After the Rain

a birthday rooted at home

Apr 10, 2026

A good rain can make interesting things happen.

After a long stretch of drought, the first real days of rain came just before my birthday.

And with it, a small fox appeared.

No bigger than our cat, it walked up the driveway, curious, crossing that edge between woods and home. I’ve been thinking about that—how things arrive. How young foxes are bold enough to explore new ground.

I’ll never forget the morning we found one curled up on the porch couch, sleeping. We watched in excited whispers, running from window to window to catch a glimpse. It stayed all morning—comfortable, playful—climbing and hopping along a fallen tree limb in the yard.

A birthday where I could have gone anywhere—

and instead, I chose to root deeper into my home life.

And the surprise is that choice didn’t shrink my world—it expanded it.

Turning 44 this year felt different. Maybe it was Easter, or the way grief has settled into me after losing friends too young. It softens something. It makes everything feel more immediate. Precious in a way that’s hard to name.

I was sitting with the option to do whatever I wanted.

I sifted through it—not just what I wanted, but at what cost, emotionally. How I wanted to be. How I wanted to connect.

I thought about the beach. One night. I had everyone’s blessing.

But I paused. Three and a half hours each way. The kids in a phase of arguing. The reality of it.

The question shifted.

Not “what do I want,”
but “what does this require of me?”
and “how do I want to feel inside of it?”

And then I chose connection over escape.

And instead, I asked for a family garden day.

Not to build anything new—just to reclaim what had been left all winter.
Piles. Tools. The in-between space.

We cleared brush. Weeded the garden. Sowed seeds.
We bought a new fruit tree—a female native mulberry to pair with the two males already growing here.
Something that will take time.

Chap moved his things out of my self-declared “she shed.”
We opened it back up.

It felt like returning.

The kids hovered. Chappy stayed close, hauling weeds to the edge of the forest while I pulled more.
Sometimes we worked side by side—my big wheelbarrow, his little one.

We discovered a blind snake. Grasshoppers.

We ended the day on the clean-enough porch, all together.

And somewhere along the way, a running joke started—
that what I really wanted for my birthday were practical things.

So they came, one after another:
an air fryer,
a new electric toothbrush,
a wheelbarrow to replace the rusted one with holes,
a power washer since ours stopped working.

I didn’t choose any of them.

But somehow, they were exactly right.

My birthday arrived quietly in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.
No build-up, no pause, no moment that said this day is yours.

And yet—I had a quiet house.
I moved through my space without being needed every second.
I sat on a blanket under the blackjack oak, birdwatching with a sketchbook and journal.

There’s a kind of dignity in that, even if it doesn’t feel celebratory.

The red-bellied woodpecker nest is getting busier now.
We hear the babies.

I watch the parents come and go, entering the small, perfectly carved opening in the tree—no bigger than a tin can. There’s a rhythm to it. A steadiness.

I keep listening, hoping I’ll be there when they fledge—keeping a quiet watch, shooing the cat away when needed.

Life is opening here, the way it does after a good rain

Love is work. Heart-opening work.

And I find myself here—loving my people, loving this life.