We’re a bit tired and bruised around here today. Nick left for a job in California on Friday. I always struggle with the homestead workload when he’s gone. On Saturday I stacked about four cords of wood in a day by myself. Yesterday I got into a big canning project but then one of my canners needs a new gasket and I got stopped in my tracks. This morning I woke up fully horribly behind on everything and not sure, for a minute, whether or not it was dawn.

I went outside and the yurt roof was slick with rain. Its curved top was lit up with a cool, blue light, under a black sky filled with stars. It wasn’t morning. I had woken by the light of an extraordinary moon.

The funniest thing was, I couldn’t see the moon. It was low enough, behind the trees that I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. It must have been. Otherwise where was all that light coming from?

The rain started up again and I headed back inside to go back to bed. But I wasn’t restful. I knew that I had just lived through a moment that really mattered. I knew I had just received the kind of beauty that shakes your perspective, heals up the broken places in your heart, keeps you alive.

As morning started to come on for real I lay there in my bed, next to my cat, on the other side of the cat my youngest daughter. I strained to hear the quiet sleeping sounds of my other two children in their bunk beds, through the light rain still falling on our canvas roof. I lay there and I thought, the way you do, about the list of things that need to be done. I was too tired to start porridge last night. But there’s carrot bread. I was too tired to start bread last night, either. But there’s rice. I was too tired to cut kindling last night — now, that’s an actual problem. I’ll have to stay until the dawn comes in earnest, in this warm bed, underneath these wonderful warm covers, with the cat curled up against me…until there’s light enough outside to raise an ax without playing the fool.

I’d be behind and underwater from life anyway, even it weren’t such a wild season in American politics. I wanted to live a full and fully meaningful life, and full hands are also often heavy ones. But a season of unrest is weary, too. It’s pure exhausting how each person weighs in, and every person is a whole person — a whole world unto themselves with feelings and fears and everything else and history. I just want to comb through it all until it’s clean, one person at a time. No wonder I feel like a failure.

Still, I read somewhere in the midst of my Facebook feed yesterday that God’s voice through all this is saying, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” It may be drowned out by all the things. Real trauma, real nonsense, real dialogue. But it is still there, through the mist: this beautiful truth that we are loved.

As I write this, there’s light enough to start my day. I can see the chickens in their yard, the color of wet leaves on the ground. Sadie just woke up and told me to get up. I said, “I think I need to take it easy this morning.” She looked worried. Then she said, “Okay…but you’ll still cut the carrot bread, right?”

Yes. Yes, I will cut the carrot bread. Sweet girl.

This I believe: I believe that love is magic. God’s love is magic. And the way it cascades out through us and through our hands into each other is also magic. Women are magic. Moms are magic. Good food is magic. And the way we get through each of these astonishing, impossibly hard days is magic.

The moon was amazing last night. It was amazing, not just like any interesting thing — or as Sadie says, “instreting” thing — but like a message, to the heart. It was a beacon of gentleness, one huge lit up disk of God whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It is an “instreting” time to be alive. I see people experiencing confidence and relief. But also I see pawns moving, in a geopolitical game. I see change happening. I see unrest driving people to urgently seek data, reassurance, and understanding. And one of the ways we do this — funny thing about humans — is by shouting.

It’s loud down here. But the moon knows quiet. The moon kept vigil for us all night long…like a beacon, like a message in the sky. And what does a supermoon have to say to me in my quagmire of thoughts and frustrations and fears?

Only everything.

A supermoon tells me I am loved.

I am loved.

Though I am not immortal, I am held. Though I am not superhuman, I am not forgotten.

This is magic.

Wishing you all eyes to see secret messages today, especially all the secret messages that say, “I love you.” And wishing you also the courage to amplify them for one another…or at least just enough strength to cut that carrot bread.

With love from the yurt,


P.S. Tonight I’m releasing my book trailer, sneak peek style, on my newsletter, which has been really quiet for a really long time. (oops) So…if you want to see that first, and also be privy to whatever other secrets I spill in email form — ummm…TBA…??? — you’ll want to get into that. <<click here>>