a book.

At this time of year, mornings are dark. The animals all gather round me at the sofa as the fireplace warms the room, and I settle in to read for the first hour of my day.

In the morning, it’s nonfiction. Before bed, it’s usually a novel. Of the 50 or so books I finished last year, these are the five that have stuck with me the most.

1. The Good Life: Lessons from the World’s Longest Scientific Study of Happiness

I’ll be honest. I’m pretty burned out on “happiness research.”

It’s not that it isn’t useful; it just feels a bit limited to me. The whole idea of pursuing happiness as a goal feels like a mental trap; the more you grasp for it, the farther away it seems.

But I picked up this book after watching this video with Bob Waldinger, head of the Harvard Study of Adult Development, a longitudinal study spanning over 80 years. The study has followed two cohorts of men (and their family members, gradually incorporating more women) throughout their lives to understand the factors that most contribute to human wellbeing.

There are no big surprises here. The most important factor in creating a happy life is having strong, intimate relationships.

It’s the stories that bring this idea to life: the elderly couple holding hands and serving oreo cookies as they articulate their bond; the vermont schoolteacher passionately serving his community; the distant father who prioritizes career.

One story in particular has stuck in my head, of a man at the end of his life, alone in a trailer in Montana without friends or family, simply because he had lost touch with the people who loved him and could not bring himself to make an effort to connect.

These stories showed me that there are many ways to build strong relationships, and all of them take consistent, sustained effort. It’s hard, but few things matter as much.

2. Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy World by Cal Newport

This book changed my life.

Cal Newport advocates for a more considered approach to technology, one that feels less overwhelming and gives you more capacity to focus on what matters to you.

In the spring, after finishing this book, I decided to try out the 30-day “digital declutter” he recommends. Just the act of making choices and setting stronger boundaries around technology felt empowering. My attention felt less fragmented, and I had more time for people and activities I actually enjoy.

Since then, I’ve looked for more ways to pare back to what’s essential and waste far less time zoning out on internet brain candy (though I also haven’t completely given it up).

The biggest lesson I took away is that everything has tradeoffs, and it’s better to consciously weigh them so you can decide for yourself if they’re worth it. Just because something provides a benefit to you in some way doesn’t mean it’s worth what you’re sacrificing.

3. Already Free: Buddhism Meets Psychotherapy on the Path of Liberation by Bruce Tift

Sometimes, there are different philosophies about life that seems completely at odds with each other, yet somehow both true.

Here we have Buddhist thought. It teaches us to accept our direct experience in each moment. If we stop resisting, we have access to freedom, no matter what our circumstances.

Then we have western psychotherapy, which says that we can improve our circumstances if we learn to live more skillfully and understand ourselves better.

Instead of arguing between these two approaches, therapist and Vajrayana Buddhist practitioner Bruce Tift notes their respective strengths. There’s a tension between them that we can simply appreciate.

This book helped me realize that, on many levels, not everything is a “problem” to be solved.

4. I’ve Got Time: A Zen monk's guide to a calm, focused and meaningful life by Paul Loomans

This short book advocates for a simple, more intuitive approach to how you view time.

While some of the ideas seem difficult to implement if you work on long term, complex projects with other people, I found that there were many aspects of my life where a looser, more present-minded focus made perfect sense.

This is a book I’d love to reread, as I think I could harness more and more from it with each pass.

My favorite was the practice of focusing on doing one thing at a time and naming it to yourself. For example, silently saying to yourself “doing dishes” as you wash up. I love the way this simple naming snaps me into the present moment instead of rushing towards the next task.

5. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry

This is my new favorite novel. I loved it so much that when I finished this nearly 900 page book, I immediately read the other 3 books in the series.

This western novel follows a pair of former Texas rangers, partners for decades, who attempt to drive their herd of cattle to Montana. It’s a novel about loyalty, friendship, regret, adventure, work, and love.

Captain Gus McCrae is the single most charming, lovable, courageous (and yet deeply flawed) character I’ve encountered. Woodrow Call is perhaps one of the most tragic, isolated by his own avoidance of emotion.

When I finished the last book, I wanted to start them all over again.

PS: If you like westerns, I also read True Grit this year and loved it too. Another adventure story with a lovable, funny, drunken rascal and a stolid, determined hero (only this time, she’s a 14-year-old girl).

I hope one of these books resonated with you. And if you’ve read any of them, I’d love to know what you thought.

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Outside my car windows, the world looks serene.

I leave the house early to make the hour-long weekly drive into the city for work. The roads are framed with pastures and woods, and at this time of year the grass often sparkles with frost. Horses stand around with blankets on their backs, steam rising from their noses, and goats and sheep wander slowly as I speed past. There’s even a mini donkey.

Inside the car, things are not always so peaceful. With such a long commute, there are nearly always unexpected inconveniences, and I never seem to learn to start expecting them. I’m usually running a few minutes behind.

My mind speeds up, as if to make up for the lost time. Will I hit more traffic? Why did this tractor have to pull in front of me? When will it turn? Will I be able to find parking?

Then, a new thought: “What if this were easy?”

My mind relaxes at once. Oh, that’s right: ease.

I can’t control the circumstances of this commute, so why not enjoy it? I start to pay attention again. Once again, I can see the towering fir trees wrapped in mist, the animals starting their day with me, the frozen apples on the ground at the side of the road.

Everything is quiet again.

Is there an easy way?

But this didn’t come naturally. A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought to ask that question at all.

At the beginning of 2025, I decided to approach the new year a little differently.

Instead of my usual Type A process of taking stock with an annual review, figuring out some concrete improvements I could make, and breaking these down into goals, I realized that all I really wanted was a bit more ease in my life.

How do you set a goal to make things easier for yourself?

Building objectives, measuring them, and holding myself accountable seemed totally counter to the very idea of ease. Perhaps I needed a simple intention, a theme or watchword for the year.

I’d tried this once before – and failed.

Many years ago, exhausted by my own tendency to try to do everything all at once, I chose the word “focus” for the year. By the end of January, I’d completely forgotten about this theme as I resumed my long-ingrained scattered and harried behavior. A single word is just no match for a lifetime of habit.

Not only that, but most evidence pointed in the opposite direction. Everyone tells you that you need to have concrete goals, measures, and milestones to really get anything done. And that’s always been my way. For the most part, it works. I do get things done.

But sometimes, even though your way of doing things works, it can only take you so far. I had hit upon a limitation to my usual way of doing things.

When goal planning isn’t enough

I was overwhelmed. Each day felt like a rush to the finish line, and the finish line seemed to recede further and further away.

I would create a list of everything I needed to accomplish in the morning, adding to it throughout the day. By evening, all I felt was discouraged when I saw how much was left, the checkboxes empty.

Even the things I enjoy became a part of this sense of burden. There was never enough time for everything I was committed to, so everything had to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. It left me feeling numb, unable to enjoy or even fully experience any of it.

I’d tried creating better systems, carving out time for things I enjoyed, giving myself more compassion. All of these helped, but I kept returning to the same anxious thought over and over: I am not doing enough.

One evening at my desk, after another deflating review of my daily checklist, that thought bubbled up again. I am not doing enough. And then, surprisingly, another thought: So what?

What if that’s not a problem?

Asking the right questions

It wasn’t a realization, just a question. I sat with it for a minute, staring into the dark trees out my office window. Perhaps I didn’t need systems and answers, but just more questions like this.

I was facing something that went beyond obvious solutions. It was not a practical question, but a spiritual one: How do I let go of unnecessary struggle and find more ease?

In the morning, I’d take a minute to write a couple thoughts. What if today were easy? Just writing a few bullet points helped keep the questions alive throughout the day, so I wouldn’t forget it (as I’d forgotten intentions in the past).

During the day, when I’d find myself struggling, not feeling productive enough, I’d turn it into a question: What if this were easy? What would that look like?

Slowly, I began to play with the idea in my life.

For example, it took me a while to realize this, but weekends actually give me the most anxiety. I wake up Saturday morning keenly aware that I have only two days to cram in all the household chores, the meal prep, the gardening, and all the other fun stuff I want to get done before Monday rolls around. Soon, I’d have a ridiculously long to-do list sitting on the kitchen table, watching me as I moved quickly around the house, a countdown timer running through my mind.

But over the course of the year, as I thought about the question of ease, I slowly loosened my grip. I started to take a more intuitive approach to free time. I let go of doing everything, even things I wanted.

Even my body started to move more slowly as I focused on just enjoying a simple task, like watering the houseplants, without thinking about what was next. Watering the houseplants was just watering the houseplants, a chance to care for something, to watch the water fill the soil, to smell the geranium leaves as I picked off the yellow ones. It was not an abstract “task”.

Sometimes, systems and objectives are the way to go. There’s no doubt that they work. If you want to get things done, it helps to have a plan.

But other times, it isn’t an accomplishment you’re pursuing, but a question about how to live.

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Hello, I’ve missed you all!

About six months ago, I embarked on a bit of a digital declutter after reading Cal Newport’s provocative book, Digital Minimalism. From there, something unexpected happened.

Spending less time in front of screens led me to question other ways I was spending my time. I noticed how much pressure I was putting on myself to do all the things, including things I enjoy, and the toll this was taking.

So given that I’ve declared this the year of ease for me, I decided to write again only once I felt like it. So here I am.

In the last six months, the circumstances of my life have not changed much, but my inner world has undergone some sort of mysterious tectonic shift.

It’s difficult to summarize that shift, but if I were to name it, I would call it a sense of aliveness.

I’ve loosened my grip. I spend more time staring out the window. I notice things and appreciate them, even if they’re transient. It doesn’t sound like much, but to me, it feels like some essential puzzle piece has snapped into place. It’s kind of weird, but I dig it.

I plan to write more about this sense of aliveness, what it has to do with creativity, and my own subtle shifts in thinking as they happen.

But in the meantime, I wanted to say hello again. I’ve truly missed writing, and I hope that some of what I share will be helpful in finding your own ways to bring aliveness to your life and creative practice.

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Last weekend, I took my first trip of the year to the local farmer’s market. It was a rare sunny morning, and the place was full of local breads and pastries, not to mention some very cute dogs. But it was the abundance of bright spring greens everywhere that caught my eye.

Rob Walker has a wonderful exercise called a “color walk.” You simply take a walk, and try to notice one particular color in your environment. From time to time, I’ll do this on my daily dog walks to help open my senses to the outside world, especially useful when I’ve been staring at spreadsheets or words on a screen all day.

The color I can’t help but notice lately is that almost-neon green, the one with a touch of yellow, the color of new growth. It’s on the ground, in the budding trees, in the garden, and at the farmer’s market.

If, like me, you’d like to bring that bright green feeling into your kitchen, here are five cookbooks from my shelves that have been inspiring that spring mood lately.

Most of these are British or Scottish, which surprised me at first. But then, I think spring is perhaps the most beautiful season in that part of the world (as it is here in Oregon), so perhaps it’s not so unusual.

Greenfeast: Spring, Summer by Nigel Slater

Greenfeast is a two-part series from Nigel Slater, the other of course being Autumn, Winter. It’s full of simple delights made from seasonal produce, described in that spare, poetic way only Nigel Slater has that really helps you inhabit the season. I like the small format of this book. It feels like a handbook to cooking with seasonal produce.

Salad Feasts by Jessica Elliott Dennison

This is a new one to me, purchased used after I ordered a copy of her Midweek Recipes cookbook (which is also lovely). I’ve made 4 recipes so far, and each one has been utterly delightful and fresh. Recently, I made the Spring Greens Orecchiette with a fresh lemon pesto (and homemade cavatellii instead), and broccolini with big beans and a dressing of blended peas, herbs, and yogurt.

26 Grains by Alex Hely-Hutchinson

Beans and grains are my favorite vehicles for fresh spring vegetables, and this book has so many ideas for using them. I particularly like the section that provides a blueprint for creating your own porridge. I eat oatmeal for breakfast almost every day, so this book has encouraged me to try other grains for breakfast, from amaranth to farro.

Grains for Every Season by Joshua McFadden is another great choice, especially because I love cookbooks arranged by season.

A Change of Appetite by Diana Henry

I love the sensuality of Diana Henry’s cookbooks, and this one focuses on lighter dishes, which is often what I’m in the mood for when spring rolls around.

Nancy Silverton’s Pastries from the La Brea Bakery

And along with all that green produce, I have to have my sweets.

I was recently struck by a nostalgia for those moist, sticky bran muffins that were ubiquitous at coffee shops in the 90s. I tried 3 different bran muffin recipes until I found the one: Nancy Silverton’s bran muffins.

Once I made them, I knew I had to hunt down the cookbook they came from. It’s out of print and hard to find, but I located a copy on ebay, and it looks like Barnes and Noble has an ebook available.

I’ve now made three muffins from this book (birdseed muffins, bran muffins, and ricotta muffins with fennel) and they’ve only cemented my devotion to all things Nancy Silverton.

This book is full of muffins, scones, cookies, and breakfast pastries which are perfect to take on a morning picnic walk near the local pond.

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There’s an abandoned house up the road, disintegrating year by year. The roof is caving in on one side, and thick vines and a towering rhododendron are reclaiming the back half.

Snowdrops pop up in the front yard at this time of year, along with a carefully planted ring of daffodils around a tree. It’s evidence that someone once cared for this place.

I stop to take a few pictures of the flowers and decide to get a closer look.

Outside the house, there are dozens of old rusted out cars, tractors, and RVs – some of which have been almost entirely consumed by blackberry vines. A child’s shovel is stuck upright in the ground.

I peer into the grimy windows. Inside, there are mountains of junk. It looks like someone filled the home with the contents of five garages, then shook it like a snowglobe. The front windows are covered, but just inside the glassed-in porch, you can see huge piles of newspapers stacked up and yellowing.

Our neighbors tell us that the couple who lived here died, and their children have no idea what to do with the property, so they’ve just let it go. I wouldn’t want to deal with all of this either.

It’s clear that someone who lived there had a problem with hoarding. While hoarding itself is a disastrous mental affliction, it stems from feelings and urges that I think many of us can relate to:

1. The comfort of things, and a belief that more things will improve our lives in some way.

2. The slow accumulation of more than we could possibly need.

3. The fear of giving up something that might be needed in the future.

Hoarders take this to an extreme, but I think most people struggle with the same root causes.

Why do we accumulate so much?

Being human in this world is difficult. We are anxious creatures, weighed down by the knowledge of our own mortality, and subject to complex and nuanced relationships with others that we must constantly navigate. It can be exhausting.

For many of us, acquiring more stuff provides some temporary relief, or at least distraction. It comes with a promise: “This new thing will make my life better.” Now I will be happier, because I have this useful, beautiful thing. It will make me attractive, and people will like me more. It will make me smarter. It will save me time.

Our minds are built to believe this, that acquiring more resources is innately good because it increases our chances of survival. Other humans have learned to exploit this, so we now inhabit a world of constant consumerist messages. We always want more, and there is always someone promising it.

And the thing is, those promises aren’t entirely false. The objects we acquire do often make us happier.

Do things make us happy?

The problem is, for 99% of them, that happiness doesn’t last. Primarily, this is due to the phenomenon of habituation. The novelty and promise of the new thing is exciting, but eventually wears off as we become used to it. It just gets added to the pile, and becomes part of the background of our lives.

But occasionally, there are objects that bring a kind of joy that lasts. Every time you see this thing in your home, you smile. Perhaps you admire its beauty, its design, or its history. Or perhaps it has sentimental value, a story attached that has burrowed deep, connecting you to it by some invisible thread.

For example:

• My antique quilts bring me consistent joy. There’s something about their complexity and imperfection, and the mark of human hands.

• My plants sitting in the windowsill make me happier, but because they’re alive and because I care for them regularly.

• The jeans I just finished sewing make me happy, because I picked out every last detail and spent a month working on them.

These are rich objects. They have a story and meaning that goes beyond the temporary pleasure I had when I acquired them.

The challenge is to shift the balance, so that we’re inviting as many of those rich, joyful things into our lives as we can, and avoiding the trap of gathering more and more of the temporarily soothing things, the shallow objects that just seem to show up.

How to shift the balance

Creating things with your own hands is one way to do this.

It attaches a story to the object, a connection, and a feeling of pride. That seems to last beyond the normal period of habituation, when most objects we buy are forgotten.

It also places a natural limit on quantity. There’s only so much you can make, so you’re forced to make choices about how you spend your limited time, and what you really want to invest that time in.

And finally it lets you create something that is truly beautiful according to your own taste and whims. Creating with your hands means you are filtering everything through your personal experience, reflecting yourself back out into your environment.

All of these things combine to create a sense of richness around the things we make, no matter how flawed they are.

You may not have a problem with hoarding, but to be human is to have a desire for more. And in such an abundant society, it’s easy for that desire to take over, obliterating the meaning of what we own with sheer quantity. It’s easy to fill your life and home up with shallow objects.

Looking at that abandoned house, what resonates with me isn’t the pile of old cars, the mountains of plastic toys inside, or the accumulated newspapers.

It’s the carefully planted circle of daffodils, lovingly placed by someone one cold fall day to bloom for years and years to come, even as everything around it falls apart.

My desire for more is natural. Making things lets me re-channel that energy, to put it to use fulfilling another essential human impulse: the need to create something beautiful.

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It’s been over 3 years since we moved to this little piece of land, and I’m still relearning how to grow things.

The biggest challenge is the critters.

When we moved, I brought over several of my beloved English roses in pots, and though they somehow survived the ride in a back of our pickup, they did not survive the first night in their new home. The deer found them immediately and feasted. That was day one.

Eventually, we established a potager, built a 7 foot deer fence, buried rabbit fencing beneath it, and I learned not to plant anything tasty (which is most plants) outside of it.

Still, the occasional rabbit sneaks in, and the birds dig up sprouts and eat all my blueberries. Deer sometimes destroy my supposed deer-resistant plants.

I buried hardware cloth beneath the raised beds, so the gophers dig next to them instead.

You may be familiar with the old Yiddish saying, “Der mensch tracht, un Gott lacht,” meaning “man plans, and God laughs.” In this case, it would be just as accurate to say, “woman plans, animals laugh.”

At this point, I just roll my eyes and try again.

In the spirit of keeping things easy this year, I’m planting some tried-and-true flowers that are easy to grow, easy to maintain, and (supposedly) unappealing to deer and rabbits.

Let’s take a look.

What I’m growing

Marigolds are easy to grow, and come in more varieties than you might realize. While I love the festive bright orange ones too, this variety called Kilimanjaro White is spectacular. I also like Sugar and Spice.

Deer and rabbits don’t like marigolds because of their pungent scent (prey animals tend to dislike anything that might make them smell) and bitter taste.

I grow cosmos every year. They’re easy and prolific, and I’m particularly partial to the white cupcake variety, which look like delicate crepe paper. Last year, I grew some in blush as well. They’re a gorgeous filler for bouquets too.

There’s a home not far from us that always has thousands of colorful zinnias in summer. I’m partial to the pastel varieties myself, like this one called Ballerina.

Scabiosa is tried and true for me, and I love their long, thin stems. It’s always nice to have some flowers that float above the others in a bouquet. I’ve grown this pincushion mix, black knight, and fata morgana.

Nasturtiums are a must for me. These are grown within the fenced area, away from pests. I’ve sown dark varieties and pastels, but since the bright ones look best when tossed into salads, I go with an alaska mix now. I may add cherry rose jewel this year.

I used to have problems with aphids on my nasturtiums, but I’ve found that planting them alongside tomatoes seems to fix that problem.

Snapdragons are tall, prolific, and seem to be ignored by all creatures. I love the appleblossom variety. The butterfly bronze is gorgeous too, but you really can’t go wrong. There are so many colors to choose from.

I have a strong sense memory of buying little bouquets of sweet peas at the farmer’s market when I was working one of my first jobs out of college. I’d place them on my desk and huff their divine fragrance all day long, wishing I was outside.

My only problem growing them is that the birds steal the seeds and sprouts, so I need to protect them pretty well. These are in the fenced garden, since they are poisonous to dogs (and everyone else).

I’m growing the mammoth mix this year, because it’s supposed to be heat resistant and our summers are quite hot and dry. High scent is also fragrant and looks elegant.

Yarrow makes a great filler, and it’s more or less perennial where I live! I already have some here and there, but I’m going to add a bit more of love parade. Deer and rabbits seem to leave it alone.

Where I buy seeds

These are my favorite places to buy seeds right now:

• Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds

• Johnny’s Selected Seeds for their good variety (and I like that it’s employee owned), although they can be a bit more pricey.

• Swallowtail Garden Seeds always has a good selection of cottage garden flowers.

• Select Seeds is one I ordered from last year, and their selection is outstanding! They have many seeds I haven’t been able to find elsewhere.

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At the beginning of January, on the very last day of our 2 week holiday break, I had the sudden and insistent urge to organize our pantry.

I suppose that having 2 weeks off sent me into a bit of a panic before going back to work. “WAIT,” my brain yelled. “We must do one more productive thing before time runs out!”

Because we live in the country and I love to cook, our walk-in pantry is always overflowing. We keep back ups of all our staples, plus lots of whole grains, dried beans, spices, and canned goods.

So when I decided to finally get our out-of-control pantry in order, the first stop was the thrift store for baskets.

The haul was very exciting for all the animals.

Each of these baskets cost about $1. It made me realize how much of my home is organized with secondhand items, so I thought I’d put together a list. It might inspire you to look for some of these things at your local thrift store too.

Personally, I like to keep a thrift store shopping list on the Notes app on my phone, just things I need around the house that I can keep an eye out for. I find this much easier and more efficient than trying to think of a use for items I come across, and results in less waste since everything has a specific purpose.

1. Baskets

Obviously, baskets are at the top of my list. I have them everywhere. Small ones are great for wrangling pill bottles, spices, sample packets, and other little cupboard or pantry items. Large floor baskets keep blankets and quilts.

I got a basket to use as an “inbox” for our kitchen counter, so it would stop getting so cluttered. Duke realized that this is a way to always be at the top of our to-do list.

2. Picnic baskets

I use lidded picnic baskets for things like hand laundry. It keeps the mess out of sight, and the animals (mostly) out of it. I throw some cedar blocks in there to protect any wool.

3. Large swingtop jars

Big swingtop jars are my favorite, but large mason jars are plentiful and useful.

4. Old crocks

Sometimes you can find old crocks like these, which I use to house large utensils. I also sometimes buy fancy french mustard in crocks so I can reuse them when the delicious dijon is gone.

5. Cookie jars

This art deco cookie jar houses dog treats. I just put the whole bag of treats in here to keep them extra fresh, but it looks nicer than a bag and keeps the cats from chewing on it.

6. Trinket boxes

I love to look for old ceramic trinket boxes. I found this one at a Goodwill and keep a lighter for candles inside and a few other things I use daily.

This one (not vintage) is kept near the front door and also houses dog treats so I can grab some on the way out.

7. Silver trays

Trays are infinitely useful and instantly make surfaces feel tidier. I like to look for small silver or pewter ones.

8. Wine glasses

Pretty wine glasses can hold pens, tools, moisturizer, or chapstick. This one on my desk holds a few lip balms and glosses.

9. Old canisters

I often find old kitchen canisters with lids, which can be reused for the pantry of cupboard. This little glass one isn’t in perfect condition, but looks nicer than a plastic bag.

10. Small bowls

I guess this is partially a decorative item, but I look for small bowls to place around the house for keeping small items together. I particularly like footed bowls of all kinds.

And here’s the (mostly) organized pantry, where we can actually find things without digging through a pile of unlabeled plastic bags. I breathe a sigh of relief every time I enter it.

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After work last Thursday, I decided to stop off at the nearby antique mall in Portland rather than spend the next hour sitting in traffic.

This was exactly the right decision.

In addition to trying on a hooded black wool coat that made me look like a druid, eyeballing a collection of paintings of kittens, and swooning over lots of furniture I have no room for, I found this beauty stuffed into a basket in a corner, waiting for me.

Rusty insisted on modeling it.

It’s a beautiful log cabin quilt, hand tied, and in a versatile throw size. Something about it just feels magical to me, all those little scraps brought together into unexpected harmony.

For the last few years, each January I think, “I should make myself a quilt.”

I’ve made quilts for other people several times, and I’ve collected vintage ones, but I’ve never made one for myself. And each year, the months pass, and I never quite get around to it.

Mainly, this is because making a quilt is a big project that takes me weeks or months. It feels daunting, so I just never start.

I’ve noticed this tendency in myself in other areas of my life too, and now recognize it as a sign of both perfectionism and impatience. If I can’t go all the way, if I can’t envision a successful end result in the immediate future, if I don’t have the time right at this moment, I just won’t start.

So I’m trying something a little different: letting myself work in the smallest chunks possible.

If I don’t have time at the moment to do a project, instead of feeling frustrated and anxious, I ask myself, “What’s the smallest piece I can do right now?” Then I do it.

To celebrate and practice this mindset, I’m making myself a quilt!

But instead of getting hung up on designing it, planning it, and setting aside big chunks of time to sew, I thought to myself, “What’s the easy way to do this?”

And so, this year I’m making a sampler quilt with the scraps I already have, sewing just one block per month. I’ll put the whole thing together other the holiday break this December, and over the course of a year, just by fitting in a little work here and there, I’ll have a quilt.

Not just that, but a quilt created through the practice of patience.

So much anxiety comes from wanting things to be perfect and done as soon as possible, and I often forget the sense of accomplishment that comes from doing just the smallest step.

This is just one way I’m attempting to make things as easy as they can be in 2025.

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