Little Love Song to my Firstborn, Now Four.

Little wildflower blooming in the desert. Little drop of honey. Little chickadee singing in the lilac. Little egg still warm in the hand. Little strawberry with cream. Little smiling moon. Little dawn light on the mountain. Little arms around my neck. Little first rain of the year.

Little one, watching you grow into yourself is like watching a flower open, and open, and open again. Each petal unfurling brings us closer to the grace that is our lives, that spiral of love with no beginning and no end. Oh little sweet, how big you really are.

Happy birthday, my heart.

May all good things be yours.

Walking in Place

Another ski date, this week. Oh, I love when it is perfect, that snow.

Just as good as that was the very ordinary family hike in the foothills this morning. We moseyed along a stream bubbling with snowmelt, the air full with the smell of willow trees before they bloom with spring leaves. Little feet splashing in mud, sliding on ice. Little hands holding our big ones.

And a very special treat was a hike with a friend and her baby (mine were home with papa). So much talking and sharing, so much to say about life and motherhood and marriage. So much sun shining on our faces.

Sometimes it is hard to get out on the land, away from our obligations and the busyness that creeps in even when we are always on guard against it. Sometimes it is a great push (against whining and time constraints, stress and no snack) to claim this space for ourselves and or families. To insist upon it.

It is a holy thing to me, these hours spent wandering our homeland.┬áThese mountains have carried us through the seasons–from winter on into spring and beyond, from our free and easy years into the slower footsteps of family life.

When we are planted in place, I’ve noticed, we can’t help but grow.