I can’t describe what a joy it is to have a son. This bedroom of his speaks volumes about the person he’s becoming…if you can read the clues.

I wanted to sleep through this very grey and rainy day in Virginia last week. Instead I stared at the green of this cutting and imagined spring.

It was slippery outside this morning, too slippery to run. I made maple oatmeal scones instead. We sipped coffee and read about dinosaurs, then I retreated to the home office to begin my day.

We walked. The rivulets running across the path were choked with layers of leaves, mud and twigs, and thick, dark clumps stuck to the sides of my boots. I hugged my camera to my belly and hopped across rocks through deeper, freely running waters. They ran ahead, but I lingered at the sides of the path. Brittle mushroom skins covered a tree with brown, curling scales. I stooped to feel moss and bark. I turned to admire an empty peanut shell in a hollow. A single red berry clung to the end of a dark red, thorny stem. I heard their voices calling to me from deep within the wood. I looked up, and found that I was alone.

Happy December! I’m downloading lusselatter recipes and making lots of plans for the month. I’m also listening to **Silje Nes** obsessively.

An extremely pierced, pretty woman watched from the other side of the glass as we approached from the street. She pushed a grey button on the wall to release the door, and we walked inside **Fathom Creative**. The **instant dc** exhibit was spread out across the walls of the second floor space, and I spent the next 45 minutes geeking out over the work, entirely comprised of iPhoneography. If I didn’t have iPhone envy before, I am a hurting unit now. The second shot from the bottom is a special message painted on the bathroom wall above the toilet for those gallery visitors who stand while using the “facilities”.

This is my office away from the office. Wooden bowls on my windowsill hold treasures gathered and formed by little hands.

We have many nests in our home. They are filled with rocks, shells, eggs, toys, and husks. The cicada husk reminds me of one hot summer in Virginia when my daughter was small and the cicadas flew thick and loud. I found the fuzzy bee body on the back deck one fall morning, but I haven’t had the time to figure out its species.

This is where my children spend their days learning, only Daddy does the teaching now. They like to listen to Bach while they study. Or so I’m told.

A sign hangs at the beginning of the long driveway, but I only catch the first word, Woods, white painted letters on dark pine. We pass fenced pastures dotted with small barns and stands of tall trees, only tufts of orange and brown leaves left at their very tops, their bodies spare streaks below. The horses lift their heads as we pass. We park under an old maple and haul folding chairs, blankets, and backpacks holding flashlights and sweatshirts past the farm house and into the back yard where the gathering has started. ...