the meaningful glow: a weekly archive

undammable songs and hip-sway music, gratitude for an oak leaf, Crossing to Safety, and creamy sausage and tomato soup.

---

Above is an audio recording of the content for those of you with busy lives, a preference for a voice rather than text, or children underfoot. In the next week or two, I will be setting up a little space to do this with a more professional sound. Until then, I thank you for your patience with my phone’s audio and the occasional background noise of cute but chaotic children.

There are weeks I am full of energy and feel as though I could tackle any task thrown my way. I choose clothes I like because they are pretty and stretchy - not just stretchy. Closets are organized well enough for a Netflix special. My ocean blue Dutch oven fills the afternoon air with comforting aromas of simmering onions, tomatoes, chicken and its broth, a future hug for our bellies. French bread rises in the oven for little hands to demand a slab of butter upon and, seconds later, rapidly devour. (My husband and I are generally lucky to get in for a slice.) The kids play happily together somewhere or other in the house with occasional frustrated shouts — an eyebrow is raised, wondering if I need to intervene. Relieved, deciding I in fact do not, an earbud is replaced and I return to the latest on the Dashwood sisters.

I love those weeks.

Then there are the others. Dinner is hardly a thought until 5:00pm when I hastily boil a pot of water for boxed macaroni and cheese with a microwavable bag of frozen broccoli. Laundry may have been started at some point in the day, but has been neglected in the washer for so long that it only makes sense to add the rest of the day’s items to it and run it again. I can’t remember the last time I mopped my kitchen floor, or when we cleaned the oven, or replaced that broken something or other. My garden is full of pine straw, rotting leaves, and promises of the seed catalog I wish I had the time to sit and peruse — preferably by a roaring stone fireplace, glass of red wine in hand, please and thank you.

Though I am often a frantic human with three younglings underfoot at all hours, I often feel more like the solitary bird in Kathleen Jamie’s poem. Or at least I would very much like to be. Someone who, despite it all, finds a way to fling my voice through the murky depths into the stars above.

If my thoughts begin to wonder toward my escapism daydream (living in a cabin alone in the woods with no one for company but my Irish wolfhound appropriately named Seamus) I know I am approaching my, as Kate Winslet would say low point. Burnout. Undeniable overwhelm. An introvert’s need for the recharge that only solitude can bring. Or, maybe, simply a good night of sleep.

---

Throughout my life I have been prone to bouts of intense feelings to the point of needing to go home and let myself be with them. I try to ignore it, brush them off, or push through, and am met with teary eyes and a heart that is too heavy for my body. It happened this week on a playdate at our local aquarium. I felt surly and weepy, and I didn’t complete the scavenger hunt that should have won my child a little prize at the end. I threw up my hands in feelings of exasperated, failure of human-ing angst and woe, and left.

I wonder what is my undammable song? Likely it is wrung from the places I so often neglect in favor of productivity, or screens, or to do lists, or “I’ll tend to my own needs later” mindset engraved into my bones since childhood.

I am weary of wringing things out.

Instead, I find that I crave a surrendering. A letting go of the things, or people, that make me feel bad. Letting my grey hairs grow in, or dyeing my hair because it’s fun. Looking for clothes that are an expression of my inner self and bring me joy to wear instead of always and forever leggings + sweats. (Though goodness I deeply love leggings and sweats.) Eating real butter minus the worry about it going right to my ass. Listening to the music where my hips start to sway and I dance around the house, making my children laugh and my husband grin at the glimpses of 10 years ago me.

Finding the woman I catch glimpses of, the version of myself who tells me, “It’s about time”, and pulls me into her tender, confident arms.

If you could surrender something, or a few things, what would that look like? Feel free to reply to this email, comment below, or use it as a journaling prompt. I would love to hear from you.

---

---

life with littles

This week was full of simple joys. Time in the sandbox. A playdate in my childhood friend’s backyard, mud and trucks everywhere, not to mention chickens. Noticing small moments of bravery emerge from my kids. Walks to the park. Baking together, even though they were mostly in it for the M&Ms. Learning to stay still enough for the birds to visit our feeder. Finding giant acorns. Dreaming up fairy houses for the backyard. My oldest pressing his face into a giant oak leaf.

He did this for several minutes, and I wish I could hear what was going through his mind. I couldn’t help but think of Anne of Green Gables and her passionate zeal for nature. If it were me in this photograph, I would be inhaling the stories it carried, imagining the tree of its origin. The leaf would be thanked for all it gave, and set down again with the earth.

He smiled up at me, and set it into the grass. Before I knew it my often quiet, hesitant child was running at full speed, joyfully whooping, down the sidewalk.

I smile.

I thank the leaf.

---

reading/listening/learning

Lately I am revisiting some poetry and essay volumes of Mary Oliver’s, including Upstream. So many of her words stay with me, and currently it's this sentence: “Attention is the beginning of devotion.” Reminding myself to be present, both to my family and to myself, is a frequent thread in my days. I would love to hear about the things that ground you in moments of anxiety, overwhelm, or perhaps your everyday rhythms.

I also picked up a book to reread, Wallace Stegner’s Crossing To Safety. It follows the lives of two couples who move between Vermont and Wisconsin, and the moments that comprise of the love, challenges, and empathy that comes with adult friendship and marriage. It was a book I hadn’t heard of and couldn’t put down once I started. The characters have stayed with me and I look forward to visiting them again.

“Is it compulsory to be one of the immortals? We're all decent godless people, Hallie. Let's not be too hard on each other if we don't set the world afire. There's already been enough of that.”
― Wallace Stegner, Crossing to Safety

Finally, the kids and I have been loving this live recording of Regina Spektor’s Eet, and have been dancing around the living room (and backyard) to it for the last few days. I will forever have a weakness for piano and strings.

---

on the table

This week’s recipe was from an account my friend shared over on Instagram by Abby Thome: Creamy Sausage and Kale Soup. I wish I had a picture for you, but as usual it was eaten too fast. I think next time I would season it just a tad more. It makes a hearty batch, enough for leftovers or to freeze, and is perfect for a winter evening.

---

The other night, my husband and I had both had long days. Curt goodnights were exchanged, knowing it wasn’t personal but exhaustion. We woke to a rare quiet house together before the cacophony of children began. I snuggled up next to him, and watched the trees blowing back and forth against the moody, rising morning. Our bodies leaned into each other and he fell asleep on my shoulder. One day there will be no children here, only this. It isn’t an easy thing, spending your life with the same person. With all the ups and downs, I am still glad he is the one beside me.

Until next week. Thank you for being here.

Warmly,

Jess

If any of this connects with you, please share, comment, or subscribe. It means a lot to know that you read (or listen to) my words each week.

---