Two years ago, I started a blog called The Well Nested Life; this month, I’ll close that site down. I’ve moved all my blogs over to this current site, so I’ve retained my words, but I have to say goodbye to the dream. Closing my blog feels like I’m losing an old friend. With some brainstorming…Continue Reading
Today is Friday the 13th, a day some people truly dread. For others, these unlucky Fridays provide a whimsical excuse for all that goes wrong. April was the most recent time a Friday fell on the thirteenth. When I shared some thoughts about it, I received a comment by this writer suggesting that every Friday the…Continue Reading
My memoir, which I’ve not finished writing, has been given an unwanted sequel. Not by Matt, my 31-year-old son who was diagnosed with a brain tumor when he was 11. By a close family member, who just received that same diagnosis. I can’t give more details yet, out of respect for this person’s privacy, but…Continue Reading
I was a gardener long before I became a writer, and it’s still one of my passions. It’s why you haven’t heard much from me lately–when the nice weather beckons me to the garden, I go. Last year, I wrote about the deer that wreaked havoc on all my hard work (in the garden, not…Continue Reading
Happy Spring! I don’t know about you, but at my house, it looks nothing like spring. We still have a good foot of snow on the lawn, with a pile of plowed snow at the end of the driveway at least four feet tall. We also have that glorious late afternoon sun that shines until past…Continue Reading
When I looked out of the living room window the other day, I saw that my climbing hydrangea had buds. “Michael!” I yelled to my husband who was in the yard. I ran outside and dragged him over to look. Upon closer inspection, we saw five clusters of buds about to explode into starbursts of tiny white flowers. I had waited five years for this.
The next day, I was strolling around the back yard and again yelled to Michael to “come look!” This time it was my yucca, a name that belies its stately spires of white flowers. In seven years, my yucca has graced me with this vision just once. As I pointed out to Michael the tall stalk rising up out of the scratchy foliage, I noticed two more blooms-to-be.
There’s more. If you’re not a gardener, stay with me here. There’s a deeper meaning to my garden eureka moments. At least that’s what I choose to believe.Continue Reading
Over the past weekend, I conquered my “Spring Exposure Syndrome” and spent some glorious time in the garden. I haven’t worn shorts yet, though. They’re in storage in the attic and I’ve been too busy having fun outside to go digging around up there.
One of my projects was to complete a dry stream-bed at the end of our driveway. Last year, I put this in to help redirect the flow of water downhill. On Sunday, I bought some inexpensive bags of river stones and dumped them into place. The next day, I found myself on my hands and knees, arranging individual stones in the exact spot I wanted them. This is crazy, I thought. One good storm or sweep of a rake and they’ll be all over. But I persisted.Continue Reading
This past Tuesday, November 8th, was a big day … my birthday. Oh yeah, and that other big thing. But enough about other things…
A quick back story to this blog is that I recently wrote an election day op-ed piece asking my husband to rebuild our basement stairs for my birthday. (You can read it here: http://www.thewellnestedlife.com/november-8-commentary/)
You can see in this before picture the current state of “astairs.” You have to duck your head to clear the overhead joist, and if you have a basket of laundry, tuck it up to clear your knees. I can handle the head-ducking OK, but ducking and tucking at the same time is hard – like the concrete basement floor below. Every time I head down with my arms full, I worry that this is the time my neck and my knees will protest and send me flailing.Continue Reading
As a gardener here in the northeast, winter isn’t exactly my favorite season. Other than drooling over the seed catalogs that get sown in my January mailbox, there’s not much to do, garden-wise. Instead of transplanting perennials, I’m moving snow again from the sidewalk to the … well, wherever I can find a place that doesn’t already have a three foot pile. For me, digging in the snow is not at all as satisfying as digging in the earth. And it’s surreal to imagine that all that dirty wet stuff will actually give way to a lawn and beautiful blooms in too many long months.Continue Reading