Practical Homesteading

Tag: mindful living

  • Past Lessons and Future Dreams: Learning, Growing, and Moving Forward

    Past Lessons and Future Dreams: Learning, Growing, and Moving Forward

    Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?

    They say hindsight is 20/20, but I think it’s more like a mirror — one that reflects both who we were and who we’re becoming. And the future? That’s the canvas we’re still painting, brush in hand, deciding what colors come next.

    I spend time with both — the past and the future — but if I had to choose, I’d say I think about the future more. Still, the two aren’t separate for me. The past is where the learning happens, and the future is where I try to put that learning into action.

    Learning from the Past
    When I think about the past, it’s rarely about nostalgia. More often, it’s replaying moments that didn’t go quite right — conversations I wish I’d handled with more patience or insight. I tend to notice small things, especially how the other person responded.

    Did they look away halfway through? Did their shoulders drop, or did their voice tighten? Did they frown — or cross their arms, or become defensive? Those reactions stay with me long after the conversation ends. They’re like clues that help me understand the power of tone, timing, and empathy.

    It’s not that I’m trying to critique every interaction — I’m trying to learn from them. Reflection, for me, has become a quiet sort of self-check. I don’t want to get stuck regretting old exchanges, but I do want to notice patterns: when I get defensive, when I rush my words, when I stop truly listening.

    Sometimes, it feels like flipping through a small mental scrapbook of lessons — not to linger on the pictures, but to trace the edges and think, How can I handle this better next time?

    Dreaming Toward the Future
    When my mind turns toward the future, everything feels brighter, warmer, and more open. I think about my family — how our children might grow, who they’ll become, and what kinds of people they’ll bring into their own lives. I think about my husband, and how I hope we’ll still laugh together, still spend weekends side by side, still find joy in the simple rhythm of our days.

    I imagine our home, our garden, the hum of a peaceful homestead alive with everyday sounds: wind in the trees, chickens clucking, maybe the buzz of bees on summer afternoons. Sometimes I picture our future selves sitting on the porch after a long day’s work, hands tired but hearts full, reflecting on the life we built together.

    Those dreams give me motivation. They remind me that the choices I make now — how I spend my time, how I treat people, how I speak and respond — are shaping the world I’m headed toward. Thinking about the future helps me see daily life not as a checklist, but as a foundation. Every habit or conversation plants a seed for what’s still to come.

    Using the Past to Benefit the Future
    Even my backward glances at the past carry a forward focus. When I catch myself remembering a tense moment or an awkward pause, I use it as a reminder: next time, pause longer. Listen more carefully. Stay soft even when the other person isn’t.

    Learning from the past gives me tools; imagining the future gives me energy. The two often work hand in hand — one guiding, the other driving.

    Balancing Reflection and Hope
    If I had to choose between thinking about the past or the future, I’d still say the future wins. But really, they’re part of the same equation. The past reminds me where I’ve been; the future invites me to grow beyond it.

    To me, this process is a lot like gardening. Each season leaves its mark — the crops that thrived, the ones that failed, the weeds you didn’t pull soon enough. But when you plant again, you do it with all that knowledge quietly tucked into your hands. You trust that what you’ve learned will make next season stronger.

    That’s how I try to live — learning gently, dreaming boldly, and remembering that both reflection and hope have their place in growth.

    Do you find yourself thinking more about the past or the future these days?

    When you look back, do your reflections inspire you to move forward differently? I’d love to hear how you balance the two — share your thoughts in the comments below.

    If this post sparked a moment of thought or connection for you, please take a moment to like, share, or subscribe. Your support helps this little space of reflection and growth keep blossoming.

    Each week, I share new reflections about learning, living intentionally, and finding joy in both the lessons and dreams that shape us. Subscribe below to grow along with me.

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  • The Greatest Gift: Time, Attention, and an Open Mind

    The Greatest Gift: Time, Attention, and an Open Mind

    What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

    We live in a world overflowing with stuff but starving for presence. The older I get, the more I realize that the greatest gifts don’t come wrapped, purchased, or planned — they come through connection.
    For me, the greatest gift someone could give isn’t a thing at all. It’s their time, their attention, and an open mind. Those three might sound simple, but they carry more weight than anything that can be bought.

    The Gift of Time and Attention
    Time is quietly the most valuable thing any of us have. None of us can make more of it — only choose how to spend it. So when someone offers their time freely, I see it as an act of generosity.

    The same goes for attention. In an age of constant distractions, uninterrupted focus feels like luxury. A conversation without checking a phone or glancing at the clock is rare — and meaningful.

    I’ve had moments when a friend listened without trying to fix anything, simply nodding and holding space while I talked through something heavy. No advice, no interruptions, just presence. That kind of attention lasts long after the words fade. It says, you matter to me right now.

    Time and attention are really about presence — about showing up fully instead of halfway. And if we can do something together, like tending a garden on a warm afternoon or cooking something fragrant on the stove, all the better. Shared experiences turn time into memory and memory into meaning.

    The Power of an Open Mind
    An open mind is just as important. Conversation stops feeling like connection the moment it turns into correction. I appreciate people who listen to understand rather than to win. When someone truly listens, it feels safe to share — to disagree, even — without fear of being shut down. That safety is what real trust feels like.

    But when a person constantly inserts their opinions or tries to prove a point, I quietly withdraw. It stops being dialogue — it becomes a contest, and connection disappears.

    Maybe that’s what ties all three gifts together — time, attention, and open-mindedness are all forms of presence. They ask us to slow down, listen, and approach each other with curiosity instead of control.

    Presence as the Greatest Gift
    The best gifts don’t usually arrive on birthdays or holidays. They show up in the small, ordinary moments when someone sets aside distractions and simply shows up.

    In the end, the greatest gift isn’t something someone gives to me — it’s how they show up with me. Showing up wholeheartedly — with kindness, curiosity, and no agenda — might just be the greatest gift we can offer each other.

    What’s the greatest gift someone has ever given you? Was it a thing, a moment, or simply their presence? Share your story in the comments. It’s always a joy to hear how others experience connection.

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    Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

  • Rediscovering Play: Finding Joy in Everyday Moments

    Rediscovering Play: Finding Joy in Everyday Moments

    Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

    They say age makes you wiser, but I think it also tempts you to forget how to play. Somewhere between deadlines, grocery lists, and laundry piles, the carefree joy of play starts to slip away—unless someone, or something, reminds you to find it again.

    When I think about play now, I think about movement, laughter, and not worrying too much about the outcome. These days, play often looks like sledding down the hill with my kids—rolling off at the bottom, snow-covered and breathless with laughter. It looks like raking leaves together, watching them pile up, then jumping straight in—laughing as the leaves fly higher than our expectations.

    When the seasons turn, play moves outside in new ways. In summer, it means packing up for a day at the beach—building sandcastles that never quite survive the waves or racing along the water’s edge until our feet ache from the heat and joy.

    On the days we stay home, it’s setting up the sprinkler in the yard, running through it again and again until our shirts cling and the air smells like wet grass and sunshine. My kids remind me daily to keep playing—to stay connected to that easy laughter that hides too easily beneath daily responsibility. They make sure I don’t take life so seriously all the time.


    But play doesn’t only happen outdoors or with my children. On my own, I love to play with words and music. Words are my favorite playground. Writing lets me toss thoughts and stories around like pebbles into a stream—watching the ripples spread and change shape as they go.

    Music, too, turns ordinary days into something brighter. Whether I’m singing in the car or humming through chores, it shakes loose the to-do list sitting heavy in my mind and makes room for possibility.
    Then there’s the kitchen—my most flavorful form of play.

    Cooking, for me, is equal parts creativity, science, and surrender. I love experimenting with textures, spices, and colors until they finally mesh just right. Of course, “just right” often takes a few tries. Some experiments end in triumph, others in takeout.

    Stir fry is my best teacher; I spent years perfecting the balance between crisp vegetables, tender meat, and a sauce that clings instead of puddles. I’ve made more leathery dinners than I’d like to admit, but somewhere between burnt edges and breakthroughs, I found joy in the process.

    Play, for me, is exploration for its own sake—the laughter, the learning, and the freedom to fail without fear. The older I get, the more I realize play isn’t confined to childhood; it’s what keeps us curious, forgiving, and fully alive. Whether I’m chasing my kids through waves, sprinting through sprinklers, scribbling a sentence, or perfecting a stir fry, play reminds me that joy can live inside any moment—if only I let it.

    Building a castle in the sand

    What does play look like for you? Is it laughter with your kids, a creative hobby, or something entirely your own? I’d love to hear how you keep play and curiosity alive in your daily life—share your thoughts in the comments below!

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  • The Art of Ordinary Living: Finding Creativity in Writing, Cooking, and Parenting

    The Art of Ordinary Living: Finding Creativity in Writing, Cooking, and Parenting

    How are you creative?

    Creativity doesn’t always look like a canvas, a stage, or a masterpiece. Sometimes, it looks like a skillet full of potatoes, a bedtime routine that finally works, or a few quiet minutes spent putting messy life into words. For me, creativity lives in the everyday—in the effort, the resourcefulness, and the love poured into small things.

    Writing Creativity
    I’m creative through writing. I may not write fiction, but I write with color and heart. My words capture the hum of morning chores, the smell of bread rising on the counter, and the soft sounds of my family winding down after a long day.

    Writing helps me slow down and hold onto fleeting moments before they slip away. My hope is that when someone reads what I write, they see their own life reflected back at them. I hope they begin to look for beauty in the ordinary. Writing, to me, is storykeeping more than storytelling—a way to honor the simple rhythm of living.

    Cooking Creativity
    That same creative spirit follows me into the kitchen. Few things bring more joy than opening the refrigerator with little motivation and turning almost nothing into something truly satisfying.

    My trusty skillet, a few potatoes, and some onions have saved more dinners than I can count. The sound of onions sizzling in butter and the smell that fills the house remind me that creativity often blooms from constraint. It’s about seeing what you have and imagining what it could become.

    Parenting Creativity
    I’m also creative in my parenting. I didn’t want to raise my children exactly as I was raised, so I’ve learned to improvise and adapt through plenty of trial and error.

    Take my two-year-old daughter and the great toothbrushing standoff. For months, we tried everything—games, choices, even silly songs—but it always ended the same: us brushing her teeth while she screamed in protest.

    About a month ago, we took a new approach. We simply told her this was part of bedtime—non-negotiable, like pajamas and stories. To my surprise, she accepted it. Now she even reaches for the toothbrush herself.

    My son wouldn’t have responded to that method at her age, but that’s the creative dance of parenting—learning each child’s rhythm, one routine at a time.

    Reflection
    Over time, I’ve realized that creativity isn’t limited to what we make—it’s how we live. It’s the spark that turns routine into ritual, leftovers into a warm meal, and frustration into understanding. It’s what keeps a home vibrant, a family connected, and a heart grateful. Every time I face life’s little challenges and find a gentler way through, I’m reminded of how much beauty lives in simply trying.

    We are all, in one way or another, artists of ordinary life—crafting something meaningful out of the materials we’ve been given.

    Now it’s your turn. How do you bring creativity into your everyday routines?

    If this reflection resonated with you, share it with someone who finds beauty in everyday moments too. 💛 

    Like this post. Leave a comment about how you express creativity in your day-to-day life. Subscribe for more stories on homesteading, family, and mindful living. Let’s keep celebrating the art of ordinary life—together.

    #homesteadinglife #everydaycreativity #familyblogger #simpleliving #parentingtruths #mindfulliving #gratitudeinmotion #creativeparenting #findingjoyeveryday

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    Saturday Morning Family Breakfast: A Recipe for Togetherness

    It’s a bright morning, the kind of day that feels full of promise and potential.  My husband Mitchel and I are sitting in the living room with our two children, a toddler girl named Olivia and a 5-year-old boy named Andrew.  Sunlight casts a warm glow over the carpet where toys, books, and a blanket…

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    The Road to What Matters

    Toward the edge of town, amongst beeping car horns and humming engines, a road trip fight started because of hot dogs, of all things. “Let’s just grab dinner ingredients here,” I said, glancing nervously at the fluorescent-lit refrigerator shelves of the gas station convenience store. “We will cook them at the campsite.” My husband frowned,…

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  • Real Happiness Isn’t Perfect—It’s Present

    Real Happiness Isn’t Perfect—It’s Present

    When are you most happy?

    When I stop and think about it, I realize happiness isn’t a single moment or destination. It’s a rhythm that threads quietly through daily life. I’m genuinely happy right now, and to be honest, that still scares me a little. After enough seasons of joy and hardship, I’ve learned happiness is fragile—and I hold it more gently now. Things aren’t perfect, but I’ve grown steadier, more willing to face the bumps with grace.

    I’m happiest when life feels balanced—when I can handle its joys and challenges without losing my footing. Moving my body helps clear the fog; it’s how I reset my mind as much as my muscles. Eating food we’ve grown or cooked slowly pulls me back to the present—the smell of herbs, the warmth of a skillet, the satisfaction of work made real. And sleep, when I finally give myself enough of it, has a way of making everything else fall into place.

    Family time fills me in a way nothing else can. The laughter around the dinner table, a quiet morning coffee before the kids wake, even teamwork in the garden with dirt under our nails—all of it reminds me why this slower, more intentional life matters.

    And then there’s friendship—the kind that weaves into daily life like a second family. Friends I can call when I need help, and who know I’ll show up for them too. The ones I meet for coffee to swap stories and laughter while the kids race through the yard. Those moments—ordinary and real—anchor me in community, reminding me we’re not meant to do life alone.

    Finally, happiness shows up when I allow myself to feel everything. To laugh without restraint. To cry when I need to. To be seen in all my humanness and still be loved. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

    So, when am I happiest? When life feels honest and steady—rooted in family, nurtured by friendship, and grounded in the quiet rhythm of being human.

    Now it’s your turn—when do you feel most at peace or happiest? Is it in your family routine, shared laughter, or that first quiet sip of morning coffee? Share your thoughts in the comments below. I love hearing your stories and reflections.

    If this post resonated with you, please take a moment to like, share, or subscribe. Every bit of support helps grow this small community where we celebrate family, simplicity, and the honest pursuit of happiness.

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    Stone by Stone

    Stone by stone, a farmer’s patient craft built more than a wall – it built a legacy. Discover a story of endurance, purpose, and quiet strength that still stands a century later.

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    The Choreography of Cattle and Grass

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