My beautiful home.

I talked to my daughters and my grandson this morning. Milo showed me whiskers on his chin (!) and we talked about his girlfriend and the difficulties of relationships (!!!) I'm sure I never talked about birth control and the troubles couples have with my grandparents. I even reminded him that his brain/emotions aren't even fully developed and won't be for many more years. Oh my.

When my parents kicked me out of the house, I was about his age. Here is a boy who is loved and supported and listened to. He has become a caring and thoughtful young man and I can feel that even with the mistakes I made as a mother ( I regret how selfish I was), he has become the good man I hoped he would be. The injuries of our past can be mended. Trauma doesn't have to be passed on and on. And the regret I might feel now is pretty useless. And pointless. His mother and father have nurtured him so that he will have resilience when troubles come his way, as they surely will. 

As I crawl my way towards forgiveness for the past actions of those that were supposed to care for me, I would like to put down the stories that no longer serve. 

As we look towards another year, at least, of isolation we are given the opportunity to see what is important, most important. For now I make aprons for my girls so they can work, make blackberry jam and applesauce, water the garden, play the piano, clean the house, make art and wander through the forests of the Northwest. And I give thanks for the trees and creatures. The lakes and streams. The birds.