Growing and Being Quiet

Our household stuff has been packed up, driven across the country and will arrive at our doorstep tomorrow evening accompanied by some delightful people. We will go from living in very temporary surroundings to having all those rubber maid bins I packed up in June. 

It's going to be busy around here. 

The last couple months have been not what I thought they would be but they have been good. They have also been very hard in a lot of ways. Good and hard often go together to promote growth. 

I think I have growing pains. 

And so, I am going to take a little break. A little break from blogging, a little intentional quiet time. 

I'll be focusing on the very real life I live with my Jared and our two little girls. I'll be unpacking all.those.boxes. I'll be making the transition from hardly anything to everything as smooth as I can for my girls (really for all of us) and that requires me to be purposeful. 

I'm not sure how long of a break I'll be taking but I know that is needed.

Thank-you, as always, for reading and sharing this story with me. XO 

Peggy's Cove: A lesson in Quiet

It was quiet.  Punctured only by the occasional conversation carried on the wind and the constant crash of the waves against the rocks. 

We went towards the water, compelled by the rocks and the muddy, narrow path leading towards the water. One jump and then another and then another and we were there. Right on the edge.

6 inches separated me from the Atlantic Ocean. 

It was awesome. In the truest sense of the word. 

I could have stayed for a long time. I breathed in and out with the cadence of the waves, half in awe and half in delight. And then brought back to reality by the giggle of my two year old and the way she followed her uncle like a mountain goat over the rocks. 

The mum in me got nervous and I told him to hold her hand. Always.

It's barren there. Rocks covered with red heather. Little pools of water. And all around you, the ocean. Demanding respect. 

I tore myself away and we walked down to the village. Few words were spoken. We gestured when we wanted to stop and try to capture the scene before us. We wandered through a boathouse filled with old fishing paraphernalia and other interesting stuff like a whale's jaw bone. I wondered what use I would have for a lobster trap and how I would display it. And then I saw the shells, gathered up from the sea. Worth very little to the seller, but worth a great deal for me. I handed over my coins and he wrapped the shells up for me. 

 We followed the twisting road up to the lighthouse and the throngs of people. It is after all one of the most photographed sites in all of Canada. We took some obligatory pictures as well and headed away from the people. 

It was too noisy, too busy. Everyone caught up with too much noise, the bus schedules, the overpriced coffee served at the top, the perfect picture. 

I wanted to capture it all with a film camera. Slow.

We wandered along the rocks, always making our way close to the edge, watching the water hit the rocks and create spray. Our faces were moist. 

I found a house I wanted to live in, a little house by the sea. It's quiet and secluded. Simple and quiet. 

I crave that in my life. 

And so I build it in, one little bit at a time. And I keep my shells close to remind me. 

How To Be Quiet 

1. Take a deep breath. 

No, seriously. It can't always have the sea tang but it can always help. Breathe in and then out slowly to the count of ten. It slows your heart rate down and relaxes your body. 

2. Do the next thing. 

So the house may be a mess, the laundry still needs to be folded and there's other nagging jobs. Just do the next thing: put laundry on, wash the dishes, breathe. Everything will fall into place. 

3. Deliberately slow down. 

Light a candle, put some calming music on, gather your littles or whoever is close to you and hug them.   Take time to figure out the reason why life feels so busy, so noisy. And then scale back. 

4.  Take time to be quiet. 

It may just be a few minutes standing on the back porch, or it may be longer. Leave your phone alone, actually leave all screens alone. Take the few minutes to regroup and then face your lists, your busyness, your day. 

Where is your favorite quiet place? 

Don't Think. Just Breathe.

Sometimes I think too much, too much quiet pondering with not enough quiet around me. Sometimes I just need to close everything up and open the doors on a brisk autumn day and pick apples.

I could tell you about how the tide was out and the banks of the Cornwallis river were bare and exposed. Or how the farm was completely deserted except for our little band and that we just put our money in the honesty box. I could tell you all about the apples and how we taste tested to see which ones we wanted to bring home. 

I could tell you how the little one sat right down and ate apples and how the older one ran and ran. I could tell you how the clouds were brilliant, the sun so bright and all the leaves set aglow.

 I could tell how we filled our four bags in no time flat. And that I have no idea what I'll be doing with all the apples but they will be enjoyed.

I could tell you how the petting zoo was full of animals and one manical donkey who nibbled on everything, including us. And how Kilmeny knows exactly the sound pigs make and she will forever say that pigs are grumpy and that they don't say oink. It's more of a gutteral noise from the back of the throat, that makes us all laugh and laugh when she imitates it.

 I could tell you about the good it does one's soul just to stop thinking, to let all the wonderings be and fill one's lungs with fresh, brisk air.

I could tell you how we came home and made apple fritters and then ate them for supper with boiled eggs and tea, in true hobbit fashion. 

I will wish you brisk autumn air, and clarity for all the thoughts swirling in your mind. And for you, the chance to let it all go and just breathe. 

To the Ocean We Went

I put the girls in their carseats, and we drove, taking full advantage of the rental car for the weekend. Along the winding road, beside the blaze of glory that transforms the trees in autumn in Nova Scotia. One little girl slept, and the other talked. A lot. And asked questions. Mostly why questions. 

I was exhausted and just wanting to be quiet. I stopped the car and took some pictures. The wind blew my hair and made the grass dance. It was beautiful. 

And so is my life. I just miss it sometimes, chasing after perfection. Chasing after the ideal that doesn't exist for anyone. 

Life is busy and full and so very precious. 

We walked all over the beach, picking up shells, drawing in the sand and walking in the water. We ran and we sang at the top of our lungs. We took big gulps of fresh air. I let the breeze blow all the tension away. I let my girls be little and I let myself be their imperfect mum. 

I answered endless questions of why, I danced the dance of the Ergo when my littlest one fussed and I memorized how the ocean calmed all of us. 

We collected two more shells for our collection and headed home. 

the street where we live

On Westwood Ave, just off Main street and tucked behind a deep red maple is our home. It's a five unit apartment building, built in the early 20th century.

The basement is everything that an old basement should be: cobwebby, low ceiling-ed, and old furniture to be brought upstairs, painted and given a new home. 

The third floor is half living quarters and half attic. Ten years ago, I would have carved out a little nook by the paned glass window to read and dream. Now, I watch my girls as they scurry under the eaves and investigate all the forgotten  treasures.

It's mostly just the girls and I at home during the day. Everyone else is out and about, except for our neighbor access the hall. The gentleman has lived here for a long time and is the sweetest grandfatherly type man. He offers to help with any information about the building we may need, apologizing that he can't help in a more practical way. He's 95, still writing books and walking downtown for his groceries.

There hasn't ever been children or musicians living in this house but the others don't seem to mind. The French couple who lives upstairs always smile at our girls and love listening to the hours of practice.

There is a dog in residence, we hear his feet skittering across the hardwood floor and the little yelps when his owners come home. She looks like Kate right down to her nude pumps and dark wavy hair. He looks nothing like Will though, we exchange hellos when we go for walks and little tidbits about the neighborhood.

There's a fifth resident, one of those brilliant writers or night shift workers, I'm convinced of it. Not exactly the type to host a building party at Christmas but friendly enough to say hello.

And then us. The family with the little girls, recently transplanted from Alberta. Musician, artists and owners of the double BoB.

It's a lovely place, clotheslines out the back and a formal front entry with a beautiful tile floor. The bushes are all flaming red now, the grass still full and lush.

It's the first place that we've loved this much and that I've let myself get so attached too. It calls out the beauty, the parties we could host, the conversations to be had, the neighbors to bake for, and the memories to be made.

It's home. 

Picking the Perfect Pumpkin

It's the pumpkin patch dilemma. Everyone is dressed in their sweaters and plaids and boots, parents are following their children around asking them to "just please look at the camera!" "Just smile nicely!"

The children run from pumpkin to pumpkin declaring each one to be the best. They see the glory of the big orange balls, the autumn light glinting off the pumpkins, the corn maze holds mystery to their imagination.

The adults check their watches or their phones, getting caught up in a text conversation.

"Hurry, hurry, haven't you picked one out yet?"

They drag the pumpkins to get weighed and then load the children in the car to cries of 'but we weren't finished yet.'

The pumpkin sits on the front porch steps, maybe with a carved face or not. The pictures are liked and commented on, 'oh my goodness, your kids are SO cute!'

And everyone moves on. 

Pie is made with canned filling from the store or a ready-made pie is picked out from the bakery section. And it's eaten and for the most part enjoyed. I'm not judging here, this was the way we danced on Thanksgiving weekend. And it was good. 

It struck me this weekend when we were out at the pumpkin patch, the great extent we go to make memories and to capture everything and then to share it, as if the capturing and sharing make it more real. Parents chasing their children around, bribing their children for pictures when all the children want to do is run and delight in the pumpkins. Minus the bribing part, that was me. It wasn't the perfect pumpkin picking that I wanted, and it wasn't just the children who were being fussy and grumpy.

Sometimes, its better to just let the littles set the pace, to follow them around the pumpkin patch, marveling at how they walk, noticing what they notice. Sometimes it's better to not care so much about capturing the perfect picture but to make the perfect memory. Sometimes it means picking out a knobby pumpkin and hefting into the stroller for the ride home. Sometimes it means not being perfect and not being all cutesy and not having any of those pictures to share. Sometimes the only pictures are of everyone being distracted and looking the other way but sometimes there's the one magical picture of sunlight and autumn and life. Real life just like you live it everyday, captured just how you are right then. 

And that's really okay. And that's really real. And that's really beautiful.