A toddler's view of off-grid life (and what I'm learning)
This is not the winter I was hoping for.
It's gray, wet, the kind of weather that feels like it's draining the color out of everything.
We're waiting for snow that never comes, real winter that hasn't arrived.
The days are short. Darkness takes up most of the hours.
By mid-afternoon we're already turning on lights.
We spent a lot of time inside.
Baking, playing, waiting for something to shift.
It feels uninspiring.
Like we're stuck in between seasons, not quite anywhere.
At least that's how I see it.
But my two-year-old daughter, she sees something completely different.
I've noticed something lately.
As adults we're always waiting for the next thing.
Waiting for real winter, for snow, for longer days, for spring,
for the weather to cooperate with our plans.
We look outside and see what's missing, what should be here but it isn't.
She looks outside and sees what is.
Every puddle is an ocean to splash in.
Every wet leaf is a treasure to collect.
Every gray day is just a day, full of possibility.
Yesterday we gathered leaves for garden mulch.
I was thinking about how damp everything is, how much longer this task takes in the wet.
She was examining every single leaf like it held secrets,
arranging them in patterns, talking to them.
When we bake together, I'm thinking about the recipe, the timing, getting it right.
She's amazed by the eggs cracking open, the way the flour feels between her fingers,
the transformation of ingredients into something new.
She doesn't care that there is no snow.
She doesn't need perfect conditions to find wonder in the day.
She's fully present with what is.
And watching her I realize I have forgotten how to do that.
I sometimes find myself influenced by what I see online.
Other homesteaders with impressive projects and enchanting setups
live in other parts of the world where there seem to be more sun, beauty and colors.
There is this constant pressure to want more, to do more,
to never be satisfied with where you are.
But then I watch her.
She doesn't need more.
She needs leaves and cake batter and her mama's attention.
And space to explore what's right in front of her.
And I think maybe I don't need more either.
Maybe contentment isn't about finally having enough.
Maybe it's about appreciating what already is.
What we've already built, how far we've actually come.
This cabin in the forest, this small homestead.
This life we're building slowly, piece by piece.
It's easy to take it for granted when I'm always looking ahead to the next project,
the next improvement and the next season.
But through her eyes this is enough.
This is everything.
I think this is why I create the prints I do.
Simple cabins, trees, gardens, children and nature.
The beauty of a life connected to the soil.
I'm trying to capture that sense of wonder,
to notice the small beautiful things,
to see what's actually here instead of what's missing.
Printmaking is my practice of presence.
I'm not a photographer.
Of slowing down enough to really see.
Each line carved is an act of attention.
Of choosing to notice.
The way light falls through the trees,
the magic of a child discovering the garden,
the quiet dignity of a simple home in the forest.
It's me trying to remember what my daughter still knows naturally.
The past month I have been busy packaging prints during her nap times.
We sold so many and I'm very grateful.
Not just for the income, though that matters.
It allows us to keep living this way.
But for the connection.
The beautiful emails and stories that land in my inbox regularly.
From people we see the same things I'm trying to see.
Who value slowness, simplicity, wonder in the everyday.
Thank you for supporting this work.
For seeing what I'm seeing.
For helping me keep making.
The days are so short now.
By 3 p.m. we're already living in twilight.
By 4 p.m. it's full dark.
As an adult I feel it.
The darkness pressing in.
The sense of time slipping away before I've accomplished enough.
But she burns bright regardless of the light outside.
Her energy doesn't dim with the sun.
Maybe that's the real lesson.
It's not about the external conditions.
The grey weather, the missing snow, the short days or the darkness.
It's about whether you can still find wonder anyway.
Whether you can still be fully alive in the life you actually have
and not the one you're waiting for.
And I'm learning from her.
Slowly but learning.
That contentment isn't something that arrives when conditions are right.
It's a practice.
A way of seeing.
We went into our forest to see if we could find a little Christmas tree
that would fit in our cabin without taking too much space.
She knows things I have forgotten.
That wonder isn't something you find in extraordinary circumstances.
It's how you meet the ordinary ones.
That presence is a choice you make moment by moment
and not a destination you arrive at.
That what you have right now is worth noticing.
She's not trying to get through the task to reach some future moment.
She's fully in this moment.
The only moment that exists.
And I'm realized that I'm the one doing it wrong.
I'm always trying to get through moments to reach better ones.
She's teaching me to be in them instead.
So here we are in this uninspiring winter that isn't quite winter.
Still waiting for snow.
But maybe the waiting is a lesson.
Maybe the grey is the gift.
Because if I can only find contentment in perfect conditions
in sunny days, fresh snow, ideal weather
then I will be spending most of my life waiting to be content.
But if I can learn to see what she sees
the wonder that's here
in the wet leaves and the dark afternoons
and the ordinary moments of being together
then I'm already home.
She doesn't care that it's grey outside.
She doesn't need more to be happy.
And watching her I remember.
Neither do I.
The wonder was always here.
I just forgot how to see it.
Thank you for being here.
For seeing it with me.
For remembering alongside me.
See you next time.