Faring and Fairing

There are certain pursuits which, if not wholly poetic and true, 

do at least suggest a nobler and finer relation to nature than we know. 

The keeping of bees, for instance.

-Henry David Thoreau

It's hive inspection day at the Balm and Honey bee farm. I'm getting ready to climb in my truck, rumble down some county roads, put on my bee suit and crack open a hive. I can't wait. Today I find out how the bees fared this winter... how they're faring headed into the spring honey flow. Today I see how many splits, or new hives, I'll be able to make for the coming year. Today I will taste the sweetness of victory or the bitterness of (temporary) defeat.

I think of beekeepers like I think of firefighters: they're just not normal. No rational person runs into a burning building, and, likewise, no rational person sticks their head into a hive of stinging bees. Both require (at varying levels, sure) a bit of bravery- a deep-seated assurance somewhere inside that you have to be among those who do something about dire situations. Firefighters are more glorious, honorable, and brave, yes. But beekeepers are savers in their own quiet way. I am humbled to join their ranks. 

So today I get bee answers and tomorrow I hit the road for the Mother Earth News (you know that magazine, right?) Texas Fair-- a two day homesteading extravaganza. I'll be taking a cheesemaking class and attending lectures on farming from Joel Salatin (what?!) and diving in to beekeeping and poultry production methods. I think there's a specialty kombucha brewing lesson thrown in there somewhere, too. Pretty sure I won't sleep a wink tonight, I'm that excited.

Will report on bees and the fair next week. Until then, be safe and well, friends. -Brin

Clover and Creeping

It's actually Oxalis, but we always just called it clover growing up. It's blooming now, here in the piney woods of east Texas. I picked a fist full yesterday from the farthest corner of the third-acre, back where the ivy is creeping over everything, and near where the tiny pink roses are, finally, taking a rest from blooming. 

The clover is actually for a small lookbook I'm putting together for Balm and Honey. I've found the most incredible yarns that sing, softly, of spring, and I'm knitting them now into cloths to sell. I have plans of setting up at the local farmer's market after the spring honey comes in and my herbs and flowers are ready. Looking forward to that, definitely.

When I was working in Colorado and living in that tiny cabin (remember those days?), I would drive into Cortez every week for the farmer's market. It was a glorious one. There was a girl who ran a vegetable booth there who probably came to think of me as a creeper before the summer was over. Oh man. She was the coolest. Her clothes were handmade and colorful and imaginative and messy and perfection. She cut her own hair, I heard her say once, and it was the best, most beautifully styled hair I've seen on a person outside of the theater. In the winter, this girl worked as a ski instructor, but in the summer she was an organic farmer and grew her own food and made her own trail mixes and tea blends. She drove this rusted Jeep and had these two spotted dogs that sat at her feet and only moved at her command. She was impossibly awesome. I think of all the people I've met and would like to have lunch with, she is among the top on my list. See? Creeper. I told you.

Speaking of cool people and creeping, I'm heading to the Mother Earth Fair in Texas on Friday with hopes of meeting up with the likes of Joel Salatin and Wranglerstar and Claudia Lucero. Heck yes. If you'll be there, too, please drop me a line at brin@brinwisdom.com and let's meet up!

Spring is on its way, friends. It is, it is. Take heart. -Brin

Calling All Instagrammers!

Tuesday came knocking this morning, dragging a brilliant sun and a biting chill in behind her. I'm happy to see that blue sky, though, and the light in here this morning is perfect.

The latest Valentine's Day cloths from Balm and Honey. Love!

Are you on Instagram? If so, I want to tell you about a giveaway I'm doing over at Balm and Honey. Follow @balmandhoney on Instagram anytime now through Valentine's Day and be automatically entered to win one of the handknit House Helpers above. What? Yes. No purchase required or anything, just pull up Instagram right now, follow @balmandhoney, and your name goes straight into the drawing. The winner will be announced Valentine's Day at 8 PM on Instagram. So... follow @balmandhoney... live your life... then watch Instagram Valentine's night to see if you're the lucky winner!

If you've been wanting a chance to try these cloths, now's your chance to win one. (Have you seen the super fun feedback that's coming in from my Balm and Honey customers? Agh. So fun. I think it's my favorite part of being an Etsy gal... except for the knitting, of course.) The only caveat: domestic US entries only, please. I love you out-of-the-US-gals, too, but our USPS is getting grumpier about shipping outside our lower 48. Thanks for understanding!

See you Instagrammers in a few. And everyone, hope you have a perfectly nice Tuesday. Thanks, as ever, for your support and love. We need each other. -Brin 

Monday Moment: Beautiful God

And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us: 

and establish thou the work of our hands...

-Psalm 90:17

He is a beautiful, beautiful God Who makes beautiful, beautiful things. Among them: roses and lemons, which I used over the weekend to make some blushed, fragrant rose petal jam.

Soon we will see His beauty face to face! But may you be encouraged by God's beauty today, even as He works around you. -Brin

Monday Moment is a little devotional to help kick start your week. See you again next time!

The Great Wall of the Front Room

There's something about these winter months that draw me inside and inward, I think, wanting stretches of quiet and solitude and time to think. Space to just... be. I apologize if my winter wantings have left you feeling lonely around here as of late. As way of a proper apology, I have a bit of a Front Room update.

Ah, the odd, long Front Room. Remember this picture from the summer? This room has been such a challenge. It stretches almost the entire width of Hedge House and is a surprising room to step into from off the breezy porch. I felt it the first time the door swung aside and let me into this funnily carved-out house. Whatever you're expecting to find inside, it isn't what greets you. It isn't this room. Everyone who visits experiences it, too. I know this from the startled "ohhh!" or "wow" or "huh" sounds that sneak out of first-time visitor's lips before they're in with both feet. This house is a hodge-podge of oddly proportioned and strangely positioned rooms and corners and doors. I adore it.

But back to the Front Room. It is long but shallow, with an enormous fireplace and mirror on one side (the "Great Wall", as I call it), and a gigantic picture window on the opposite end. In between the imposing mirror and its opposite window sits a room with original parquet wood floors and a looming ceiling. It's impossible to arrange furniture in and harder, still, to decorate. It was also difficult to choose a paint color; my go-to colors looked chalky by the windows but almost violet by the mirror. I finally settled on Sherwin-Williams' Neutral Ground for the walls and Westhighland White for the trim. These, too, I adore. 

This past weekend, my Dad stopped by and helped disconnect and remove the 70+ year old Reznor gas heater from the fireplace. (At some point, the fireplace was outfitted for natural gas and a jet was run into the fire box.) It was a sad-looking relic and I was glad to see its grimy self eased out the door. In its absence, I got my first real look at the fireplace box. It appears as though a 1960s/1970s update saw busted tile cemented to the hearth floor, and faux tile paneling slapped on the front facade. This, obviously, needs updating. Soon.

There has been much discussion, too, about the mirror above the fireplace. Some family and the odd visitor insists it must stay. Others look at me quizzically and (try to) casually comment on how they're surprised the mirror wasn't the first thing I removed. A cousin even refers to it as the Elvis Mirror. Truth: I don't like it at all. But, it does bounce a lot of light around the room. I think I'd have to frame it out... give it some side panels to match the original mantle below and some thick, appropriately beautiful crown molding along the top. I just don't know. Where everyone agrees is that the mirror cannot stay as it is. 

So, an ongoing project for sure. (What I wouldn't give for Chip and Joanna Gaines to break down in front of my house one random afternoon this week. But... wouldn't we all? Ha.) Once I address the mirror and the mantle and the firebox, and once I arrange the shelves as I intend to, I think I'll call this wall done. And then it's back to the kitchen. Oh man. Could I ever use Joanna for the kitchen!

But that's a whole different story for an entirely different day... 

Hope you're well, friend, and staying warm today. It's good to be back. -Brin

The Mess Of Life

The meaning of life. The wasted years of life. The poor choices of life.  

God answers the mess of life with one word: 'grace.'

-Max Lucado

I'm still here. Just wrapped up in warm blankets and big questions and consuming projects. Hope you are well, friends.  -Brin

Handmade Feelings

 When you buy something made by a person,

there is something special there, and you do feel it.

The consciousness with which a thing is made

is often more important than the thing itself.

- J. Donald Waters

I agree with that first part, for sure: when you hold something made by hand, it is special, and you do feel it.

In the process of rebranding Balm & Honey in time for this spring's big honey/candle/soap/lotion introduction, I was told to write 150 words or less on what my little business is about. Uhhhhh... hmmm. It took awhile. Eventually, I typed: 

Balm & Honey came from a heart-aching yearn for simple, authentic products. 

We knit, keep bees, make soap, and dip candles for beloved customers.

It isn't quite what I'm going for, but it's a start.

Last week, I finally (!!) received an invitation to venture inside Ms. Nell's house. Oh, y'all. That place came straight out of a book. Everything she has tells a story... is a story. Whether we were standing in her little sitting room with the coal burning fireplace, or chatting in the huge, bright kitchen, every item came from someone or was made by someone. You could feel it in her house- that special feeling. She knits, too, so we compared handknit cloths. What is that intangible presence we sense when holding something another has made? It's recognition, maybe, that the thing had a life even before it got to us. That someone, somewhere, used their breath and brain and being to add something to the world that wasn't there before, and never would have been had they not been born. Ugh. Call me ridiculous, but I don't know if there's a way to overstate how much this means to me.

Anyway. A big batch of colorful, handknit cloths is in the shop and ready to start their life with someone new. Hurry over if you want to take a peek... five have already sold since I started typing this post!

Wishing you that handmade-special-feeling sort of day. -Brin

Masters and Keepers (The Beauty and Necessity of Bud+Bee+You+Me)

Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made

and forgot to put a soul into.

-Henry Ward Beecher 

We had to chase the Master Gardeners out of my beekeeper's association meeting last night so we could begin on time. The Masters (as I call them)- revered, wise, and weathered- are a motley crew of wrinkled old ladies, sun-beaten old men, and the odd, fresh-faced hipster. I'm in awe of them. They know Latin names for everything and there's nothing they haven't seen.

The Masters line up their latest obsessions in our shared gardening/beekeeping room. (The Masters and the Keepers- as beekeepers are called- are graciously respectful of each other.) The Masters also keep wild-looking, experimental plants under sagging, beaming grow lights in the corner of our room. There are new specimens every month: in January and February there are yellow and white bulbs nodding in test tubes and expertly labeled. March through May ushers in seedlings of all kinds: tomatoes, peppers, squash, and melons. Along June until October, herbs and grasses and so.many.flowers and every vegetable God gave a seed sprawl into the room. November and December roll around and they've vased up Henbit or Camellias or Red Maples. I'm fascinated, always.

Even if you've never given a solitary thought to flowers and bees, both are necessary for your life as you know it. Truly. Buds and blooms provide carbohydrates (nectar) and protein (pollen) for the bees. With it, they make food (honey) to sustain their colony. In doing so, they pollinate roughly one out of every three foods you'll eat today... and many of the wild plants you'll never give a thought to today. The bud-bee-you-me relationship is beautifully symbiotic. God may not have put a soul in flowers or bees, but He did intersect them with ours.

It occurred to me last night, while looking carefully around the room of Masters and Keepers, that these people are the unsung heroes of life as we've come to know it. Forget the athletes and crooners and celebrities. These people, with their borage and bent backs and bee suits, these people are changing the world. While the Masters plant and prune and pull nourishing plants, the Keepers breed and box and bolster the languishing bee. Together, they are fighting a tidal wave of chemicals and disease and urbanization and every dreaded and terrible thing man is doing to kill-off nature and wellness.

God help and bless the Masters and Keepers....

-     -     -     -     -

Yesterday's bee meeting and this morning's Floret Flowers announcement prompted the writing of this intro to a manifesto. (Forgive me.) Want to support or join the Masters/Keepers? Start by planting some bee-friendly seeds this year- in a pot, in a bed or garden, or in a vacant lot. Floret's now selling their beautiful seeds, and, of course, I'm an occasional visitor and longtime fan of Wildseed Farms. Their regional wildflower mixes are perfection. I beg you: plant something, feed a bee, and do what you can this year to support our unsung heroes.

Monday Moment: Daily Bread

Give us today our daily bread.

-Jesus, Matthew 6:11

Commentaries and controversies abound regarding Jesus' model prayer in Matthew 6. Give us this day our daily bread. It sounds straightforward in English. It is not, however, in Luke's Greek or Matthew's (purported...maybe) Hebrew. (Pastors and seminary people, don't crawl out of your skin regarding that last sentence, okay? I'm aware it's fraught with debatable goodies.)

I've done a little reading up on this innocent-seeming verse because it's slammed me so hard this new year. My prayers, I've realized, have gotten selfish. Ridiculous, even. Much of what I'm hearing myself pray for is... telling, I guess... of where my heart has wandered and what treasures I'm wanting to lay up. Ouch. 

What have you been praying for lately?

"Truth is, I think, if God just gave us our daily bread, many of us would be angry. 'That's all you're going to give me? You're just going to give me enough to sustain me for today? What about tomorrow or next year or 10, 20, 30 years from now? I want to know that I'm set up.' And yet Jesus says just pray for your daily provisions." -Francis Chan

Monday Moment is a little devotional to help kick start your week. See you again next time!

(The bread pictured is what we had for yesterday's "daily bread" and is the standard boule recipe made from my favorite bread book of all time.)*

Stillness, Noise and Chasing Out the Agony

In the summer she kept roses in a vase on the piano, 

huge, pungent roses, and when the blooms ripened and the petals fell, 

she put them in a tall Chinese jar, with cloves and thyme and sticks of cinnamon.

-Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping
 

The roses are still blooming. I mention it again because it's such a marvel to me: frothy, pungent roses in January. I realize, intellectually, that this is a symptom of chaotic weather patterns and even, perhaps, a petaled harbinger of strange weather to come. But today it doesn't matter. Today, I have roses, and today that's beautiful enough for me.

I've been drying and saving petals, just like the "competent" character in Housekeeping. I've also started making my own rose water (watch this pretty 2 minute tutorial here) and using it in a room spray and in a honey-infused, natural face wash. And yesterday I added the delicately scented water to a beeswax and comfrey salve I'm making for my dry, winter-stricken hands. I literally, seriously, gasped when I smoothed it on my hands after washing dishes last night. Oh my. I must, must, must figure out how to make bigger batches and share with others. That salve was... instant solace.

It's quiet here this morning but my mind is a noisy, churning machine. I suppose that's why I appreciate the stillness of an empty, hushed house when I'm alone here; it's so loud in my head that additional sound competes and frustrates. Does anyone else experience that?

Perhaps it's because I'm also knee deep in the book. Ah, the book. The characters are alive now... seemingly as real to me as friends I seldom see. Maya Angelou once said that There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. That agony has weighed so heavily on me these past 8 years, but the load is shifting now, and soon I'll be able to put it down. The story will, in a couched-in-fiction sort of way, be told this year. It terrifies me and vindicates me and affords me the chance to give that real-life story the ending it will never have. Is this why others write? I sat in Starbucks last week, face toward the wall, silent tears burning channels down my cheeks, and became so overcome by the emotion of it all that I got up and left. Right then.

Okay. So roses and a tutorial and a salve preview/plug and a working book mention. Does this count as a blog post? I'm hitting that bright orange "Publish" button anyway....

Is it Wednesday? Ah. Happy mid week, friends. -Brin

(There was an Amazon affiliate link in there somewhere. I think we're supposed to say that now, right?)

The 2016 Threshold

Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering 'it will be happier'...

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

I was so glad to see 2016. It was welcome even if it did come barreling over the threshold first thing- without knocking- and yank open the drapes and say, without so much as looking over its shoulder, I'm here. Get up and say hello.

Hello, 2016. Come on in. We all just hope you are happier than your predecessor.

How were your holidays? Mine were stuffed- stuffed with miles and meals and masses and musts. I was relieved to pull down the tree this past weekend and start getting the place back in order. I have hopes and prayers and goals for this year. More so than in many years, I'd say. I'm eager to move forward. This year, my heart knows the new year is here.

I've been taking courses, lately, on things I want to accomplish in these dazzling 360-some-odd days that stare blankly back at me from the calendar on the fridge. One course I took was on how Make Your Blog Take Off! and Earn Six Figures From Your Blog and other bright pink and glittery headlines like that. I realized, three minutes in, that the "proven formulas" would never work for me and apparently I don't want to Make My Blog Take Off after all. The advice included things such as: pick one topic and only blog about that one thing... become an expert in your field. There was also talk about thousand dollar branding and social media platform plug-ins and paid content and coding your own sites and areyoukiddingyoudon'tuseyourowndomain and... ugh. No. I slammed my laptop shut and realized, anyway, that the blogs I read every day are just real people blogs... and none of them are professional content payers or paid photographers. I guess I'm the only one left who clicks off things that seem too slick. It's just not (even 2016) me, I said. I don't want a blogging empire. I just want a rose garden in that back corner over there.

One thing I am trotting out, however, is a re-launched and beautifully branded Balm and Honey. (Which is bare-shelved for the next few hours because you wonderful people keep buying me out. Thank you!) I am excited about that. This spring will see, God willing, the rolling out of honey and honey-based products: raw, natural Texas honey... beeswax candles... natural soaps... and lotion potions. And more House Helpers, of course. (Always those. Always.) I tried out my Vanilla Latte honeyed soap as gifts this year and got some rave reviews, which gave me just the confidence I needed to decide to go all out. I suppose I just have this vision of having one of those creaky, old houses that has furniture polished with beeswax in rooms that smell faintly of beeswax candles, honey soap and flowers. I want that, and I want the world to have that, too. Balm and Honey. Solace and sweet for the home. Hope that whispers from the thresholds that this year will be... happier. 

We can only pray and stubbornly hope.

Happy new year, friends. Praying God's kindest and best presence and blessings in your life this year.  -Brin

Come, Christmas

I'm not sure about you, but this Christmas elf is ready to hang her stockings and enjoy the holiday!

I have been nonstop sewing/crafting/baking/knitting and making for a week. Hats, scarves, rose petal bath soak, herb salts, handmade soaps (like the oat and raw honey, above), cookies, breads, needlepoint gifts and photo coasters. Yesterday I had three projects working, and would toss one aside when I get stuck or frustrated or sick of looking at it, only to pick up another project and resume it. (Does anyone else do this?) But I'm beginning to see an end in sight. Everything MUST be wrapped by Christmas Eve morning, so the race is on. Oooof.

Not to be outdone, each of the three nonprofits I either run (or am an officer of) decided that this week would be a great week to meet. Do what? I feel like a magic Christmas ninja suddenly. Need an Excel treasurer's report for the beekeeper's association? Sure! Passing out 150 hats and gloves and blankets to the homeless? Absolutely! Want me to file nonprofit corp articles for a state I don't live in by Christmas? No problem. 

Come, Christmas. Come with your sit down-ed-ness and peace and hot chocolate and twinkly lights and food and... chairs. I've never needed you as badly as I do this year. Come, Christmas, come.

Wishing you rest and peace this week, friends. -Brin

Roses in December

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
- James M. Barrie

The roses are blooming here at Hedge House. In December. Such a strange year. Yesterday, I snipped several frothy flowers from the spring-like bushes and brought them in to admire. Roses in December. I'll take them.

I think all but three of the gifts wrapped under my tree this year are handmade. I'll show them to you later this week. I made milk and honey soaps- several scents- with the fall honey from my hive. They're gorgeous! I'm pairing those with handsewn dish towels and... presto gift-o! Whew. And since the roses were so prolific this year, I'm making Rose and Lavender Potpourri and little muslin bags of Rose Bath Tea. Pair those with handknit cloths and we have a simple but sweet gift. And of course, I'm baking: breads with side jars of homemade honey butter (again, from the hive), along with cookies and cakes. Yum! Last, but not least, are the knitted offerings: hats, blankets, and pillows. Oooof. Bring on the last minute Christmas crafting!

Speaking of handknit cloths, there are several Christmas cloths left in the shop that are perfect for last minute giving and stocking stuffers. Order by Thursday and both of us will rest easy that your gift will arrive in time for Christmas. Here's the link. (The Sugarplum Fairy cloths are my favorite this year!) 

Are you making any gifts for Christmas this year? What does your holiday present list look like? Feel free to share. 

Have a cozy Tuesday. -Brin

#ChristmasCares

Many of you responded to the last post with words I didn't expect. Truly. I've gotten emails and messages through Facebook and, with different voices, we all said the same thing: this Christmas is different, somehow.

I was thinking about it last night as I got up from the piano and stood in the middle of the front room and stared at the (still half undecorated) tree. Usually I have presents piled underneath it by this time in the season. But this year, on December 10, I can still see the Christmas tree skirt. And then it hit me: many of us are spending our days in the silent company of loss this Christmas. Just raw, consuming loss. 

It's true. Some are grieving the loss of someone they dearly loved who is now painfully absent from holiday activities and plans. Stockings are missing. A chair will be empty. A holiday will never again be the same... Some are mourning the loss of a job, a career, a sense of stability. Meals will get skipped. Parties and trips will be put off or avoided. Presents won't be exchanged. (There's just no money.)... Others are mourning the loss of a future they were once confident in. A country that held promise and opportunity. Now, the world is unraveling, and there's talk of dreadful, unspeakable things on the horizon... And still others are suffering through a loss of health and wellness. They'll be there, sure, but their family won't know- they can't let the children/grandchildren see- the agony they feel in their bones. The worry of whether this will be their last Christmas. The fear and grief of knowing time is running out and their days are numbered.

Loss is everywhere this Christmas. We're seeing it on each other's faces and feeling it in our own hearts. Times have changed. Life is different.

But oh, grieving and desperate hearts, Hope is coming, and soon we will see Him with our very own eyes.

Because of Jesus- my Hope whose birth was declared by a star... my Hope whose body hung on a tree- I have assurance that this life will one day be nothing more than a memory. I have hope that one day every tear will be wiped away, and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain. I am convinced that whatever loss we suffer here we'll someday see with perspective and understanding. I believe we'll be the first to admit these days were "light, momentary afflictions". (Can  you imagine? A day when your heart will be so full- and so joyful- that you'll say that without reserve?)

This year, I dragged in the biggest Christmas tree I could find. And I'm decorating it with all the stars I had and can make. Not because I feel merry and holly and jolly this Christmas. I don't. Not amid all the suffering and fear and loss. I did it because this year, because of Calvary's tree, I have hope. I did it because, just as it did 2,000 years ago, a "star" unthinkably appeared in the skies again, declaring that a King is alive and Hope is on its way.

In light of all this- the afflictions... the star... the Hope that this season declares, I'm doing something new this Christmas. I'm wrapping a box of "Christmas cares"- concerns and prayers and griefs and hopes- and putting I'm it at the foot of the tree. The Bible invites us to cast our cares on God, after all, so I'm wrapping them up for Him. And all season long, I'm going to let my cares sit there, at the foot of the tree, underneath the light and the stars, and I'm going to rest in the knowledge that we, too, are secure in the same place- between the cross of Jesus and His glorious coming. Between the gift of His love and the joy of His presence. Between the darkness of death and the light of life.

Wrap your cares, too, if you want. Wrap up a memory. A picture. A letter. A list. Put your concerns or prayers or grief or hopes in a box and wrap them up for Him. And then put it under your tree if you have one... or near a candle if you don't. Take a picture, if you want, of your Christmas cares, and comment here. Or post it online and hashtag it #Christmascares. Together, our silent cares might encourage each other and tell of our assurance in Christ, our reason for celebrating in such a time as this, and our hope that He's coming again to make everything right. Together we can celebrate Christmas this year with tears in our eyes, longing in our souls, and hope in our hearts.

I wish you a Hopeful Christmas this year. -Brin

Absences and the Wistful Christmas

Finally! Er... hello, you! Anyone out there? Please allow me to apologize profusely for my absence. Blogger decided (for over a week) that I didn't exist anymore, at least until I was able to convince them to the contrary. Login credential issues are finally fixed. Blah. Okay. We're back. And just in time for Christmas!

Ah, yes. Christmas. This one feels so strange to me. Anyone else feeling that, too? It seems like it's showing up this year as if it's uninvited. It's wistful, nearly. Subdued. As if it knows it was included at the last minute, so it's going to stand in the corner and quietly sip a drink and not make eye contact. Or maybe it's just me after the year we've had. Hello, Christmas 2015. Come on in, by all means. Let me give you a hug and introduce you around and make you comfortable so you'll stay awhile longer.

In spite of this being a financially tight year for us, I'm determined to make our first Christmas at Hedge House a calm and memorable one. So yesterday I played Christmas music and sat on the front porch and clipped branches and boxwood. Piles of branches and boxwood. Then I wired them onto a 30" wreath form and ended up with a beautiful, full wreath. For around four dollars. Hello there, wistful, budget Christmas! You look beautiful.

Today I'm baking breads (pumpkin, banana and white wheat) and playing more Christmas music and finishing up a gift for my sister and gluing clothespin ornaments. (Have you seen these? I'm all about how simple and affordable they are!) I'm being forever slow with decorating this year, but plan to have it all up and clean on Friday. Then Christmas and I can sit down catch up...

...as I hope we can, too. Thanks for sticking around and being patient in my absence.

Happy Christmastime! -Brin

Tune Up

The piano tuner is here today. He's been here for over 4 hours, striking each ivory key over and over and winding the copper strings with his tuning hammer. bing bing bing bing bing Two strings have broken, which made me almost cry because now the piano restoration guy has to come out and replace them and ouch! It's all expensive. But what a beautiful sound is coming from this old beauty already. Can't wait for carols at the spinet this Christmas.

This past week was insanely busy. One of those weeks where you realize, at dinner time, that you never got around to eating your (now soggy mush) cereal. I think we had pizza two or three nights last week. It was that non-stop. I've been looking forward to this Thanksgiving week for so long. It's time for a rest, folks. Let's take a rest.

Thank you... thank you so much... for all the Etsy orders last week. I had so much fun knitting things especially for y'all. My only regret was that the Thanksgiving cloths were so few; next year I'll do much better, I promise. And for Christmas this year, too. I'm going to be Mrs. Brinknitsalot this week. (Such a burden, right? Ha.) Last night, I made egg nog and some of my favorite cookies and watched the Holiday Baking Championship on Food Network and knitted. So relaxing! Looking forward to several similar nights this week.

How about you? Doing anything special for Thanksgiving? I hope wherever you are and whoever is around, you'll feel the peace and comfort that only God can bring. Special prayers this week for those who are missing someone. 

Sounds like the piano tuner is nearly done. Better get back in there. Have a wonderful Monday evening. -Brin

The Spirit of Thanksgiving

Come ye thankful people, come. Raise the song of harvest home. 

All is safely gathered in. Ere the winter storms begin. 

God, our Maker, doth provide.

-Henry Alford, 1844

God, our Maker, doth provide.

My heart has been humming this old tune for days. I want to tell you why. I want to tell you a story from my weekend.

On Saturday, a few folks and I stood under a huge oak tree in a downtown city park with 1,412 pairs of socks. It was the culmination of weeks of collecting socks for our city's homeless. We passed them out, pair by pair, to a steady stream of weary-looking faces. I shook hands and wrapped my arms around and looked in the eyes of as many as I could. It, like all the other times, broke my heart. 

I took a step back, mid-way through, to breathe and blink away a few tears. The last thing I wanted was for these precious people to see sadness- or worse, pity- on my face. I took a step back and looked across the park and noticed a tall, older man staring back at us. He stood, still as a statue, watching our little spectacle. I didn't know whether to be unnerved or wave. I turned back to my socks and my small crowd and quickly forgot about him.

I forgot all about him, actually, until I heard a strong, clear voice a little while later asking who was in charge. It was the tall man. He was directed toward me and suddenly, he was by my side. I'm Frank, he said softly. I'm with my grandkids in the park. We've seen what you are doing.

His voice didn't match the body it was coming out of. It was warm and melodic. He was a white-haired tower with angles and elbows. I looked up at him and nodded, and saw that he had the kindest face I've seen in a long time.

Here, he said, and pressed some wadded up bills into my hand. 

Thanks so much, but you don't have to, I replied.

We've seen what you're doing, he repeated. 

I thanked him, clumsily, and added something about the need and the people and... something. But he was already turning away, heading back up the hill to the spot where I saw him earlier. 

Again, I forgot all about Tall Man until I found the money in my pocket several hours later. I pulled it out and smoothed both crumpled bills... a large bill, and a one dollar bill. It was a strange amount to give, and I said so others.They nodded. It was strange.

Only it didn't seem so strange when I added up, later, exactly what the sock drive had cost me, personally, that day. And when I circled the total and looked at those crumpled bills, I smiled. And then I began laughing. And then I began crying...

...it was EXACTLY... rounded up to the nearest whole dollar... exactly the same amount I'd spent. 

God, our Maker, doth provide.

Money's been tight this year, what with the layoff and all. It's been incredible watching God provide... watch Him come through in a clutch... watch my account get down to $2.09 with the electric bill due and then, suddenly, a check in the mail. (Thank you, Nina.) It's been humbling and yet amazing to watch sales in my Etsy shop come through at just the right time. I think I've knit with more gratitude and hope this year than ever before.

This Thanksgiving season, there's a collage of the most beautiful pictures coming together in my brain: those tired, homeless faces. The Tall Man and his crumpled, exact gift. The piles of socks under that tree. The check in the mail. The piles of yarn that are getting knit into... provision. Beautiful provision. It isn't even Thanksgiving, and yet... it is. At my house, and in my heart, it already is.

I needed to announce my latest Thanksgiving cloths and let y'all know that there's a limited number in the shop today, but somehow I couldn't without telling you the story behind it all. The story about my weekend and my providing God. About the socks and the Tall Man. And I want you to know: I'm wishing the same for you today, and praying that the spirit of thanksgiving will find you and bless you this season, too. Whatever it looks like and whatever form it takes, I'm praying the same for you.

Thanks for being here.  -Brin

Queen of Poly and the Bird on a Dark and Nearly Storming Night

They call me the Queen of Poly. Well, okay, they don't. But they should. Because Lord have mercy, cans of polyurethane have become my most constant companions as of late.

This is a picture I took five minutes ago of the master bedroom's floor. I realize it is not a gorgeous picture. To me it is, but probably not to anyone else. You see, I spent two hours sanding this floor with a palm sander. I spent 2 hours sweeping, vacuuming, and tack clothing this floor, and another hour picking splinters out of the cracks. I spent 8.5 hours on my hands and knees staining every square inch of these 80+ year old oak floor boards. And then yesterday, I smeared coats of polyurethane over this floor until it was as smooth and shiny as a skating rink. It took all. day. Pretty picture? No. But am I showing it to you anyway? Heck yes I am.

Besides, I haven't told you the best part yet. 

It was a dark and stormy night.

Okay, fine. It was a dark and soon-to-be-stormy night. But it was really dark and the wind was picking up. And there I am, all alone in this big, empty room with my poly bucket and my poly stick. The lights are blazing in the room but outside it's night, so the huge, uncurtained windows are like black holes. They're kind of unnerving; people can see in, but I can't see out. It is quiet. I sink my poly pad into the poly bucket... pppppfffffffffttt... and watch as it soaks up poly. I try to ignore the big, black windows. I'm just about to move the poly pad to the floor and apply the final coat when suddenly...

...a bird flies at my head! I scream, throw the poly stick, and tear across that stained floor and past the black hole windows, my sock feet slipping and sliding the whole way. I run out into the hall and slam the door behind me. My heart is pounding. How in the world did a bird get in there? 

After a minute, I crack the door and peek in. I look around quickly and when I don't see the bird, I open the door wider. Maybe the blasted bird flew into the sun porch. That had to be it. Maybe if I can close the sun porch door, the bird will be trapped out there and at least I can finish my final coat of poly in here. I venture across the slick floor, eyes on the door. And I'll be danged if, halfway across the room, the bird doesn't swoop down out of nowhere and flap up beside me again!

I race back to the safety of the birdless hall. Again, I wait at the door, peeking in every few seconds to see where the blasted bird is. I crack open the door, it's on the floor in the corner. I crack the door again, moments later, and it's perched on the window sill. I crack the door yet again, and it's on the ceiling fan. And then... oh, my friends... and then, I heard it:

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! 

The bird messed all over my scarcely-dry-but-still-needing-a-final-coat of poly floor!

You all. That was almost it for me. That was almost the moment I decided to move back to Dallas, get a condo, and resume my former life. There I was in my dirty jeans, my chia pet shirt, and my slippery socks... hair wild, arms sore, and half-high on poly fumes... and a bird had just messed all over my beautiful floor. It was just too much.

My Messy, Thrilling Life Newsletter

How are you doing? Make it out of that weekend okay? Yeah, same here. Okay. Let's all just take a second, close our eyes, and take 5 deep breaths.

Better. You?

Whew. Okay. So, happy November! Can you believe it's that time again... already? If you're a subscriber to the shiny new My Messy, Thrilling Life Newsletter, than you got a LOT of me yesterday, including some never-before published photos, a November preview, a Hedge House update, some details on the new book, and a secret coupon code to the Etsy shop.

For you early subscribers, what did you think? For you folks who haven't joined us yet, please do now so you don't miss any holiday goodies! Click here to subscribe and join the party.

I have a lot on my plate today, but let's meet back here and make Perfect Pumpkin Bread tomorrow, shall we? See you then...

Y'all, it's November!  -Brin

The Nephew

My nephew is here! It's been a week of excitement and much, much joy. He's the first of the grandchildren in our family, so we all crowded the waiting room for 8 hours during his delivery. I'd do it again today. He's the most beautiful baby I think I've ever seen...

...then again, I am one biased, proud aunt.

I'm off to get some things done so I can hold a baby some more. Have a safe weekend.

Babies are such a nice way to start people.

-Don Herold