Author: wholewovenhome

Full Wolf Moon Missive | A Winter Letter from Home

Leave a Comment on Full Wolf Moon Missive | A Winter Letter from Home

January, somewhere in early twenty twenty three.

Hello old friends. I’ve been lying fallow, much like this winter season, mostly in bed resting from illness, and I am seeing clearly now what a gift I have been given, to restore my body + mind in this way. It has allowed me to sink deep into the gestation of this new year’s arrival, and reflect on the past year gone by. I told a friend almost one year ago that I felt like I was caught between corridors- that I could clearly see both behind + in front of me, but was unable to pass through. I can’t say that I don’t still feel like the horizon has a thick fog of not knowing, but I do know now that it isn’t fear that has me approaching slowly; rather the clarity of intention gently holding my hand. It’s taken an immeasurable amount of destruction to let the pieces of what I thought were important in this life fall away to make room for the creation of those that truly are. I recently came across a book whose words have been reverberating in the very crevices of my heart.

“Silence is a practice of emptying, of letting go. It is a process of hollowing ourselves out so we can open to what is emerging. Our work is to make ourselves receptive. The organ of receiving is the human heart, and it is here that we feel the deep ache of loss, the bittersweet reminders of all that we loved, the piercing artifacts of betrayal, and the sheer truth of impermanence. Love and loss, as we know so well, forever entwined.” | Francis Weller, The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief

So, I am here, emptying, and choosing very intentionally the ways in which I caretake to foster emergence. Many, many trips to the library to find silence in reading, sunrise hikes to explore the beauty of the world before it wakes, pressing my ear to the hive to feel + hear the life the honeybees are vigorously keeping inside, gathering for “Tea Parties” with my motherhood community, playing in the snow and out on the frozen pond, watching kingfishers + eagles hunt along the banks of the river, daydreaming of florals, and inhaling each day of this precious, simple life. It’s been quite grey here this week, but we’ll step out tonight to howl up at this Full Wolf Moon, and maybe you will too.

If you are also feeling deeply into the regenerative nature of this season upon us and inviting creation + inspiration in, I’d love to share a few of the things that have been bringing me peace + warmth these days.

Books: The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief by Francis Weller, Wintering, the Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May, Sacred Instructions, Indigenous Wisdom for Living Spirit Based Change by Sherri L Mitchell, 10 Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now by Jaron Lanier

Podcasts: For the Wild: Tricia Hersey on Deprogramming from Grind Culture, Poetry Unbound S6 E21 Victoria Adukwei Bulley- Not Quiet as In Quiet But, Once Upon A Goddess- Kali- The Hindu Warrior, 70 Over 70 “We Need to Make Time” with Alice Waters

Recipes: Creamy White Beans and Greens from Amy Chaplin’s Whole Food Cooking Everyday, Savory Herbal Biscuits from Gardening for Everyone by Julia Watkins, Instant Pot Spicy White Bean Beef Stew from Half Baked Harvest

I also want to share that it has brought me so much joy to connect with some of you via text messaging and even tea time FaceTime dates. If you’d like to connect through e-mail or snail mail or any of these more analog ways, please do! Happy Wintering, folks. I wish you restorative rest, warmth, and joy in your days.

In gratitude,

Holly

Chai Spiced Apple Pie in a Jar | An Autumn Recipe

Leave a Comment on Chai Spiced Apple Pie in a Jar | An Autumn Recipe

One of our favorite early autumn indicators is watching the trees begin to hang heavy with the weight of the approaching season, specks of greens + reds + yellows dotting the orchard’s edge as we approach the winding drive of our favorite local farm. The children haul their baskets, eager to have them filled with newly ripe varieties each week. They each pick one to taste and then offer the cores to the goats, who climb eagerly along the fence by the big barn. Though most of them get packed for school lunch or just to snack, occasionally we’ll save enough to make a seasonal treat. This is is a new favorite, developed in a collaboration I did this season with Weck Jars and it’s no bake, which might be my favorite part. Bonus, the apple pie filling can be doubled to preserve for pies or a warm midwinter treat.

Chai Spiced Apple Pie in a Jar

You’ll Need:

  • chai spiced apple pie filling (recipe below) 
  • graham crackers, lightly crumbled (1-2 per jar)
  • whipped cream
  • 8-10 cups peeled, cored, sliced apples
  • 2 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 1/2 cup brown sugar
  • 1/2 cup granulated sugar
  • 1/4 cup all purpose flour
  • 1.5 cups water
  • 2 tsp cinnamon
  • 1 tsp cardamom
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/2 tsp nutmeg
  • 1/2 tsp ginger powder
  • 1/8 tsp black pepper
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract

Directions:

1. Prepare apples in a bowl with lemon juice to keep from browning.

2. In a large saucepot over medium heat, whisk together sugars, flour, water, spices and vanilla and bring to a boil. Add apple mixture and simmer until apples are soft. Allow to completely cool.

3. In a 220ml tulip Weck® jar, layer crumbled graham crackers, 1/4 cup chai spiced apple pie filling, and whipped cream until the jar is full. Cover and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight to soften graham crackers.

Get new recipes delivered to your inbox.

Among the Sunflowers: A Late Summer Letter from Home

1 Comment on Among the Sunflowers: A Late Summer Letter from Home

We’ve been greeted by Leo season with an abundance of pale yellow buttery blooms along our sunflower wall, which has become a favorite ritual of our growing season. We flow between the hot, humid sun overhead in the garden and the reprieve of the brand new air conditioning we received, a potent medicine for summer sleeping especially. I have been feeling guilty lately that the television has been on, that our dinners are simple, that I am feeling tired. Truth be told, I’ve been giving my energy to things, and people, that sorely don’t deserve them. And maybe its because we are at the end of a nearly week long stretch where we didn’t leave the house because both children haven’t been feeling well, or maybe the moon in cancer is hitting me in the fixed sign feels, but I have been aching more than ever for physical community. A friend stopped over today with both hands full of garden gifts; bags of gooseberries for Bodhi and Fern, and a large colander of currants for me. And between those currants given with love and her hug, it was a medicine I’d needed. Friends, my only offering to you for this season is not a thing at all. Rather, it’s a wish.

Remain soft. You need not fight fire with fire. If there are flames inside of you, fan them with creativity, ecstasy + joy. You are free to show up wholly as yourself- no one will ever be all of the beautiful, shiny bits of you. Let storytelling be a medicine. Appreciate the intimacy of connection and support. Know the power of words and use them as a balm, so long as they are the truth. Spend more time in the analog world. Preserve the hours of your days like a coveted jar of summer jam. Find a circle of people who love unconditionally and dance together in the golden light of summer, among the sunflowers.

In gratitude + connectedness,

Holly 

When Things Fall Apart

Leave a Comment on When Things Fall Apart

For the past month or so it has felt like I’ve been pieces of an heirloom china set teetering on the edge of a kitchen shelf, and this week I came crashing down, gold rimmed bits scattering in shards at the floor. I haven’t been picked up yet. In fact, I’m not entirely sure if I will. Friends I’m writing you from the front porch with a glass of red, a story to share because I’m afraid if I don’t, it will grow and twist inside by body like a wild grapevine up an unsuspecting poplar.

In April we found out that we wouldn’t be able to build our home that we recently had designed; building prices coupled with recently risen interest rates and the fact that we are currently a one income household solidified that we’d need to wait for something to give. We were angry. We grieved. We felt defeated. On the night of our wedding anniversary Michael told me that he felt as though the universe were putting this obstacle in our path for a reason, perhaps a map of sorts to aid in finding where we were truly meant to be. I am still tightly holding to the hope that this is part of our future. In the following weeks I could feel my body begin to soften into peace and I began to question how I value contentedness. A dear friend told me that she felt society had never led us to feel that content was a necessary part of the human experience. That capitalism fueled by scarcity thinking needed us to always feel that need for more, for that thing that would make us happy. And I can tell you I haven’t stopped thinking about that since. Clinging to the albeit late arrival of spring, I was looking forward to finally ridding ourselves of what seemed like a season of runny noses, and we went from freezing rain to August heat in a span of days. The tulips burst at the seams, stamen dancing in the breeze as the petals clung desperately to the stems. The narcissus weren’t far behind, but I wouldn’t be home to greet the musky scent of my favorite springtime friend, the Sir Winston Churchill double bloomer.

On Monday of last week I called the doctor for our youngest, who had spiked a fever and was complaining of a sore neck. Thirty six hours later we had already stayed one night at Children’s Hospital and I held my two year old as she began to shake and turn blue in my arms. Saturday we’d arrived home, and I can tell you that the last week has been a whirlwind of emotional exhaustion and perspective. Fern is doing well, in fact I still cannot quite comprehend the bravery that both of my children displayed last week, and tonight we had our first after dinner dance party since we’ve been reunited. I finally breathed out and watched them jump + dance on the bedroom floor, banging wooden blocks on one another as drum sticks. It was glorious. But while we were in that hospital room, barely holding it together watching the hell endured by Fern’s tiny little body, my head went dark places. Places I never thought I’d fathom, and I was begging the universe for no more lessons. It had all fallen apart. Then I watched my children hug each other on the front stoop when we returned from the hospital yesterday and my eyes have barely dried up since. It isn’t about building a new house, it isn’t about our best laid plans, it isn’t about the aesthetic, it isn’t even about our health. It’s about the joy. It’s about the presence. It’s about the love of folks who believe you deserve repair you when you’ve shattered into pieces on the floor.

Our beautiful community of family + chosen family delivered groceries, did laundry, brought coffee, and held space. Prayers were said, spells were cast, and I am sure I can’t comprehend the rippling of healing thoughts that went out into the universe for my little Fernie. I am forever indebted. But I am glad for it, because without it I wouldn’t have been able to see the importance of moving on. There are so many things not for me in this life, and I am leaning into trusting that when they are, I will receive them. I am letting go of the encumbrance of carrying weight that isn’t mine. No longer letting anyone distract me or take the worth from experiencing the joy of being present for the moments that matter most. Early morning snuggles while the sun creeps across the bedroom floor, tiny pockets full of treasures from family walks, loads of giggles + silly laughter, more photos of children instead of things, and moments held each day to reflect the gratitude for it all. Including my shift of perspective for the everyday moments of time we weave together, even when things fall apart.

Somewhere in March | A Spring Epistle

Leave a Comment on Somewhere in March | A Spring Epistle

The scent of lavender laced smoke encircles the kitchen as tiny feet dash by, pushing eagerly through the screen door. For me, this is the spiritual practice; the presence to recognize the profound beauty and energy of these moments in time. We weave our days with both chores + play, though the chores often feel like play when we are working under the warm spring sun. We delight in counting robins, seeing a nesting pair of sandhill cranes searching for food near where our home will be hopefully be erected later this year, and stop to listen inquisitively to the merl of red winged blackbirds announcing their arrival. There is much to plan and do in this shifting season, hundreds of sapling as well as honeybees arriving soon, tiny pieces of a larger puzzle of our humble farmstead dreams. We send seeds in the post to friends, and have begun to fill trays with our own flower and vegetable seedlings for this years’ garden, my motherhood leg up on rainy days that keep us all about our wits and off the walls. Much of my time and attention has been focused on living joyfully in these days, the excitement of the children alone fills me dawn until dusk. Where one curiosity falls fallow another eagerly takes its first breaths of life. It is here that a deep reverence has evolved for my sense of sound, a medicine I had no idea I yearned for so deeply. Birdsong, the wind traveling around + through the poplars, the sound of stillness. It makes the world feel soft, infinite. It reminds me that I am home, wholly alive in my body.

I watch as the children throw rocks into muddy puddles, becoming a swirling driveway toward the pond. It feels terrifying and vulnerable to share any of it- the plans, the spaces, the love + interdependence, it feels like somehow estranged energy will envelope it in shadows and the worth of it will slip away. There has been a lot over the last few years that has fallen apart so that it can begin to come together again, and I am learning to embrace this way of surrender. If you hold something too close you risk smothering it, so sharing feels like giving this future existence a bit of oxygen in hopes that it will burst aflame. Paper photographs + palettes + textile samples that have been collecting in a basket, an effort to decipher what aesthetic feels good versus what everyone else’s looks like. Be wary of what is commodified and sold as both truth and joy, friends. It was a long winter of needed hibernation + rest, a cultivation of what’s to come, trusting that deep roots are what grounds us steadfastly to the Earth. I am so grateful to those of you who hold me in your hearts in friendship + reciprocity. I am guided by this love every day. I have been drawn mostly to my physical day to day amidst all of the happenings, and would invite you to drop your email into my Letters from Home journal subscription as a sure means to keep in touch for now. It feels as though an integration of sorts is nearing the horizon and I am certain that this time is between spaces, a doorway that I am wholeheartedly standing in with curiosity + anticipation. I wish you all peace and renewal in these emerging days.

In gratitude + connectedness, 

Holly

Go back

Your message has been sent

Indoor Floral Bulbs / A Growing Ritual for the Winter Months

Leave a Comment on Indoor Floral Bulbs / A Growing Ritual for the Winter Months

To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

The autumn is fading and we have begun our descent into the darkest months of the year, a time when we embrace a slumber of restorative rest. The children have declared it cocoa season as they bustle from outdoor play to indoor handwork like rolling beeswax candles and wool felting. And while we are missing simple rituals such as gathering by the hearth, we are dreaming + designing the coziest spaces for our future home while we continue traditions like planting paperwhite bulbs to coax indoors for a winter solstice bloom. By now, the garden beds have been put to rest and we miss the work of growing + tending, so this is a beautiful way to get our hands in the dirt. This year we’ve opted for the Ariel Narcissus, a variety of paperwhite, which you should readily be able to find at your local garden center. This tutorial is for starting indoor bulbs in soil, though you can also grow in water, in which case you’ll want to add rocks to the bottom of your jar for the bulb to rest on. There are several other bulb options such as amaryllis or hyacinth if you’d like, too. We love to pick up extra bulbs to plant in recycled jars as gifts for teachers, mail carriers, or neighbors + friends.

So I brewed the children and I a pot of chamomile tea, laid our soil and bulbs out across the table, and dug in. As we nestled bulbs into their places, crowding them ever so slightly for a truly spectacular show, we whisper spells of sunshine filled days in the windowsill until we wake one late December morning to the scent of musky floral blooms. A magic which happens nearly overnight. And we will be reminded that while the winter world sleeps, the light is beginning to return, and we too will awaken with the pulse of the earth. (Paperwhites will bloom about four to six weeks from being planted.) As we embark on the journey into the winter season, I am wishing you introspection + rest, folks. I hope you enjoy this simple winter ritual as much as we do!

In gratitude + kindredness,

Holly

What You’ll Need:

  • Indoor Bulbs
  • Container that will allow root growth at least 3-4 inches deep, preferably with drainage
  • Potting Soil
  • Water

Planting Instructions:

Fill container with potting soil at least 3-4 inches deep. Nestle the bulb(s) snuggly and fill with additional soil need be, so the top one third of the bulb is exposed. Water soil to keep moist, but not wet. Place in a location with plenty of sunlight.

Change Is In The Air/ An Autumn Letter

1 Comment on Change Is In The Air/ An Autumn Letter

Year after year, I welcome the Autumn season with alacrity, the wind blows in a crisp morning air that begs for unearthing our woolen wardrobes and settling into rituals like warm morning coffee by candlelight. This past week has felt no different. We hesitantly trade our bare feet for thick socks to keep us warm from the cold and creaky wooden floors, and prepare our home for the hibernation of the colder months, shelves lined with jars of the summer months, preserved. I spent the better part of two whole days earlier this week digging trenches, planting bulbs full of hope for the rebirth and renewal of spring. Without words, I can see that Michael doesn’t quite understand the labor of love that these florals bring- meeting the snowdrops under the trees, watching the crocus fight their way to the sunlight, a kind of resiliency that I relate to so deeply after the long darkness of the winter season. It really is medicine in those early days. And it seems this week that these rituals stirred up a very stagnant part of me, feelings so visceral that they poured out in the sweat that dripped down my forehead and soaked my feet in my boots. As I dug I unearthed rich, black soil and resentment, an abundance of earthworms and grief, all laying openly at my feet, uprooted and exposed. Exhausted and determined, bulb by bulb, I buried it all into the ground. Not to run from it, but rather to nurture it. Change is in the air. On this full moon in Aries, I am embodying the restoration + patience necessary for the growth, like the autumn bulbs. To understand that it is all a part of the beautiful process of learning and unlearning, and let the rhythms of the Earth hold my hand. I am carrying that patience with me into the broader dreams of our future home space.

I took a photo of the children climbing on a pile of rocks, the future of a driveway, the backdrop a large hill overlooking a pond and a great big grandfather oak tree, where we’re designing the plans for a house to be built, dreams we’ve been holding so close and dear, which are beginning to emerge. When we talk as a family about this blank canvas of land that we are so fortunate to steward, we see many varied pieces of the same dream. Michael sees a house full of bright, natural light and raw materials, Bodhi sees a pasture with a long horned cow and a tractor, Fern talks about chickens, chickens, and more chickens, and I see a large space to grow- a forest garden, livestock, and ourselves as the years go on. It is easy to get swept up in what we think we need to be happy in this life, the voice of capitalism echoes between our ears at a deafening tone if we let it. I oscillate between cynicism and awareness, learning to see things and people as they are. And each time I find myself between the waves of ‘enough’ I am led home by the people who remind me that the dream in our hearts is simply a safe place to cultivate our joy + our authenticity, our interdependence. I am leaning into the gratitude if it all.

All of this to say, I am here, soaking in the extraordinariness of the autumn season, checking off the list of preparations for the winter months ahead, and wishing you all joy in the remainder of these days. I’d love to hear what projects you are holding dear right now, and what lessons you are learning from them. Please share in the comments if you are feeling called! This dialogue of community and collectiveness fills my cup.

In gratitude and connectedness,

Holly

Zucchini Baked Oatmeal: An Ode to the High Summer Garden

Leave a Comment on Zucchini Baked Oatmeal: An Ode to the High Summer Garden

Zucchini Baked Oatmeal

  • 2 large eggs
  • 2 tablespoons maple syrup or honey
  • 1/2 cup creamy nut butter
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 1/2 cups milk (I like oat milk for this)
  • 2 cups old fashioned rolled oats
  • 1 cup shredded zucchini, moisture squeezed out
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • adds ins: mini chocolate chips, toasted nuts, seeds, shredded coconut

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350º and grease a 9×9 inch pan. In a large bowl whisk maple syrup/honey, nut butter, egg, vanilla extract and milk until combined. Stir in oats, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Then gently fold in shredded zucchini and any add ins you’d like to use. Spread evenly into baking pan and sprinkle a few more add ins on top. Bake about 30 minutes or until oatmeal is set and golden.

We enjoy our baked oatmeal served in a bowl with a bit of warm milk.

Leading Home Our Internal Selves: Practices in Somatic Movement

Leave a Comment on Leading Home Our Internal Selves: Practices in Somatic Movement

“Let your body call you back into yourself, into your most deeply embodied self. Land, dive, soar. Find the crumbs that lead back home.”

Cheryl Pallant

Pause. What do you notice? Your breath? Are there parts of your physical body that you can feel are tense? When our autonomic nervous systems are overloaded and our bodies engage in fight, flight, or freeze response, our physical body carries the weight of our internal selves. Have you ever been able to feel this distress? What does your body feel like? When you can acknowledge that your body is protecting you from pain, emotions, or trauma you can begin to embody the response. I began doing this simply by being aware of what my body felt like in times when I was triggered by trauma, stress, or overwhelm. I am able to become aware of how it is responding physcially, and then incorporate intentional movement to reset. I can tell you firmly, that one of the most effective practices that I have found help me in these moments of regulation is connection. Leaning into a nurturing relationship, whether it be a friend, partner, or collective aids in activating the vagus nerve. I have been enjoying learning the multitudes of practices that do this. I’ll share a couple of them here, which have held me in my own ritual of grounding my internal self back into my physical body.

Somatic Eye Movement. Either sit upright with your shoulders straight or lie down on your back with your hips directly under you. Take deep even breaths, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth. Choose a place to fix your gaze (either straight ahead or straight up depending on how you chose to position yourself) and look with only your eyes to the left as far as you can, holding for 30 seconds, then relax your gaze. Repeat, but this time with your right eye. Relax your gaze. What you might notice during this practice is an involuntary movement in the form of a sneeze, a cough, twitch, etc… this is completely normal. This is a physical response to your vagus nerve activating. You can do this in multiple sets if you choose, but I would suggest if this is a new practice to you, simply starting with each eye.

Body Awareness. When you begin to tune into the distress calls of your nervous system, simple physical relaxation of your body may be helpful. Find a quiet place and sit comfortably or lie. Begin to notice each breath in and out. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. Then, moving from your crown to your root, relax your muscles. Unclench your jaw, let your shoulders drop, open your fists, feel your chest as each breath makes it rise and fall. Imagine that you are rooting deep into the earth, like a seed that has just been planted. Allow your hips, then your feet, to sink deeper and deeper. Return to your breath. Do you feel more grounded?

I also enjoy walks in nature, especially the midwest prairie in this season, and writing or journaling as a form of identifying what I may be sitting with. What practices do you enjoy for embodying your internal self?