luna acres

Today, as I’m starting to feel like I can breathe again,  I  went to the mailbox and there was a little white bubble wrapped package waiting for me. My heart stopped for a moment. Hand written on the back it says, “handle with love.”   A little bit of light. Just when I needed it.     I can’t remember meeting Kyra , but my strongest memory was going to her house, to pray. I evolved from my youth group upbringings, and there are few people from then or from my school years who I keep up with, even in the typical social media ways. I’m not sure if that’s more a reflection on all those people, or me. Maybe it’s because I’m a Two. Regardless, I always followed Kyra. When she started making art, I felt it. I connected somehow. I was staying in a bedroom of a farmhouse with a stranger (she wouldn’t be a stranger for long... in fact she would change my life, but that’s another story) just after splitting up with my ex-husband when Kyra was posting that she needed a home for her cat because th

Warning: This post contains graphic material that may be triggering. The last few days were rough for me. I fell into a pit of depression, bad vibes and the week long rainy-day-blues, combined with a little PMS probably, just a storm of negativity and anxiety and  self-loathing . It’s so gross. But I’m trying to be easy on myself. No one has good days every day, no matter how perfect things are. Sometimes we need to be sad. To cry. To spiral into a black hole of guilt and regret. Well, maybe we don’t need that. But it happens, regardless. It allowed me to dive into myself though... to reflect on how much I’ve grown in my lifetime. And it led to all of these trains of thought to explore and share (as I’m typing this...  maybe  share.)   Five years ago, I shared “A Note About Anxiety” , a piece I wrote about depression and anxiety and self-mutilation. It’s graphic. But I feel like it’s a good prequel to where I am now.    One of the things I dove into thinking about was my perspective of

The scrapbook of my journey continues... The year is 2020.  I live in a Spanish castle, with my incredible little family. Two lovers, two dogs,     three kids, and three cats.  I'm a horticulturist, a homemaker,    and I'm happy. Really really happy.  Except when I'm sad,  because let's be honest, it happens.  Nothing is perfect. But it's real. And I love it. Bad days and all. The new decade has been one for the books. Coronavirus has turned our worlds upside down. Quarantine and panic and fear and unemployment. Racism and violence and just plain ignorance   in the world around me is breaking my heart. Flooding. Murder hornets. Politics. It's a lot. And it's only May. We're just sailing these waves, together.

Do you remember me mentioning that I'm taking horticulture classes?!  Well, about two months ago I wrote an essay  and applied for a scholarship through the  Old Dominion Golf Course Superintendents Association,  and  I won.  It's been nearly a decade since I wrote something of this nature,  I am certainly (very  very ) out of practice,  and to be chosen for a piece that  feels close to my heart was incredibly gratifying.   I want to share it with you now. Disclaimer: includes the most cliche closing line of all time. crocosmia blooming last summer March 10 th , 2012 was the  first day I ever  really   worked outside .  I'm not talking about mowing the lawn, or weeding the backyard  garden . I'm talking about  really  working. The type of work that leaves your  muscles feeling like   jello . The type of work that challenges  your  mind and your sanity.  The  type of work that  makes you want to scream, and  cry, but when you finally make it throu