I’ve got my eye on the tall cottonwood in the middle of the shelter belt on the far side of the pasture. It tells me things I’m curious to know.

I didn’t think there was time. The afternoon was already closing in and passing by, the weekend waning fast.

A rogue burst of cold in early September. We say we don’t expect it, but we know that’s not true.

There would be Tansy, Queen Anne’s Lace, and fern of some kind. Beyond that, the wildflower market in northern Idaho would surprise me when I arrived.

I was going to a wedding held at an historic farmstead in a valley tucked into the Rocky Mountains of northern Idaho.

Sometimes, it abundantly flows all on its own; other times, it requires intention, pushed along by effort. It’s not about perfection, but it is about beauty. And mindset. And hope.

The shed was nearly buried by overgrown grasses, fallen branches, a rusting horse trailer, and a slapped-together, bent-wire dog run.

The cool of early morning, grasses sloshed with dew, sprinklers tick-ticking circles around the lawn. The waking sun gentle and golden, highlighting.

It felt so extravagant sitting there in the window seat padded with cushions, a cup of tea in hand.

Sunday, I planted seeds. There, beside the creek (in which Nellie was wading, wading, wading) I spread out the seed packets, bags of starter mix, seed trays, and the handful of wooden markers I’d found in my potting bench drawer.

I reach for the maple cutting board that leans against the wall, set it on the counter, and draw a scoopful of flour from the bin in the cabinet below

Sometime during the wane of last summer, I began to consider how I might shift some things, adjust choices and habits to better align with my penchant for simplicity and my inspiration toward stewardship.