I was so eager that I sprained my toe stepping into this home. I pretended I didn't, however, because I didn’t want the realtor to think I was an idiot that couldn’t walk through a door, and then afterwards, I hobbled the few blocks back to work and told my beloved work pals, "I think I found her". I write this post to celebrate the first half year of many I will be here in my sweet home.

I doodled a smiley face on the breakfast tracker sheet half an hour before life gave me a reason to google the biological processes of death. I wanted to know how long he’d been there like that before I found him. I’m now in a vicious staring contest with grief; the pulsing risk of my vocation, more of a guarantee than a risk, really.

Much of this journey has been about slowing down, and completing tasks in small, incremental steps. It is driving me nuts. My baseline is a hyper one. I want what I want when I want it. But cultivating the earth doesn't work that way, so like I said, I wasn’t going to plant a garden this year, and then I watched Zach Galifianakis’ gardening show on Netflix and now I’m here to tell you about my peas.