My second mom recently shared an interview with me in which an author, Michelle Zauner described remembering her mother as, “colliding with a wall that won’t give.” The impenetrable sense of her grief is tangible to me, but the singularity of the metaphor, that you collide and then fall or break or heal or move in a different direction is not how my own experience goes.

Memories of my mother come in waves. Many times, I can feel their approach, as predictable as the phases of the moon, and the tides ebb and flow in ways I can manage regardless of circumstance. But there are still times, nearly thirty years after her passing that the waves come unexpectedly, a tsunami of emotion that I all but drown in.

I partially hosted a bridal shower yesterday for my niece. Memories of my mother were prevalent, many were in fact invited in -using her recipes, her dishes, even her wedding gown hanging on display – there was no avoiding her presence. Even in the unexpected moments of reminiscence – moments in the grocery store when I was overwhelmed by decisions and I wished for her guidance, or thinking ahead to the event and wishing she could have lived to not only meet her granddaughter but to see her get married – even in those moments, I was mostly prepared. These memories, these heartbreaks have familiar ruts in my heart, they have traversed these paths before and I can, with effort, manage their power.

But moments before the shower, idling waiting for the church doors to unlock, I absentmindedly reached for lotion in my purse. Sitting alone in my car it was only seconds before the wave hit. For thirty years I had avoided buying her brand of lotion. It was a scent far too familiar. She would put lotion on during church, inevitably or perhaps purposefully putting too much in her palm and so always sharing it with us girls by rubbing our hands in hers. And yet, here I was, having inadvertently purchased Jergens lotion, it was as if she were seated next to me. It took many long moments to rein in the tide and gather myself together.

These memories and even the emotions they trigger are not unique to me, but they affect me in different ways for every different moment. I held it together, did my part in hosting the shower and held the flood of emotions at bay.

But at 2am the dam broke. I woke in sobs, unable to stop the flood. All my walls had eroded away and the waves came crashing, crashing and I realize, maybe for the first time that it isn’t the memory of her that causes such intense emotion, it is the absolute, unchanging void of her – the absence of her is the jagged knife. And lying there, I miss my mother so deeply, so acutely that I cannot catch my breath. The pain of loss is tremendous and wretched and perhaps the most unavoidable consequence to a life well-lived, as it’s only by loving deeply that we grieve so deeply.

It’s easy to underestimate the power of memory and of grief. From the safety of shore, we can’t often see the size of the wave or the speed of the approach. But I know it can strip me bare in mere seconds. It can leave me gasping for air and flailing to stay afloat. All of my defenses are eroded away and when it finally does recede, I am bereft, shattered and broken.

I am not stronger because I weathered this storm once again. I am stronger only because the storm lives inside me all the time and I have yet to let it consume me.

Recently, I asked my dad if he would make me a writing desk. I have been blessed throughout my life with many, many things made with his woodworking talents and this request was made from far more than just my practical need for a place to type. The thought of sitting in a space crafted by his hands, using the talents he handed down to me to compose thoughts on figurative paper delights my soul in ways I cannot easily articulate.

In preparation for such, my beloved husband assembled a make-shift surface, mainly to help us determine ideal dimensions to pass along to Dad as he begins planning and building. I chose a spot in our bedroom at a window that looks out into our front yard.

On winter mornings such as this, the sun shines brightly through the bare, snow-laden trees, almost too brightly. Just now, I watched Delilah, in the pasture, amble up to the water trough for a drink and many birds have chosen to land in the shrubbery out front. If I crane my neck just a bit, I can even spy my flock of girls out in the coop, scratching and pecking away. In the summer, this will all be shady, and the songs of all the birds will be heard through the screens. The feeders and birdbaths will be busy and there will be critters of all varieties scampering across the wooded lawn. If I can keep myself from daydreaming, it’s the perfect spot for composing.

During my morning workout today, I chose to listen to a favorite podcast instead of my usual playlist. “A Way With Words” not only keeps my mind off my labored breathing, but discusses a subject of great interest to me – words. This morning, one of the callers brought up a concept that lead to the sharing of a German word, “waldeinsamkeit” which means a woodland solitude. It speaks viscerally to the notion of being alone in the woods, but never really being lonely because you are surrounded by nature. It was a word that spoke directly to my soul.

This spot, this place, this writing, this home, these moments shared between just me and a keyboard are some of my most content moments. Solitude, but not loneliness, in nature. Looking out as I write this, I cannot see a single living thing now, but the tracks across the snow tell me many have been here. I am alone, and yet, I am never really alone

I was blessed with two snow days in a row this week. They edged up against the weekend, making them even more of a treasure. January is a tough month for all, but snow days, especially caused by deep, steady snow like the lake-effect snow we received, make for a beautiful landscape and not a reason in the world to go out in it. In a moment I will take warm oatmeal to the chickies, and an apple or two to the cows. The dog will frolic in the snow – the only one in the house who is ever happy to see it fall – and the cat will continue to nap on the down comforter, basking in the gently moving ray of light streaming in through the panes. I will treasure the solitude. I will treasure the nature around me and I will allow the feeling of contentment to reverberate in my soul – waldeinsamkeit. A blessed thing indeed.

I had to marry him to get it, or at least that’s how I like to tell the story. I had always wanted a Wrangler and it had seemed like kismet when James was driving one when we started dating. It was years before the Jeep became “mine”. That was when my car became Jacob’s and James became the proud owner of a truck. That was a win-win-win situation, for sure! That was many years ago now, and I’ve driven it ever since. I have loved summer days with the top back and winter days of dropping it into four-wheel and safely getting to where I was going without a worry. I have mastered the wave, even learning to discern those silly Jeep trucks who, in my book, don’t technically get the honor of the Jeep wave. James and I have driven more country roads together in that vehicle as we have house-hunted, farm-hunted, Sunday-driven and just killed time together looking at other people’s landscaping, barnyards and lifestyles from a roadside view. The Jeep has been our steadfast vehicle, never once requiring major mechanical work that was out of the range of James’ expertise. Today, she was sold to a new family, and it sounds silly, but I might have cried just a little. She was there from the very first day with us and now our garage and our lives will be Jeep-less.

It’s the right time to sell it, I know. We were given a very sensible, low-mileage vehicle by James’ mom, and it’s the responsible thing to keep that one and sell the old high-mileage Jeep while the used market it so hot. It makes sense. It does. We have been extraordinarily blessed by both the Jeep and the gifted vehicle. Selling the one and keeping the other is the responsible choice. But.

I’d like to say I’ll for certain own another. I’d like to say that. It might make me feel better if I convince myself of that, but I couldn’t have predicted that I’d ever have driven that one for as long as I have, or that I’d be driving a “sensible sedan” now, so I guess I’ll leave the certainties to someone else. For now, I’ll pat myself on the back for making the responsible choice and I’ll appreciate the money in the bank. But one of these days, it’s going to be my day to pick my vehicle again. I just hope this time, I don’t have to sleep with someone to get it.

Last night, while James and I were out to eat, I noticed a spot on his lip and asked him about it. “I told you about that,” he said as he went on to tell me how he had even asked the ear surgeon about it at his last check-up as it was the same size and color of the spots that had been removed from his ear. “It’s just a little blood blister. I just have to keep an eye on it. We talked about this,” he assured me. I didn’t remember any conversation about it, not even him talking to the surgeon about it. But, it isn’t the first time I haven’t remembered something lately, though, so I didn’t think too much of it.

A little further into the meal, James commented on the chicken he has chosen as part of his entrée. He was quite impressed with it and urged me to try a bite. “I had that when we were here last year,” I reminded him. “Remember? We liked it so much we tried to copy it at home as well.” He assured me he didn’t remember any of that, but enjoyed the rest of the chicken none the less.

As we continued to eat and talk, I had to chuckle. Sometimes, I worry that as we age as a couple and as our years together stack up, we will eventually run out of things to talk about, especially during dinners out such as this. I worry that we will be this old couple, eating in silence, with nothing meaningful to discuss anymore. But as our conversation continued, I realized I had no reason to worry. James and I will always have things to talk about, even if it’s just repeating conversations one or the other of us has already forgotten and I expect we will both be blessed by these small moments of forgetfulness for years and years (and years!) to come!

I was drying my hair this morning when I remembered. I’m not sure why it struck me then, but those of you my age or older will nod your head in understanding and those younger will think you have years before it happens to you, but last night, after bringing in three eggs from the coop, I got distracted and never got them washed or put away. It happens. And why I remembered while drying my hair is beyond me, but that’s more nodding from some of you and more worry from others.

In any case, I set the hair dryer down and went to the kitchen where I found two eggs still on the counter. Two. No omelette pan on the stove indicating that James had eaten one for breakfast earlier. Just two eggs. I turned around and looked at Trudy and asked, “Where’s the other egg?” I opened the mud room door, giving her access to her dog door and she went running outside.

Burying is one of Trudy’s favorite things to do with precious items. Give her a new bone? It must be buried outside. If she steals James’ hat, it will be buried out back. If you happen to give her a bone and she can’t get outside, she will crybaby while pacing all around the house until you finally give in and just open the doggone door (pun intended, Dad!) I’m convinced our backyard is a treasure trove of lost socks, hats and other assorted items.

I washed the two remaining eggs, put them away and went back to drying my hair. Trudy returned, snout full of snow, tail just a-wagging, but no egg. I looked right at her and said again, “Trudy, where is the egg? Go get the egg!” much in the same way I tell her to go get her duck or moose toy when we play fetch. She ran off to the master bedroom.

I continued to dry my hair until I heard a thunk! and turned around just in time to see Trudy chasing after a rolling egg in the hallway!! I told her to leave it, and I picked up the egg from the floor. It had dog fur on it, but other than that, it was unbroken. I figure she must have “buried” it in her dog bed at some point last night.

The only thing I knew to do (besides put the egg in the compost bin) was to laugh and tell her what a good girl she is. The poodle in her wanted to steal the egg, but the Bernese in her was too guilty to keep her secret. Ahh, Trudy. Thank you for blessing my morning with heartfelt laughter!

It has been a very long time, but I did it. Again. National Novel Writing Month lasts for the thirty days of November and encourages all participants to write a very rough draft of a novel that is at least 50,000 words long. I think this may have been my sixth time completing the challenge, but I’m not entirely sure anymore. It feels like a lifetime ago thinking back to when I last made the attempt.

This time, I brought some of my students along for the ride. There’s a Young Writer’s version of the challenge and I had six students reach their word goals and ten or so make an attempt to get there. We spent many recesses together with Chromebooks in the hallway (social distancing) to help us get to our word count goals. They had a blast and so did I.

So, while it will probably never be published, I can yet again say, “I wrote a book.” It’s a children’s book and it’s in its infancy as a wretched first draft, but it’s a book in any case and for now, that’s definitely something.

And for now, while it just sits and waits for the major overhauling of the revision process, I am back to blogging. Which isn’t a major accomplishment, either, but still, in my world, its definitely something. I feel blessed by words in so many ways, big and small, and in this space or while working on a book, I feel a part of me soar. And that, is a huge blessing indeed.

For those who don’t know, it’s National Novel Writing Month, an event I have participated in at least five times previously, but it’s been quite a while since I last spent the month of November trying to write 50,000 words. But I am all about it this year.

I have about ten students who are participating in the NaNoWriMo Young Writer’s Program, including a group of 5 or 6 girls who have spent nearly ever recess with me so far this month, typing away on their Chromebooks. They aren’t trying to write 50,000 words, of course, they set their own word count goal, but they are learning about chapters and tables of contents and the difficult but necessary art of typing without editing.

As for me, I know it’s where my bliss lives. I know that. Every now and then I read these silly Cosmo-like articles that help you determine your life’s passions. The last one I read said, “What would your eight year-old self think you should be doing right now?” and “What do you do that your get so wrapped up in that you forget to eat, or sleep or pee?” Well, you need to know me for about a minute and a half to know the answer is “writing.” The best part of my day right now is the twenty minutes I get to type out part of my story while surrounded by ten year olds doing much the same thing. Truly.

So, I’m doing it. I’ve already written a really lousy children’s story years and years and a lifetime ago during NaNo, and I took two separate years to start and then finish a craptastic adult novel that will never ever be read by another human being it is so bad, but this year, I had a nugget of an idea for another children’s book and I’m trying to sort through it. My students, of course, are very eager to read it, and I am sure they will pile on the praise when they do, but it needs a LOT of work to be even categorized as “readable.”

All that said, and all excuses and self-deprecation aside, I’m having a blast. I wake up in the night with ideas about my characters. I type at the counter, during lunch and before and after school sometimes and I feel like I could type all day if only someone would pay me to. But what I love the most is when I am typing away and all of a sudden, something appears on the page – my characters say or do something that even I didn’t see coming – and I am as enthralled as any reader. I can’t explain it, but it’s magical. I have notes scratched on the back of six crossword puzzles and a file folder. I have notes in my phone and I have a husband who promises me he can completely erase his brain and re-read my story without any knowledge from the first three times he has read it.

So, I have 30,562 words so far and I am right on track to hitting 50,000 by the 30th. Report cards are due in a week and I brought home an absolute mountain of papers to grade, but the only thing I am focused on this weekend is moving my plot forward.

I don’t expect my story to ever exist outside of my classroom, but I look forward to handing it over to my students, my first line of adoring fans. Have no doubt, their criticisms will be as sharp as their praises, but it will be magical to see my kids reading my book. But, if that’s the case, then I’d better get busy!

Chickens are funny. Since we got our new chicks last spring, there has continued to be a separation of “littles” and “bigs”. Even now, when they are all the same size, there is definitely a segregation amongst them. We had to add another roosting bar, because there was so much drama each evening. The littles couldn’t roost anywhere near the bigs and so they were roosting instead on top of the nesting boxes (slanted roof), or on top of the food bin (metal trash can) or in the nesting boxes themselves (what a mess!)

Before the littles arrived, Ruby was the lowest on the pecking order. She was often found roosting on her own in the coop and was kept away by the higher-ups from anything super yummy in the run. But now that there are newbies, Ruby is lost in the middle. Oh, the plight of the middle child! (I can relate!)

But as the weather turns colder, the girls depend on the combined body heat to keep them all protected. Ruby has been asserting herself by roosting on the little’s bar. Much to the dismay of four hens! For several nights this fall, I would go in to check on the girls and the bigs would all be roosting on their bar, Ruby would be the only one on the other bar, and I’d have four hens trying to balance on the slanted roof of the nesting boxes. Sigh. Drama.

But, the colder the nights get, the friendlier chickens get. Tonight, I found Ruby snuggled right up against a little. Two littles on one side, with Ruby pushed up against, and two littles on the far other side, squawking about the imposter!

When push comes to shove and the conditions get harsh, chickens know that it’s teamwork or death. They put their differences aside and help each other stay warm, ignoring all the daytime squabbles and hierarchies.

It feels like too obvious of an analogy, but everywhere I turn, my job, my town, my country, I feel like we are in the midst of a long, cold winter, and we need to put our differences aside and work together for survival’s sake. I tell my girls all the time that they are seriously dumb animals, and yet, they seem a whole lot smarter than people about now.

Birthday celebrations in the teacher’s lounge always mean an overload of calories for the day with coffee cakes, breakfast casseroles and doughnuts, but today was a unique treat with homemade cinnamon rolls as well. I can’t even remember the last time I ate a cinnamon roll and despite putting back on all the pounds I had worked hard to lose over the summer, I helped myself to half of one.

With just a few minutes until the students arrived for the day, I sat in my dimly-lit classroom enjoying my special treat for breakfast while gathering some last-minute materials I needed for the day. With conferences a week away, my To-Do list is a mile long, but I found myself actually sitting still for a brief moment and really savoring the warm gooey roll.

It was then that it came to me – how my mom used to eat the heart, the gooey center, out of the rolls and leave the rest. It may have actually only been one time, as I know we gave her a hard time about it, but it sticks in my head as something Mom did – one of those fuzzy blurred lines of memories.

Licking icing off my fingers I thought about Mom for a moment or two longer than usual. Piled on top of the cinnamon roll memory was the fact that it would have been her birthday today. I smiled, but also fought back tears.

This woman had all the chemo and radiation you can have in a lifetime. She had two surgeries for her brain tumor and still the damn cancer killed her. If anyone had a right to eat the middle right out of a cinnamon roll, it was her. Life was preciously short for her after all, why waste any time eating the drier, less flavorful outside edges of a breakfast splurge? I felt a pang of guilt for ever having given her a hard time about any such splurge.

As I heard the kids start lining up outside my classroom, I took an extra moment to savor the last bite of gooey, sticky, sweet cinnamony center in honor of Mom.

It may have been brought in for someone else’s birthday, but today I was blessed with a sweet memory of Mom and I feel so blessed to have breakfast remind me of the sweetest heart I’ve ever known.