We approached this spring with meticulous planning. Measured each tree location down to the inch. Scheduled each day down to the hour. Made our list and checked it twice (okay, wait, that was someone else). And then, it rained. Between melting snow, ice storms, and rain, April 2026 became the wettest month on record. This spring we were the most prepared we have ever been, and we were never more disrupted. The areas we intended to plant were not just wet, but flooded. You could see the reflection of our existing trees in the newly formed lake much more than you could see us planting there. At first we felt overwhelm, then amusement, and eventually acceptance. We would have to find other places to plant. We took the higher ground and started planting trees. As the dry areas filled in, the wet but not completely submerged holes looked good enough. I prayed a go-to phrase of my dad's, "Good enough usually is." While working, Dan remarked that planting in holes filled with water felt like planting in pancake batter. Everyone planted anyway. 1250 saplings joined our farm family. I hoped each tree would still grow in less than ideal conditions. It hit me then that we actually all grow more in less than ideal conditions. New London and the communities around us had greater struggles from the flooding. A disrupted planting season was nothing compared to the loss of homes and businesses. Thankfully communities rallied around one another. The support and outreach were incredible to witness. It certainly kept our oversaturated soil in perspective.

This season, more than any other, I'm trying to find solid ground. It could be the ice or the historical blizzard we encountered in March. It could be the ever-shifting roles of parenting and farming, where we seek to find our footing over and over again. As the boys played on the ice (also over and over again), I found myself reflecting on slipping versus sliding. Slipping feels accidental; sliding seems intentional. I think of the boys unexpectedly slipping on a patch of ice walking to the car compared to sliding, penguin-style across a frozen puddle. I think of slide tackling in soccer, or sliding into third base in baseball. Who else is ready for spring sports?! As we burned brush and the boys played on the ice formed in the field, my mind wandered to the title of this blog post and whether to call it slipping or sliding into winter. The answer is here, of course, and I want to slide into each season. If we're not careful, however, we can slip into seasons or other patterns. It feels especially true in this phase of parenting. Ages that I remember vividly and fondly from my own childhood, ages that were formidable. Even though they were relatively short in the big picture of my *almost* 40 years, the school aged years were impactful beyond their span. This applies to experiences, memories, and relationships. Sometimes it's here where I have to be mindful of sliding and not slipping. It's easy to slip into versions of yourself at your kids' ages and project yourself onto them. This sounds like slipping, where you don't mean to but you end up unintentionally inserting your feelings and wants in place of theirs. Even if those visions and hopes are valid and wonderful, it can be slippery. Now sliding... If I purposefully put myself back in their ages and remember what it feels like to be 7, to be 9, to be 11... Then I can slide with them. We can do it playfully, skillfully, and, now, wisely. I understand it's nuanced, but visualizing this helps me hold onto lots of compassion.

"And to be asked to do something that you don't know how to do, that's a big gift." - Billy Crudrup, Armchair Expert Podcast Interview

It's controversial, daylight savings. And look, I get it. When the boys were younger, it truly meant we were getting up at 5 am rather than 6 am because babies and little kids generally don't want that extra hour of sleep. It meant waking up in the middle of the night got extended. The exhaustion and adjustment were real. As the kids have grown though, so has my mindset. The mornings tend to be my favorite time, and for now, the light to start the day is welcome. I also feel more connected to a "seize the day" approach. If there's only an hour of sunlight after school, we should play catch or go for a walk now, while we have time! When days feel long or endless, the opportunity does as well. It can trick me into thinking we have more time and sometimes we miss the chance.

I am not someone who is typically able to look back in time and recall the results of a game. In a favorable light, it’s because I was present or perhaps I have perspective. Just as likely, my memory isn’t what it used to be. In the moment, however, my heart races and the questions feel critical - ball or strike? Direct or indirect? How much time is left? Later though, it’s hard for me to remember what happened. It doesn’t really matter beyond that season. But if the result ultimately doesn’t matter - the practicing, rushing around, performing - what’s it all for? What actually does matter?

It was overwhelming. We had six days until we would open to sell Christmas trees. We had no idea what to expect. We had no idea what we were doing. The only thing we knew with certainty was the first step - clean out the shed to make it usable for heating hot chocolate and storing equipment for what we'd eventually call "the harvest". A lot of history had collected in the shed. From fishing poles to old chairs to antique saws to buckets. So. Many. Buckets. We'd learn shortly the need for endless buckets; however, in this moment we laughed about how anyone could have so many! We casually set aside a baseball and catcher's gear. I'm not sure we thought again about those last items until 4 years later.

One needle, out of hundreds of thousands on a tree.

Another Harvest Season in the books! And actually, that could be taken literally this year. Thanks for capturing those tree selections, Gnarly!

Anyone remember those assessment and aptitude tests you’d take in school? You know, the ones that are supposed to predict your future career or provide direction as you enter high school and beyond? It’s been a while, so I’m not sure if these are currently administered. I’m not sure they should be, but I’ll still share my positive experience with the aforementioned test to this very selective audience. My results indicated a career in math/science. I enjoyed those subjects and agreed with this part of the evaluation. I also, however, had a passion for writing. I loved poetry and wrote poems, stories, and journaled my entire life up to that point (14 whole years!!). I felt conflicted when I had to submit a paper on the recommendations and wrote “I like math and science. I also like writing and poetry. I know I can’t do both, so I’ll pursue engineering. That’s more practical.” Written like a true engineer, if I’m being honest. We had a student teacher at the time. In response to my report, she wrote “Do both. :)” Thank you to my teacher for her impactful words, and thank you to all the educators encouraging our kids to do both!

If we had to pick a word of the summer, it'd be wholesome. The whole summer was, well, wholesome-r than we ever could have hoped. In all of the kids' activities - from baseball to golf to swimming lessons; in all our play at the farm - catching frogs, climbing dirt piles, splashing in puddles; in our precious time at home - including kickball, night games, campfires, and bike rides. It truly was wholesome.

This spring I was prepping areas to plant. In the area we call "The Wild Things", which feels relevant. I'm almost always listening to a podcast when doing this type of work. I don't think I've listened to a new song since 2018. In the middle of an episode, I felt a sense of uncertainty. There is always so much to do, at the farm and everywhere else. I wasn't sure if what I was doing was the best use of my time. I know just about every adult can relate - should I be working? Doing laundry? Relaxing? Trying something new? Prepping meals? Running errands? Finishing the unending to do list? Spontaneously picking the kids up from school and simply enjoying them? I felt the stress of wondering...no, agonizing...over all that needed to be done.

"Be open." Jesus said to a deaf man. "Be open" the deacon said to us at mass. At a deeply personal service, we were told "Be open." I was searching for meaning in this particular day and at first, the reading at church did not resonate with me. Until exactly one week later, enjoying the quiet of the night and soft light of a quarter moon, I heard it differently.