The Wild Hunt - What Time is it, Mr. Fox?

 https://wildhunt.org/2024/02/what-time-is-it-mr-fox.html

On Love and Compassion

 I believe my mother tried to be a kind and compassionate person her whole life. Perhaps it was an attempt to heal the wounds she suffered from the cruelty and abuse she endured as a child, a young woman, and a young mother. Much of that trauma was inflicted by her own family and the family she eventually married into. I could recite some of the stories here, but a few of the villains are still alive and Jeannie the Loving would not want me to publicly shame them. In fact, she probably forgave them long ago.

Toward the end of her life, she seemed to double her efforts to see the good in people, even if she had to work extra hard to make that happen. It didn’t matter what was going on in someone’s life, she always had something kind or encouraging to say about them or to them.

One of her last public appearances happened on Valentines night in 2008. There was a heavy lake-effect snow falling, but she insisted that I drive her to the hospital where she worked so she could take special holiday treats to her 2nd and 3rd shift coworkers. They were accustomed to her deliberately thoughtful and silly little gifts and she wanted them to remember her that way. More than one person cried when they hugged her that night, but everyone of them smiled when they saw her.

Jeannie Barker February 2008

I have often wondered about her increased need or desire to show love and compassion in her final moments in this realm. Was it prompted by fear of not being accepted on the other side as she had so many times felt rejected, unloved, and unlovable in this one? Or there, so close to the next place, sometimes crossing over and coming back, had she learned a marvelous Truth? Had fear and judgment been dissolved by the promise of a new beginning?

My mother left this realm literally surrounded by the love of her family, her fear and sadness soothed by love and compassion. What a gift. What a blessing. What a revelation of possibilities for the ways her life might have been different if those gifts had been freely given all along.

Much love to you from Bear Path Cottage this morning, and from Jeannie Beannie as well. Her light shines on.

Mid-February: Finding Hope and Beauty

8:00 a.m.
25 degrees, sunny, cold wind

There are 22 chickens in the flock at Bear Path Cottage, and 20 of those are laying hens. The two oldest, Jazz and Pearl, have reached their retirement years, although Pearlie still likes to sit in the nest box every once in a while. The chicken run is adequately sized, and most days, the girls spend at least part of the afternoon enjoying a version of free-range access in the fenced backyard. Nothing guarantees the total safety of chickens who live outdoors, but the set-up here keeps these birds as safe as possible from predators.  Add to their safe environment that they have a healthy diet and plenty of enrichment foods and activities, and I think these birds have a pretty good life. 

                                                                              Jazz

There's an understanding of sorts between chickens and chicken tenders; an unspoken agreement, a psychological or social contract that the tender will provide a good life for the chickens, and the chickens will provide the tender with eggs. Last year, we had a few good egg weeks, but overall, the chickens were not holding up their end of the bargain. I began to consider whether I had made a mistake by increasing the size of the flock and whether I should rehome some of my feathered darlings to a like-minded homesteader. 

When I started growing the flock, it was with the intention and hope that I could sell enough eggs to at least break even on the cost of feed and supplies and hopefully have a little extra money. Last year's lack of egg production and one very expensive chicken vet bill kept the tally column for chickens firmly in the red. I considered downsizing with the hope of being able to cover some expenses with intake from selling eggs. Keeping a flock this size costs somewhere between $120 - $150 a month, including feed, scratch, supplements, and supplies. As much as I love them, my fixed income needs them to help support us all. 

Of course, there is no point in even thinking about egg production levels (that sounds so funny, like we're in the movie Chicken Run, when really we are starring in our own live production about happy co-existence!) during the cold, dark months of winter, when most chickens stop laying or lay less frequently. Some chicken tenders use lights to trick chicken bodies into thinking they still have long days and short nights so that they will lay more frequently. In my opinion, that is poor stewardship, as their bodies are obviously designed for and need time to rest. Feeding and caring for them through their quiet time is part of the care agreement. 

Starting about mid-January, these chickens have surprised me with a slight but steady increase in the number of eggs they are laying. I do not expect a regular output from any of them until April or May. To be honest, I don't expect a regular output for anything from anyone who lives here! As I've been emerging from my own quiet time, rather than being goal-oriented, my focus has been on seeing the beauty in the world around me and looking for hope in unexpected places. 

The everyday beauty and happiness at the Cottage include the chickens and their sweet, funny personalities and behavior. And I don't think I will ever stop being amazed and delighted by the beautiful colors in the nest box and egg basket; white, blue, olive green, and three different shades of brown. Over the last few weeks, I gathered 2-3 dozen eggs per week, which gives me some to sell, some to share with friends, and some to use for baking or breakfast here at home. 

In my morning walks around the gardens, I have been gathering bits of spring green to share with the chickens. When I am doing the morning chores that provide their care, I talk with them about the weather, the dog, the world, and, lately, about the coming spring. They seem to be excited about it, and they are more eager than ever to have their free range time in the afternoon. I don't know if their tiny bodies are just ready to be solid producers or if they are responding to the TLC and warmer days, but in the last 10 days, these 20 laying hens have produced 7 dozen eggs. 

They might not continue this wild burst of energy. But...they might. 

Planting a new variety of apple tree in the tiny orchard this spring might not mean an apple harvest this year or next. But...it might. 

Supporting loved ones making big, brave life changes might not change their world. But...it might.

Sharing with friends and making community connections might not save this world. But...it might. 

Taking time every day to look for beauty might not change MY world. But...it does. 

So much to think about. So much to look forward to. 

Much love to you from Bear Path Cottage. 

Here's a rundown of the Bear Path Cottage resident chickens

Icelandic Vikings - white eggs - these girls were named after my grandmother and her sisters

Mae (Mae Mae)

Gussie (Augusta)

Marg

Edith

Dark Brahma - brown eggs

Jazz - this lady has aged out of laying, but still lives a nice life

White Ameracauna - blue eggs

Pearl - also aged out of laying, and still has a nice life; Pearl has a scissor beak

Smokey Pearl - The F Troop - brown eggs

French Broad

Miss Frizz

Welsummer - terracotta eggs

Hawkeye

Cream Legbar - blue eggs

Elke Summer

Demi (Demeter)

Ursula Andres

Dwen (Cerridwen)

Blue Copper Marans - The Mystery or Murder Crew - dark brown eggs

Agatha Christie

Jane Marple

Ariadne

Barnevelder - brown eggs

Raquel Welch - she is a mahogany barnevelder

Dame Diana Rigg - is a silver-laced barnevelder

Easter Eggers, blue or green eggs, but one is an olive egger

Artie (Artemis)

Bree (Brighid)A Cinnamon Queens - dark brown eggs Gloria Gaynor Loretta Lynn These two birds came to us as rescues last year, having survived a dog attack that killed their flockmates. The person who rehomed them wasn't sure if they were Rhode Island Reds or Cinnamon Queens, but as their sweet, friendly, affectionate personalities and temperaments continue to emerge, it is obvious that they are Cinnamon Queens.

The First of February - Imbolc 2024

This day dawned clear, bright, and cold, and I was surrounded by fire and ice as I walked around the orchard and the Cottage garden, with the rising sunlight dancing on frost-kissed plants. I felt a little ripple of excitement in the earth beneath my feet, as if it, too, wanted to rise up to celebrate the growing light on this day halfway between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. This was the first day I have allowed myself to begin looking at the work I will need to do to ready the gardens for Spring, and there is much to do. The priority and (hopefully) only expense will be adding another variety of apple tree, and I think I will need to purchase a 3-year old tree and have a nursery install it. That will likely happen in May or June. Time to start saving the egg money. And just like that, I am transported from frosty morning to thinking of new growth and new buds, and hoping for an apple crop to harvest. 

This morning's harvest was a simple one; I plucked the tall, whispery remains of last year's pink muhly grass. I thought I might make a Brigid's cross with them, but it did not take long for Mojo, Hamish, and Lily to find the stalks on my desk and remind me why I don't keep dried florals anywhere the cats can reach them. They are far too tempting to play with and nibble on. I used them on my altar for my solitary Imbolc ritual and later tonight will burn them in the firepit outside in a small closing ritual for the day. Yes, it is true. Witches like to burn stuff. 

Black bears have started stirring from their dens in this area, and on this day I welcome their return while honoring the Great Bear Mother. History has twisted the strands of her storyline, but I feel no need to sort them out. She and I know each other in this here and now, and that is enough. 

In this region, sows started giving birth in January. Appalachian Bear Rescue has already received four tiny neonate cubs which breaks their record by three. One of those fellows has already passed; they are delicate little beings. The first two cubs were abandoned when their mother was frightened away by the noise from a chainsaw. Some folks were clearing up a downed tree in their yard and had no idea that the sow had denned in the tree. They waited as long as possible to see if the sow would return, but it was getting dangerously cold for the cubs, so they were taken in to rescue. The second two cubs were found by firemen whose firefighting equipment had disturbed their den, and were also taken in to rescue when the mother did not return. If it is at all possible to place these cubs back with their own mothers or with a foster mother, Appalachian Bear Rescue will make sure that happens. 

Here is a link of a video clip published by BearSmart that shows bear activity inside a den: https://fb.watch/pXVjKVJVKT/ and a link to the related article on their page https://www.bearsmart.com/about-bears/north-americas-bears/

There are more frequent stories of bear conflict with humans and in human neighborhoods. More disturbing to me is the increase of internet posts containing false information about bears, often intended to provoke a malicious response by community members. Please use discernment when reading posts, comments, or articles online, and contact your local wildlife agency if you have concerns about bears in your area. It is possible to coexist peacefully with bears and other wildlife, but humans have to make an effort to make that happen. 
Information is available on the BearSmart website, and also at https://bearwise.org/

Mmmhmmmm. Mama Bear channeling Great Bear Mother, perhaps. 

The rest of my day passed quietly, speaking with loved ones and doing chores. I went out before dark to check for eggs, and found a broody Raquel in the nest box sitting on this perfect, light-brown treasure. It seems a fitting end to my hearth and home focused day, and I am grateful for the gift. 

Blessed Imbolc, friends. Keep moving toward the light.

With love from Bear Path Cottage,

Sheri

Seven Years - A Journey Through Grief

 Seven Years – A Journey Through Grief

We’ve all seen the faces in newsprint and on the television screen,
Empty, hollow, tear and mud-streaked,
Defiant, angry, hungry baby-bird beaked mouths,
Bodies bent, shuffling, picking their way
through the muddy remains after a flood
the likes of which no one has ever seen before.

It is the same with tornadoes, fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes.
Every storm that nature hurls against the fragile structures of human life
Leaves somebody sifting through ash and mud, bones and blood,
Looking for some tangible something to hold onto;
Some touchstone, some key we believe we need to unlock truth and memories.

Your life and death brought storms bigger than anything nature has ever wrought,
and oh, baby girl, there was nothing natural about it.
I spent a long time moving through the broken, messy, shattered pieces
of your being, your existence, of myself
With that same defiance, the emptiness, and hunger,
looking for the touchstone that would bring you back to me.
I wallowed in mud baths of truth.
I built a temple of ash and made mosaics from scraps, but they were as empty as
Vision boards made from magazine cutouts run through a shredder,
Memories clouded by smoke from the fires of my anger
And held at bay by floods of rage.

I cannot tell you how it happened, but
something finally shifted on this dirty road to healing.
I don’t care what they say, there is nothing pure or holy or
 light-filled about grieving a life when terrible truths tarnish its memories.
But somehow, the light comes if the rage burns away
before it nukes the seeker's soul.

And so, it did, and so it is, and
so here I am, finally and clearly seeing
the light of her love brightening the darkness.

Mid-January: Deep Winter Visits

Sometime in the early morning hours during our first deep freeze of the year, the pipes for the chicken watering system exploded with enough force that it knocked the whole thing askew. The crack and boom sound roused the dog, who in turn roused the Cottage Engineer, who in turn determined that with an outdoor temperature that felt like -3 degrees, an investigation into whatever caused the noise could wait until daylight. So it did, and the photo below shows what that investigation revealed on a cold morning last week.

Ouch. Best estimates: the shut-off valve from the rain barrel was frozen partially open, and although it seemed like the water supply had been turned off, it was not. Ouch again, and oops. These things happen, and we just move forward. Fortunately, the heated waterer in use inside the coop can serve as a temporary backup with the minimal additional cost of labor (mine) to fill that water source every day. Since the staff here at BPC are elbow deep in the kitchen redo, I'm grateful to have the time that gives us to re-think and re-engineer before we rebuild the watering system. 

This photo was taken when the coop and barn were first built. It shows the Engineer in deep thought about some project design. I am holding space for this forward for the water redo. 

I just came back inside from tending the chickens. It is currently 8 degrees and feels like -6 with the wind chill. Most of the girls were still in the coop; nobody was in a hurry to go out in this cold. Hank stopped at the back door and looked up at me as if to measure my sanity. Sorry, pup. If you want out, this is the only way to go. Two nights ago Hamish scooted through the back door when Rhodes and Hank were coming in. I spent 30 minutes tracking him all around the neighborhood before he finally allowed me to pick him up and carry him home. This morning, he looked toward the door with absolutely zero interest in traveling through it. 

It snowed all day yesterday, resulting in a sparse dusting on the ground here at the Cottage. This land is tucked into a sweet little geographical bowl, and weather systems are often funneled around us by the mountain ranges to the north and south. I would love to experience a good, heavy snowfall; it has been two years since a measurable amount fell here. Goodness knows we need the precipitation, but She also knows the many ways in which people and domestic animals suffer in wet, cold weather. Perhaps she is doing a kindness here. (note: silly, ridiculous, hopeful wishing on the part of this writer.)

No surprise that I am choosing to spend the remainder of this cold spell emulating the black bear by denning in. I will consume and produce words, do some hearth magic, and periodically fall into a state of torpor. I do not know for certain whether bears are grateful for their dens, but I am for mine. I'm going to go refill my tea cup and create a flexible map for the balance of this day.

With love from Bear Path Cottage,

Sheri

The Simmer Pot

 I spent all day trying to write the whole truth about this simmer pot, and I just came to the conclusion that I can't.

But what I can share with you is this: I started the day in a slow, quiet way after a challenging night. Magic is often a complex and complicated thing, but sometimes, for some practitioners, it is a matter of acting on instinct and intuition.

Too many humans, for far too long, have separated themselves from their instincts and quieted their intuition. I'm not going to school you on how to fix that. You know if those things are missing in your life, and if you want to change that you will figure it out.

In the middle of the night last night, my intuitive reaction to a less-than-friendly presence was to keep my bedroom light on so that it would literally and symbolically push a certain darkness away. I also put away laundry and tidied up because chaos cannot thrive in neat spaces, and order helps balance shadow and light.

I woke after sleeping a few hours, intending to get right to my morning chores. However, when I went into the kitchen to give Hank his medicine, I saw the bowl of fruit on the counter, and in a flash, instinct told me to create a simmer pot with specific intentions.

I do not usually lay the ingredients for a simmer pot out on a cutting board; I just chop them up and put them in the soup pot.

Today, though...today I was moving on instinct. I sliced the fruit and laid it out neatly, then began combing through the bottles and jars in the spice rack and the apothecary shop housed in the corner cabinet.

The standard ingredients I used were apples, oranges, cinnamon, and star anise. Then some echinacea and bee balm, and a dozen other ingredients from last year's Cottage gardens. I put the whole thing together nwater in the soup pot.

It has been simmering all day. Occasionally I added water and additional spices. At one point I dropped a stone from a sacred space into the water. Every time I went into the kitchen I stirred the pot, and sometimes I went into the kitchen just so I could stir the pot because intuition gave me someone else's name and I needed to add them to it.

If you want me to add you or someone you care about, just say so in comments or send me a message. I do not need any details or reasons why. Just keep in mind this pot has good intentions and don't play the fool. You won't like the consequences.

The pot will simmer until its work is done. I guess I will, too.

Start improving your communication skills, especially pertaining to how you communicate with children. And set aside that damnable and damning attitude of "i went through X when I was a kid and it didn't hurt me" before something comes and rips it right out of your spirit when it tears your heart out of your chest.

Peace. Dear goddess, please, for all of us. Peace.

#onthebearpath

#bearpathcottage

#cottagewitch

The First of January

7 a.m., 30 degrees. Foggy, misty morning here in the river valley that holds Bear Path Cottage, with the clouds down low on the ridgeline to the south. 

I made a pot of oatmeal for breakfast with apples, cinnamon, and maple syrup. Last week, I was thinking about simple ways to refresh the love, health, and other positive energies in the Cottage. Every time I prepare food or even a cup of tea, I add some magic to what I'm making. That's Kitchen Witching 101 stuff: if you are already doing work, make double use of the energy. 

But there is a difference between adding magic and intention to something I am already doing and doing something to create or refresh magic. I don't want to make cooked breakfast every day, but doing it once or twice a week will be an enjoyable part of a morning. Added bonus: food is one of my love languages, and my husband and father-in-law know that. I hope warm oatmeal bellies = warm hearts.

While I was stirring my cauldron...ermmmm...my saucepan this morning, my mom popped into my heart. I have memories of her making oatmeal for breakfast on cold winter mornings in a batch large enough to feed seven kids. She would scoop it into our bowls at the table, thick and lumpy and sticky. Mom was not the best cook, and indeed, mornings were not her best time, but she wanted our bellies to be warm before we left for school. 

                                       My mom and my Gramma Barker in the kitchen.


The good thing about her oatmeal was that once we made it our own, it was tasty stuff, partly because it was one of the only foods we were allowed to play with. I would use my spoon to shape my oatmeal into a mountain, then dig a little lake at the top and draw rivers down the side. Then, I'd pour the milk slowly until it filled up the lake and flowed down the sides of the mountain. Eventually, there would be an island of oatmeal floating in a sea of milk, and I would sprinkle sugar on the mountain like rain or snow falling. 

Mmmmm, what a soft, sweet lead into the day ahead. The chickens need tending and some extra care today. Our Vikings have been flying up to the roof of one of their shaded areas, so it is time to trim wings. Cats need tending, and the pup needs time with me before he heads off to work as a shop dog. There are also a few household chores to do, and then I will be painting the new shelves for the kitchen. Oh, and I have to deliver a work order to the Engineer. 

Will I get it all done? Maybe. Will the world stop turning if I don't? No.

But yaaaa'll, I am so excited about this kitchen redo. She will be so pretty when she is done! 

Oh goodness. I cannot forget to bake some cornbread for my FIL. North Carolina born and raised until his family moved to Big Stone Gap, Virginia, he likes to have black eyed peas, greens, and corn bread for his New Year's lunch. (And I like to do little things to make him happy.)

I hope the New Year is gentle with you and that you are gentle with yourself as you move through it. 

This day is just one more new day that offers possibilities. The entirety of 2024 did not arrive at 12:00:01. 

Practice pausing before responding or taking action. Drink water. Drink tea. Eat foods that nourish your body when you are able to. Embrace interactions that nourish your mind and spirit.

Look for the candle in the window when you feel lost. Be the candle in the window when you feel strong.

Most of all, be easy when you can. 

Peace, friends, and much love from Bear Path Cottage. 

The Certainty of Knowledge

 1:30 a.m., clear skies, 32 degrees

The waning gibbous Moon is calling to me right now, and I am tempted to break one of the sacrosanct agreements that hold the Cottage steady: Never wake a sleeping puppy. The sound of the front door opening would provoke either a gentle investigative patrol or a call to arms. Both of those would wake the other South Side human, so I let Love elder Ego and chose to stay inside.

However, that doesn't mean I cannot have some of what I want, and some of what I want is to listen for the calls of my newest neighbors, a pair of Great Horned Owls. I make a cup of tea for the pleasure of a warm drink, move the chair in my room for a comfy listening station, open the window that looks over the south yard, and settle in for a visit with the night.

I heard the Owls at 10:00 p.m. when I went outside to tend the cat trap. Hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo. Hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo. The female’s higher pitch call was answered by the deeper voice of the male. Their call and response could mean they are marking their territory against an intruder, or they could just be staying in contact while they hunt. I was tonight years old when I learned that although female GHOs are about 1/3 again larger than males, the males have a larger voice box, and that is why their voice is deeper.

Here I am, listening. The laptop is actually on my lap. I am making use of easy access to information to look up the answers to my questions about owls, and suddenly find myself inhabiting a memory room from my childhood. There was a bookcase against the wall in the space where living and dining room joined, and another in the playroom. The first held a complete set of Encyclopedia Brittanica, a dictionary, and some other heavy reference books. The other had a set of junior encyclopedias, books about birds, trees, and wildlife that had belonged to my Grampa Barker, a set of books about the states (with hideous blue covers), and many other books on miscellaneous reference or educational topics.

If I wanted to know something, all I had to do was find the right book to give me the answer. My mother never said, “Don’t touch those,” or “That book is too big for you.” The only rule about books was that if you took a book out, you had to put it back where it belonged when you were done with it. From the time I was four years old and able to read on my own, I had a world of knowledge available to me. All I had to do was reach for it.

What is this witch rambling on about in the middle of this cold night, with her window open as she’s hoping to hear the owls and listening to all the other night sounds? This: for the past couple of years I have been following a New Year’s practice that I learned from Irene Glasse of Glasse Witch Cottage.

It is simply this: “Many years ago, I was introduced to the idea of selecting a single word for each calendar year to act as an intention, touchstone, and big-picture goal. The beauty of a single word intention is that the simplicity means multiple ways of connecting are possible.” ~ Irene Glasse

Ever since my autumn pilgrimage to the north, I have been gently reviewing the way I live my life. Some days, I run it through my mother’s flour sifter; some days, I put it in a simmer pot on the stove. Some days I toss it into flowing water to see what floats away, what swirls in the eddies, what settles on a rock to stay. The pull of the Turning Wheel and even the common calendar year have taken me to the time and place where the results of that review have been settling comfortably into my being. Into my bones, maybe even rewriting something in my DNA.

In the past two weeks, I have been thinking into the coming year. 2024. Goodness. I’m sure it was just yesterday that I was playing four square and hopscotch on the Walnut Street sidewalk.
There is so much happening in this world, in the local community, among my friends, with my family, inside of me. These are uncertain times, and it seems to me that it is best to meet that uncertainty with a combination of the certainty of knowledge (both knowing and knowing what you don't know) compassion, and love.

I’m not making resolutions. I did, over time, create a small list of things I would like to try. Why a list? Because my brain needs the memory assist, and I do not want to wake up in the middle of a next autumn night and say, “oh noooooooo! I meant to try candle making this year.”

 My single word, my simple intention for the coming year, is LEARN. I will be mindfully reaching for that world of knowledge with the same sense of wonder I had as a child. Here in the darkness, still listening for the Owls, I am certain this will be another grand adventure.

With love from Bear Path Cottage.

Sheri

                                                        Great Horned Owl - Bill Rhodes

 

The Remains of December

I have been secret hours restless lately; a combination of circumstances, illness, and medication, methinks. Last night, I roamed the house, front porch, and gardens until 3 am, at one point embracing the drama by wearing one of my sun hats and my long robe and carrying around the perfect walking stick that Rhodes brought home from the wilds of the Outer Banks. I felt appropriately dressed while listening for the owls and other night sounds, but it seemed I was the only creature stirring. Every being with better sense than I was safely tucked away in a cozy snug, not at all sorry to miss the soft rain. 

Secret hours is a phrase from a book I recently read. That two-word combination is a skeleton key that turned a ward in one of the mystery locks inside me, revealing a truth I needed to know. It is certainly well-suited to the workings of my mind and spirit right now. 

I slept a few hours, cozy in my bed, safe in the sheltering embrace of the Cottage. These are feelings I will never take for granted, and I thought about that when I woke and watched the darkness outside the window slowly melt into a soft gray day. The wind is making all the chimes ring gently, and the sound of the rain hitting the roof is sweet and comforting. It is most certainly a day for curling up, resting, or engaging in quiet activities. 

This has been the sweetest Yule/Christmas season I have experienced in a long time, but these are not easy days for me or the gentlemen who share my home. Regardless of our individual spiritual and healing paths, between us, we carry more than a few ghosts who are active this time of year. So, when I eventually moved from the comfort of flannel sheets, the first thing I did was refresh the simmering pot on the stovetop. I added fresh thyme and time, more pine cones, orange slices, cinnamon, a few drops of balsam fir oil, and a spritz or two of grounding spray. I'm feeling serious about tending hearth and home today, and this was an essential first step. 

Rhodes and I shared some kitchen chores, passing the time together with humor and the depth of ease that comes from familiarity and the release of expectations. 11 years into our togetherness, we are finally crafting our own holiday traditions. Preparing easy-access food is becoming a favorite, I think; a way of providing self-care options for each other that do not require constant attention at a time when we might not be able to provide that. 

There's a crockpot of chili going and freshly baked cornbread. There will be some other easy foods: smashed baby potatoes with cheese and bacon, little BBQ sausages, a festive-looking Caprese salad, and sausage balls if I get back into the kitchen to bake them. Plus, there's already an apple mincemeat pie waiting to be sliced. My father-in-law was just prowling the kitchen, looking to see what was on offering today. I think I'll go get that pie out and fix him a dish. 

Hank says, "Get that cornbread right, Mama!"

If these days are difficult for you, be kind and patient. Love yourself. Rest. Cry. Laugh. Immerse yourself in the crowds of your choosing, even if they are held within the pages of a good book or on a screen. Sit quietly by yourself, wrapped in a warm blanket. 

You do you, boo. You do you. 

Much love from Bear Path Cottage.