I've been feeling this urge lately to celebrate the 'turning.' As summer begins to slip into fall, I seem to focus more and more on the details. The daily celebrations of this very minute. From eating raw tomatoes standing barefoot in the garden, to pointing and catching my breath as Canadian geese fly low over our house in perfect formation.
This time of year we are balanced so precariously on the edge of a new season, and that means colors intensify, life slows down a bit (even when we're still racing from the garden, to the river, to the girls' first day of dance class). There is time to reflect.
And lately, reflection has looked a lot like celebration.
The Beaverhead County Fair is a big deal. Labor Day weekend in Dillon is a big deal. I absolutely love the fair. I love the glossy animals, the talk of harvest, the pies, the quilts, the little boys in giant straw cowboy hats. There is something so fundamental about it all. There is pride in the making, raising, growing of something useful.
And then there is the cotton candy.
We did it up right, bought bracelets for unlimited rides, and stayed until it got dark and all the lights came on.
Until next year...
The weekend was full. I sold veggies at our local farmers market, the girls and I floated the Madison with an old friend and her kids, we lined up on the median of Helena Street in Dillon with friends to watch the Labor Day Parade and catch candy in our hats. Clear cold skies alternately brought our first frost, and radiated an intense fall-blue.
Apparently, the chickens like cold, left-over spaghetti...
Our wheat has been combined and is on its way to becoming many many many loaves of bread. Mike is thinking winter wheat, which means this field may not be just stubble for long.
I took the girls on possibly the most ill-planned of hikes in my experience as a mama.
When we got to the trailhead, I realized Amelia had no shoes, only water-sock type things that are at least one size too small. Aven had poured apple juice all over her pants. As in saturated. So her pants remained spread out on the hood of my car (trying to dry) while we began our 'hike.' Of course Aven immediately fell and scraped her knee. Then did it again. And again.
What I love, though, is that later that evening, when I looked at the pictures I took, it looked like we'd had a pretty good time.
We stopped to explore a hand-hewn log cabin.
And, really, that is why I keep coming back to this space, this blog. Because when I look back on my day it is full of the most incredible string of moments. I don't see the mountains of laundry, or the diaper changes, or the times I fall short and lose my patience. I see us having a pretty damn good time.
And we do. Really. Every day.
Here's to embracing the turning; as we move through it, and as we look back on it.