On the day we turned our clocks forward at that ungodly hour of 2:00a.m. the weather took a step back into the early days of winter, dressing the trees in snow-chalked crime scene outlines and I got to walk among the evidence that I’m really not in charge around here.

Stepping into the pristine silence, tiny flakes of snow clung to my flannel jacket and eyelashes, filtering my view of the fields and softening the edges of our wise maples and black walnuts, their bony fingers still bare but thinking about donning something green. The leaves of our brave and sturdy tulips were just above the soil line, weeks away from blooming but clearly determined to make good on their promise to cheer me in late May and June before Patrick heads out to Sundance. I’ll have dug up their generous bulbs before he returns and have them drying on old newspapers until October when I’ll tuck them back into place like I do every fall. Fall?? Slow down, sister. Let’s take these seasons one at a time.

Twelve days in and March was so far living up to its Ojibwe name of “Snowcrust Moon”. Who am I to complain? The sweat fire was crackling, family had gathered to pray and share food and pour out other acts of intentional kindness while the furnace kicked on at reliable intervals to keep us at a balmy 67 degrees inside. Somewhere upstairs, one of the kittens was napping. Paradise, truly, and not lost at all. I put together a sheet pan of turkey sliders on sweet Hawaiian rolls smeared with spicy mustard and horseradish pickles and waited for the others to troop in the back door, their faces shining with the release and hope that any good prayer leaves behind. They did not disappoint, and even hung their mud-caked towels on the line out back.

That was two weeks ago and whatever they prayed about has lingered around the edges of our lives, catching and holding us tenderly at the end of some pretty rough workdays, smoothing the worry from our tired brows. Now, Sunday morning, in the starlit darkness of what would have been my mom’s 91st birthday, totes of product and supplies are stacked by the front door for a pop-up market later at a nearby brewery. Seven years ago, I could not have imagined we’d be pairing our vanilla chai granola with anyone’s IPA or cranberry mule on a Sunday afternoon, but here we are, six or so of these pop-ups under our belts and the good patrons of this family-run farm and gathering place keep our ovens and mixing bowls busy. When the sun sets on our labors, we’ll gratefully put away the remaining inventory and fill our plates with food they helped us purchase. Yep, the equation is that simple.

Mom and Dad both had birthdays in March (Dad’s was a couple weeks ago; he would have been 93), and I wonder what they’d make of our hectic and cobbled together life here in the middle of nowhere. Up until their tandem declines nearly two decades ago, they cheered us on and marveled at how we kept it all clicking along. Folks from their generation were more likely to have some farm experience in their childhood, so they slipped easily into the scene here when they visited, taking walks with us and letting their gaze settle knowingly and without judgment on our many and varied unfinished projects strewn about the landscape. It was pure joy to see the delight on their faces when the peacocks would stroll up to the front porch where we were sitting, or Patrick would bring them one of the newest goat kids in his arms, all bleating and adorable, eager for the inevitable cooing and head rubs that would follow. Whatever my parents talked about on their way home those days, I’m certain it was wreathed in smiles.

Sometimes it’s helpful and necessary to pause and think how you arrived at your current life’s iteration, noticing the choices you made and turning them over carefully in your mind, looking for clues that will shape your next moves. Patrick and I do that regularly as the future looms all fuzzy and unopened, reassuring ourselves that we’ll figure it out somehow. We have so far, and don’t take the kindness of family and strangers for granted; they’ve featured prominently in our story over the years and show no signs of slowing down. Yesterday, a friend from the market came for an afternoon of art and food, and just as we were hauling out the paint and other supplies on a folding table in the living room, the power went out (is it just me, or has it become windier lately?). A call to the electric company revealed that we were one of several thousand temporarily off-grid due to the storm, which meant it was anyone’s guess as to when we’d be able to flush the toilet again or wash the lunch dishes piled by the sink. So we turned our attention to the paint pouring and bookbinding in front of us, getting happily lost in swirls of wet acrylic color and gentle conversation punctuated by Patrick’s humor. The wind pushed the clouds out of the sun’s way, brightening the space and giving the kittens warm patches of light to nap in on the cat tree by the window. When the gas grill went tumbling down the ridge, tank and all, we rushed out to right it back into place, falling branches from the silver maple out back missing us by inches and random chance. Our friend rolled along easily with it all, her first visit here giving her memories to unpack on the ride home.

Author Hugh Prather once wrote “Letting people in is largely a matter of not expending the energy to keep them out.” For as much as we love our privacy here, we also know deeply the magic and gift of a visitor’s touch on the land, the welcome trod of their footsteps on the front deck, through the living room into the kitchen and out the back door into the mouth of the walking paths that lead to even more wonder. Those kitchen walls have held the whispered secrets of people we love, nourished their triumphs and given them a safe place to be unfinished (as we all are). I might wish I’d taken the damp rag a bit further into the corners to remove the last dangling traces of a years-old cobweb but quickly realize I’m the only one who noticed them in the first place and turn my attention back to offering drinks and setting out placemats for the feast that awaits (forks on the left, a hand stitched cloth napkin beneath). I’ve been lonely before and I’ve known soothing solitude often enough to distinguish between the two. As Patrick and I both collect more days and years, my money’s on the company I keep, opening our door to visitors and letting the land we all stand on transport them away from the troubles.

As our friend left, carrying a crate of her paint-poured creations and leaving us to predict when the power would come back on, we were already planning the next gathering, graced by the presence of others who have as much to gain as we do by spending time in each other’s company.

What can I offer you to drink?