to the mountains and back

in Colorado last year

We've been back for a week from a short, challenging, yet relaxing trip to Southwestern Colorado - the San Juan Forest near Fish Creek. I realized, as I baked in the sun like a lizard on a rock one afternoon, how disconnected I felt from my pregnancy and surroundings. I just couldn't transition from Iowa life to mountain life as easily as before. My first two days there I felt excited to see familiar plants, but my brain could not remember correct identifications. I became easily frustrated. I was hazy and tired and thirsty. I didn't read much or write anything, all I could do was sit, listen, stare at the water, and walk short distances on dusty trails. My energy outside of caring for my body and Catalpa was non-existent. I was drained.

This new human has finished its first half of life inside my womb, they are kicking like crazy, they are developing so many things and becoming so many things, and most of my days I am rushing around like a busy modern person out here. I am sorry baby.

I want the slow life.

Sometimes I feel like this little human is so much on a journey of its own (despite my housing it inside my body). This is not something I felt or thought while Catalpa was inside me. Is this a normal second child worry? Will they feel ignored? Will I give enough time to both? Will I listen, really, really, really listen to them (in the way I long to)?

What can bring comfort during such a fast-paced time -- Turning off the radio when I am in the car, sitting in the pasture, making a meal with Catalpa's help knowing it will turn out to be what it is, choosing to ignore the pull of internet communication, choosing to be at peace with isolation and knowing that friends are somehow near even though I rarely connect with them, reading in bed, waking up slowly with a lot of kisses, picking flowers, dreaming.

These next twenty or more or less weeks will come swiftly. I know they will. May they be filled with moments where I can connect with the beauty of this journey.

a little bit of spring

spring

Everything is growing and blooming around here. I am tired yet filled with energy. We are usually out planting or prepping or whatever else needs to happen around this little farmstead until dusk. We eat dinner whenever our bellies grumble to a point we cannot ignore and Catalpa is literally covered in dirt. We slip into the bath just to scrub off what we can before crashing into bed with books and cuddles and songs and stories. Then the moon comes out, and the spring breeze makes our curtains flow in and out like the rising and falling of a chest. Catalpa snores. After our bedtime rituals are successful we sneak out to have a moment, finish a project, clean the dishes in the sink, or we give in to our bodies that are begging us for more sleep and stay in bed.

The spring harvest is always so sweet -- greens galore, herbs that overwinter growing vigorously and stronger than last year, garlic popping up (even though you are nervous it will not), spring flowers, and ... radishes! Radishes in every color. It always seems so odd that these tiny bright pink and purple beauties just pop out of the ground from the tiniest seed. I am living on salads and sunlight. The nettles are now up to my hip, the mulberries were hit by frost, but I am begging them to set some fruit. I cannot live without mulberry cobbler. The elderberries are surrounded by nettles, which will make harvesting flowers & fruits interesting and memorable, I suppose.

There is much to say about creature friends; I spotted the tiniest snake the color of sand with a few black spots the other day. Ticks are out now. Bats have become friends, a few sneaking into our house in the evening, helping us with a little bug clean-up. Today I spotted two woodpeckers with bright red heads, chatting, it seemed. And yesterday, during a difficult moment I watched two hawks dancing before finding comfort high up in the cottonwood tree. A week ago Tyler found a rare prairie skink.

I am a spring being. I was born in spring, and it certainly has colored who I am, how I think, how I tick. The rain, the wind, the storms, and every little green poking up through soil reminds me that we made it, we're still alive, we're still breathing, and we can come out from our burrows again.

mamahood part two

I can't say this has been easy. No, in fact, I have been struggling and fighting with the quick and rapid changes my body is making to support another human being. It has all happened quicker, and according to me (how I've "felt" it) with less grace than the time before. I am stretched and achy and grouchy and still wondering why those of us with uteruses have to feel so crappy (much of the time) when something so wonderful is happening inside us.

I decided about two weeks ago it was time to start celebrating. Frankly, I haven't been doing much of that, and admitting it makes me a bit sad. It isn't because I don't want to celebrate, but more because I just...don't...have the energy (nor time). Also, I had a lot of support and friends living in close proximity to me during my first pregnancy, this time is much different. There is much to celebrate and the anticipation of meeting another person, of seeing and touching and being so close with this new child, makes me feel crazy. I cannot wait. (I can wait). Also, I am returning to a time when I can be very, very in touch with my instinctual self. Yes! There are so many things to celebrate.

It is hard to connect and listen, to hum and sing and sit in the prairie grass with this little human like I did so often when Catalpa was growing inside me. It is hard because I am chasing a two-year-old, working 45 miles away from home 3 or more days a week, and I am (despite my best efforts) surrounded by a constant to-do-list when home aka "farming." I must savour whatever time I can spend "connecting" or being present with my current growing-another-human status.

I'm glad to be back here. I need outlets, creative outlets, me-time outlets, self-care outlets, story-telling outlets, a little bit of therapy outlets. You know what I mean? This has always been enjoyable -- sharing, telling stories, talking about dreams and the dreamy world I am a part of. I am happy to be telling my story from Hancock, Iowa -- because being here right now is exactly where I want to be, and growing food for people is just what I want to be doing.