Obedience sounds like an uptight, obligatory sort of word, but I know better.

God has been speaking to me about obedience over the past week as I begin to pour the foundations for my coaching business. He’s shown up in my quiet time, whispered to me through the scriptures, and spoke to me through yesterday’s Sunday sermon. He hasn’t missed an angle because he knows, sometimes, that’s what it takes to get my attention.

I know the thrill of wild obedience. I know what it feels like to move in step with the breath of the Holy Spirit when it doesn’t align with cultural norms or typical definitions of responsible behavior. I know what it’s like to quit my job…

Right now, when I look at my life, I can confidently say I have a lot to be thankful for, and I have a lot to look forward to. In some way, I think I’ve always said or at least thought these things are true, but lately, I’m leaning into fully believing them in a way I haven’t before.

It’s been a journey to get to this point. The school of life taught me this: things will go wrong, just give it time. Logically, I know this is not technically true (nor is it a healthy way to live), but past trauma gave way to this exhausting thought pattern in which I constantly found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop or for things to get worse. I’ve always called these thoughts cautious optimism, my life coach calls them limiting beliefs, but whichever term you use, one thing is for sure - these thought patterns leave room for doubt (and take up the space meant for hope).

Well, since the last time I wrote, I adopted a puppy, Mac, and that has really upended all of my routines, but my writing routine in particular. I have to reimagine how I plan my day with the consideration of another living being, and that has been hard because I’ve been a solo act for so long. He’s also been keeping me up at night as he adjusts to his new home, so I am dog-tired (pun absolutely and shamelessly intended).

However, even with this exhaustion, I heard a small voice that said, “Keep Writing.” And so I will. Perhaps the sleep deprivation has temporarily stolen some of my eloquence and focus, but I won’t let that stop me from using my voice.

Mac, a pretty adorable 1-year-old Frenchie, has definitely had a lot of adjusting to do the past few days, but he’s had the most trouble with sleeping overnight in his crate, which I understand completely. He’s in a new place, and he’s not used to sleeping alone.

The first night was the worst.

I woke up restless, fluffing my pillows and tossing and turning in vain for just over an hour, finally peeling myself from beneath my fluffy white comforter at 3:04 AM. Slowly, I made my way to my laptop, confident that there must be something I need to pour from my heart onto the page (and confident that this will make for a VERY long day for yours truly). What thoughts were keeping me awake?

Hypothesizing whodunit in the novel I’m currently reading.

Plotting a ‘down south’ vacation to outrun the winter for a bit.

Thinking about how adopting a dog is going to drastically change my life (and my bank account).

Reflecting on my purpose, and how I am (or am not) working towards it.

Wondering if I finally love myself unconditionally…

As my friend and I wound our way from Stowe, VT to Woodstock, VT in my trusty RAV-4, the trees exploded with red and yellow, growing more vibrant from moment to moment, a colorful backdrop for our conversations about life, maple syrup, and everything in between. Season of the Sticks by Noah Kahan was probably playing in the background as we switched topics to my current apartment and life in New York. Knowing me, I’m sure I shared about how much of a blessing it’s been, but I’m sure I also shared about how dark the walls were, how I was anxious about the winter, and how I didn’t want to invest too much time or money in making changes to the physical space because I wasn’t planning on staying long-term.

Then, she said something simple, but it’s been echoing ever since, “Just paint. You have to love where you live now, you know?” I couldn’t get it out of my head, and before I knew it, I was at Lowes comparing shades of white for days, and not long after that, painting, rearranging furniture, and hanging up a gallery wall.

As I opened my laptop this morning, I was vaguely aware of the wind whipping outside my window, ushering in cooler weather and soon, the season of the sticks. I’d rather be anywhere but in front of my computer writing this morning, as evidenced by the fact that I’m 30 minutes late to my ‘writing appointment’ with myself. Actually, I’d rather be curled up in my warm bed, maybe scrolling the news or finishing the last few pages of the gothic thriller I’ve been reading. However, not much happens absent of discipline, so I’m here sipping some warm lemon-ginger water from a bamboo straw and hoping something brilliant will make the long journey from my brain to my fingers and onto this page.

Before I sat down at my computer, while brushing my teeth, actually, I found myself meditating on the idea of habits. You see, I have a habit of pacing, even wandering into the next room when I brush my teeth. I assume this is a carryover from having to share a bathroom with many roommates over the years, developed from a compulsion to make room for everyone at the sink…

When I woke up this morning, the air was equal parts cool and crisp as the sun tossed golden pinks onto the clouds resting above the mountains. As it continued to rise and usher in the in cooler daytime hues, I considered my plans for the day ahead - hiking through the transforming foliage, wandering quaint streets with a dear friend, eating great food and sipping heady toppers - I couldn’t help but bask in gratitude for this life I get to live.

It’s true, not every day of my life is spent frolicking in a picturesque mountain town in Vermont or exploring the seaside cliffs in Maine, but still...when this adventure is over, I get to go home to a warm, dry house, I can fill up my fridge without worry, I am paid fairly to do meaningful work, and I have so many people, near and far, who deeply love and care for me. There are people in the world who dream of a life like mine, even the everyday parts (and of course the adventurous, picturesque parts, too).

Some days you wake up knowing you are exactly where you are meant to be.

For me, today is that day. I’m being hosted somewhere on the coast of Maine by an artist with a brain like fireworks, a penchant for undulating storytelling, and a heart that hopes and loves and holds her guests with relaxed tenderness. Her dark-rimmed glasses don’t wear her like they do some people, she wears them, and when she shared her age with me, I was left wondering if it’s her Italian genetics or her coastal lifestyle that keep her looking so young (she still swims in the Maine ocean in November because it makes her feel alive. Impressive, right?).

Last night, she invited me over to her side of the house, and we drank freshly brewed peppermint tea from oversized mugs her hands spun into existence. Those same hands tapped on the table to make a point and waved in the air as she waxed both poetic and commonplace about life, God, and any number of things. She listened attentively and shared her well-earned wisdom liberally. She’s the kind of woman you want to know; what a blessing to stumble upon someone like that from an Airbnb listing.

I’ve always had a thing for Italy. Perhaps it’s because it was my first international trip or because of the rumors of my “maybe” Italian heritage. It’s strange, but even seeing a picture of a piazza or watching a movie set in Rome prickles my skin and brings tears to my eyes. Yes, actual tears.

I’m not sure what to make of it, really - is it time for a vacation? Should I drop everything and move to Italy or just drink a proper cappuccino and eat a cornetto al cioccolato? One thing I know is this: it has me remembering the first essay I was ever inspired to write.

Twenty-nine-year-old Mia of 2016 submitted this essay as her best work, knowing next-to-nothing about how her life would shift. Admittedly, there’s so much I would change about the way I wrote this essay now that I’ve been writing for a while -  proof that practice makes progress - but on the other hand, I’m a big believer in humble beginnings and honoring where I came from, which means I can’t change a word of it.

Now that my tendonitis is finally on the mend, I’ve found both my legs and my mind wandering on longer and longer walks.

My legs carry me around the lake, cool mist clinging to its surface as the sun starts its daily game of peek-a-boo over the hills and through the trees, my mind carrying me into deep thoughts and conversations about politics, religion, pollution, the food industry - anything, really, to help me make sense of the world.

Other times, these legs ramble up a (very steep) hill in the evening as the golden light filters through the trees, both things leaving me breathless, and in between swatting at the flies, my mind rambles from dream to dream - love, writing, home ownership, and on and on…

About a month ago, I took a walk around a nearby lake - it’s man-made, a dam built after a flood devastated the area in 1935. I remember noticing the submerged grills and parking spots as I began my walk around that day. I’m told this happens often in the spring, and even though the water was greeting the path in a few small areas, I didn’t worry because I could still easily make my way around its intrusion and rain was still a few hours away.

The route I took was about 5 miles in total, and towards the middle, I stopped to rest on a bench - I have tendonitis in my right foot, so breaks like these are frequent lately. I wrote a haiku and sat in the presence of God for a while, waiting for the pain to subside, watching the surface of the lake ripple in the growing wind, the birds making family plans, the trees waiting for their promised leaves, and the clouds expanding in the sky. I breathed deeply in creation, as creation, and I prayed about what’s next, reflecting on how every possible path produces a strange combination of fear and elation…

I’m out of practice.

This little cursor has grown intimidating in my absence. Blinking, waiting, maybe, for me to close the laptop and walk away altogether, as is my latest habit, but something even more persistent is rising up in me. Ferocious, even.

“Keep going,” it says.

And so I will, not perfectly, but purposefully.

Five months have passed since my last blog, and I have to admit I’ve thought of you (my reader) often. There were many days I felt like I was failing you by not showing up, but I’d like to be honest with you about why I’ve been hidden…

On Sunday morning, I woke up late, which is unusual for me, and I was scrambling to get to church on time, juggling ice packs and freezer bags and a bible and too many other things, like my green smoothie. Setting my breakfast and my purse in the trunk of my car, I pulled the freezer bag off my shoulder, and BAM, smoothie went flying all over the trunk. Did I mention it was raining and the muddy ground sucked my foot into a puddle…in sandals? After breaking the hose nozzle and executing a hasty clean up with a promise to clean it better once I got home, I threw the dirty towels over the railing in the rain and hurried to church where I was looking forward to encountering God and getting my bungle of a morning back on track.

Then, I showed up tardy to a sermon where a panel of married couples sat side-by-side in a neat row on stage to talk about their relationships. Immediately, I let out a sigh and rolled my eyes while thinking, “Oh great, people shoving marriage into the face of a 33-year-old woman who hasn't had a date in years. Why did I rush to get here?” Seems unduly dramatic, but that was my honest thought, probably because I hadn’t eaten and I was sure my car would smell like a compost bin by the end of the day. However, as they shared their stories, I found myself in tears for more than one reason. More on that shortly.

Sunday morning, I woke up early to watch the Rhode Island sunrise - I brewed some lemon ginger tea, pulled my sweater over my head, and drove to Brenton Point State Park for a slow morning of gratitude. Waves crashed against the breakers as the twilight sky caught fire and welcomed a new day. And as the light caught the distant parts of the sea, I saw three kayakers watching the sunrise from the water. Next time, I told myself.

Every day is a holiday. Every meal is a feast.

I’m not sure where I heard this first, but a quick internet search turns up a lot of information about the US Marines, so we can credit them with this simplistic but brilliant ideology that makes me get excited about the rest of their day. I’m not sure if I take the same thing from this saying as a US Marine, but it’s a reminder for me to appreciate the small things and seek out relationships and experiences that matter. If they let me add to their mantra, I’d go further to say, every moment is a miracle, a gift, even.

Yesterday evening, I set out for a walk while it was still sprinkling. It was unusually hot as evidenced by the way steam hung near the road, and I was glad to be walking in the thick, familiar haze. If I closed my eyes, I could have convinced myself it was a humid summer morning at Overton Park (my Memphis park, which I miss dearly).

There was something unsavory about my walk, though…the flies.

Circling my head, getting stuck in my hair, and generally just making me angry. I swatted at them, I ran from them, and I even tried to pray them away - the ultimate mark of piety (kidding). Unless I was swatting constantly - I'm talking non-stop, flailing, wild-woman, arms-only gymnastics - they would land on my head once again. So smug and unbothered.

The scent of evergreen danced on the breeze as I walked to the shoreline with my aunt, my lavender latte in tow. We paused for a moment, drinking in our surroundings, before resuming our stroll along the path, opting for the longer way home. Chatting in between sips, I found myself remarking on the stillness and beauty of nature; I found myself falling in love with this little Adirondack town. 

When I was at the coffee shop, I noticed a Balsam Fir scented candle, which was named “shinrin-yoku” - a Japanese therapy that we translate as “forest bathing” or simply spending time in the forest, ambling, using every sense to notice and soak in nature. There’s been a great deal of research done on shinrin-yoku, but I’ll sum it up for you here: it works. Though this walk with my latte wasn’t a true forest bath, I could already feel the benefits of a life that takes intermissions to notice and wander through creation. We were designed to live close to the earth, but modern life has us spending most of our days indoors or staring at screens, so it’s no wonder that time in the forest leaves me with peaceful energy I can’t seem to find in my little apartment.

We live in a noisy world - literally noisy, yes, like the leaf blower that has been raging non-stop for about 30 minutes - but also the kind of noisy where we are being continually peppered with people’s opinions or products we should buy. Or by a child who keeps bringing you pretend cookies while you are trying to write a blog because she wants to play with you (I’m on my third one, and I’ve taken to calling them sandbox cookies because that’s where they keep coming from). She also has plans to feed my horses, make me a fish dinner, and get me a tablet for my birthday. What a dream.

I don’t mind that kind of noise because I am created to love, and sweet little girls like her deserve my love and attention every single time. To be honest, it’s some of the other bombardment that I could do without, but it’s rare I get to choose whether or not people share their opinions with me (or choose my ads without first being spied on by a tech company). Everyone in the world has something to say, and filtering everyone else’s “important” can be a little confusing at best or exhausting at worst. 

When everything is important, is anything actually important?

If you feed it, it will grow.

I’ve been thinking about this concept a lot lately along with its converse - what you starve will die. You’ve likely heard it before - it’s been in countless books, podcasts, and sermons, but nonetheless, it hit me differently recently, and I’ll tell you why.

I have a succulent I’ve been trying to revive since I moved to New York (it took a tumble in the car on the way here and was never the same). This particular succulent was given to me by a sweet friend during a really hard life season, so it was special to me. Despite my efforts, it never stopped looking, well, pathetic. That’s why, last month, I decided to let it go. I left Steve (yes, I named him, mind ya business, lol) to wither in the corner of my bedroom. Slowly, leaves dropped, one by one, starting with the largest at the bottom, until there were just a few tiny leaves left at the tippy-top. Those eventually dried up, too.

Since moving out to the country, I’ve been spending more time sowing seeds and caring for plants, and I’ve noticed I expect dramatic overnight change when in reality, the plants sprout and grow both slowly and methodically when tended day after day. If I leave them to their own devices for too long (which I’ve also done), they wither and wilt, requiring extra time and care to nurse back to health. The fact that the New York spring has been significantly colder than expected for this former Tennessean has presented unique challenges as well, and I’ve been initiated into the club of moving my plants back and forth from the outdoors to my living room on cold nights.

Did I plant my seeds too early?

Is the season just late in arriving?

Tomato, to-mah-to.

I don’t know enough to tell which is true because this is new territory for me, but the effort required is the same. No matter what started it, if I want a harvest, I have to show up and be gritty and get some dirt under my nails…

Bright sunflowers sprawled happily across the white walls of the parking garage — a mural, one of many I saw in Ithaca this weekend. My cousins and I slowed to smile at its beauty for a moment. I found myself admiring the way the sunflowers crept over the edges of the wall to carry their light into the shadows of the stairwell when one of my cousins turned and said, “To me, you are the color yellow.”

Three separate people have told me that recently.

Not sure about you, but when I think of yellow, I picture joy, vibrance, laughter, sunshine, and other things that tend to inspire delight in the hearts of humans. As you can imagine, I take being likened to the color yellow as a compliment because of this. Admittedly, I know I haven’t always been yellow. There are times in my life where people may have described me as red or gray or blue, but, likely out of kindness, they never did.

In fact, I wasn’t a color at all until I was yellow.