Dear Reader: This is Your Call to Adventure
I started our honeymoon eating a hot, soggy sandwich with mediocre fries. Which would not be that great of a story except that some 12 hours later, this series of events led me to have massive amounts of gastric distress on the side of the tallest mountain in NY State. This, dear Reader, is your call to adventure.
In Sickness and In Health
It was shocking to me how much his blood smelled like mine. That two people who were so different could also be so identical in this strange way seemed absurd… Could I be the Jackie O. to his JFK? Holding his hand one day and his head the next?
Death and a Garbage Can: The World's Shortest Autopsy
No chickens were technically harmed in the writing of this article. But vegans, you may want to look away. Because a few years ago a chicken died on my watch. And I was the only home to do anything about it…
Labors of Love
A few visits from a brave (and horny?) fox rattled my nerves. But the fox was only a small blip in a much more troublesome month…
Pesticides and Jesus
I was only a few short weeks into homesteading when I learned why both pesticides and Jesus ended up on farms with such frequency. As I fought my own battle, I wondered which I would be needing on this farm going forward.
feel free
Moving is hard. Moving with chickens is harder. But a lot a bit of kindness got us through.
In How We Trust
How my experience as a thieving five-year-old affected my view of trust forever.
The Identity You're Given
When I was prompted to write about my identity, I had to wonder: How many times had I been identified as something that seemed so marvelously incongruent with the way that I identified myself? Could I even draw the line between the identities I was given and the ones I’d created for myself?
To the Man Who'll Carve My Headstone
An open letter to the man who’ll carve my headstone: I’d like to think I’m not the type of person who tells a professional how to do their job. But I think your work is missing the point, so for you I’ll make an exception.
On the Front Porch, Looking In
In the frustration of selling a home and the constant rejection of trying to buy a new one, a rocking chair became my silent protest and in it, I found a slowness and stillness I could never have found otherwise.