I don’t know if I’m qualified to operate the “internet.”

The legitimacy of my millenial-ness has long been in question, primarily because it has taken me years to navigate our television remote with FB_IMG_1425611307425confidence. Emogi’s make me uncomfortable–there’s too many options. I still cannot correctly match up all of our chargers with their proper electronic partners. And I JUST started using Instagram. There, I’ve admitted it. That said, a blog is not the most natural space for me. WordPress is still an enigma, but one through which I feel I must wade.

Now, more than ever, I need to feel connection with the world outside of my world. I live in a bitty cabin on a 4,000 acre farm with my husband and 17-month-old son in Koshkonnong, Missouri.


I’m still usually surprised I’m here.

We are pursuing a simpler life, one that is “governed by the seasons, spring for hoping and planting, summer for watching things grow, for walking and sitting on the porch, autumn for harvest and gathering, deep winter for stillness, a time for sewing and rest.” (bell hooks, Belonging: A Culture of Place pp.2). We are homesteading using permaculture principles. After moving six times in less than 4 years of marriage, we are trying out belonging. Belonging to a place. Devoted to this space. Allowing this landscape to shape us, inconvenience us, even. I am letting the contours of the Ozarks get into my bones. It is both terrifying and thrilling, the attempt at rootedness. And while I claim certainty over very little in my life, I am thoroughly glad to be here, figuring it out in this forested beauty. It is a priviledge.

My boys.

We hope to build a community out here, but right now, it’s just us. I am a certified yoga instructor. A seminary drop out. A mother who didn’t expect to be a mother at this age or season of life, and yet, I have found more joy and satisfaction from this than just about anything else, ever.



I look forward to the potential intersections of our lives.


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