Autumn is the slowing of nature as it prepares for rest in winter. Frost pushes plants toward dormancy, birds migrate, and animals begin searching for their hibernation homes. The world eases into restfulness. This slower state of being is what I've searched for in 2021. I'm usually not one to set New Year's resolutions or choose a word for the year, but I sensed from the beginning that 2021 would be a year of transition. After several difficult years of physical and mental struggle, I wanted to focus on home, family, and building something of my own to pour my heart and energy into and reap the rewards. I chose the word "serenity" for the year and began my quest to find it.
In June I left a job I'd worked for 5 1/2 years. I'd become extremely anxious and irritable, and felt resentful that I must work away from my home and farm because of the exorbitant cost of health insurance. I was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer in 2017 and though I've been healthy since completing treatment, I need to be insured. I can't risk another health crisis bankrupting our farm. Leaving my job felt impossible because I was terrified of financial insecurity, and I viewed my coworkers as family. Imperfect like every family, but familiar, comfortable and caring. They had supported me through a terrible time in my life and helped me recover. Leaving my job brought a sense of loss, grief, and freedom - such an odd mixture of emotions. I processed these feelings as I harvested spring vegetables from the garden, froze broccoli and cauliflower, made sauerkraut for the first time, and enjoyed the wonders of growing and preserving food.
July brought the distraction of family fun with our family Independence Day celebration and a two-week visit from my oldest grandson. We spent days shopping, visiting museums and zoos, harvesting onions and potatoes from the garden, and caring for the chickens. Afternoons in the pool and evening walks after supper became part of our new routine. At the end of his stay, I drove him back to his parents and siblings in western Nebraska, and returned home to a too-quiet house. I soon found myself drowning in tomatoes and crazily canning salsa, and once again performing tasks to feed my family gave me a sense of purpose and feelings of peace and calm.
Now it is mid-October and I've harvested herbs for the last time, planted garlic and spring flower bulbs in the new potager garden beds, and transplanted sage, strawberries and lilies from my parent's yard. All winter while it is gray and cold, I will think of those beautiful, dormant plants and look forward to their emergence in spring! This is what hope feels like to me, a quiet waiting for the beauty and life to come.
Since childhood, I've entertained myself walking along creek banks and through the surrounding timber. Kansas is a plains state with hills in the northeast portion where I live. Trees originally grew only along the banks of rivers and creeks where there was water. Everything else was grass from horizon to horizon, the sky a perfect dome over it all. Very old, very tall trees grow around our old farmhouse because they were planted generations ago by my husband's ancestors. The wind always blows here, hot in summer and frigid in winter. I love it all. I feel strange visiting places that are heavily wooded, where I can't see the horizon or feel the wind on my face. My peace and tranquility come from nature. I'm happiest when my hands are in the dirt, my feet are wading through murky creek water, my hair is blowing crazily in the wind, and my face is warmed by sunshine.
The pace of my life has slowed throughout the year. I planted myself where I belong, my roots have stretched down to hold me in place, and I'm thriving. I now work a few days each week as a substitute teacher, I enjoy more time with my kids, grandkids, and parents, and I'm working to grow my own homesteading business. Life will never be perfect, the world is in constant upheaval, but I've found my purpose and calmly embrace it. That is my serenity.
