I stock the pantry with beans, set bowlfuls aside for creative bounty. We dip maples and oaks and sycamores into a melted-down pool of last winter’s candles, string a garland for the mantel. I launder the flannel sheets, ready the spiced cider pouches. We intend to write down the first frost on our calendar, but instead, we find ourselves scrawling less scientific markers of the season: the first bike ride requiring a sweater, the first leaf pile in the neighborhood, the first geese migration spotted over our favorite marsh.
My first miscarriage.
I will find the words someday, but do not yet have them.
What I do have is what is available to us all: scraps of hard-earned joy. Enough tears to know that, sometimes, scraps are enough.
The days are a blur. I sew baby shoes for a friend, dye leather laces in turmeric. We celebrate our resident 5-year-old with vanilla bean cake and a used bike, take turns jogging down uneven sidewalks alongside her clattering training wheels. We spend Saturday mornings on wet grass cheering for a jersey-clad son who relishes in his team-given nickname, Messi. I cart The Cat in the Hat back and forth to Seussical rehearsals, then to sidewalk art sales and popsicle stands – the latter offering quick funds to sock away in dreams of a Tennessee Walker. We roll up the sunroom rug for an impromptu roller skating rink.
While summer was a grand experiment in wilding ourselves, autumn proves to be a lesson in taming. We fall into a productive rhythm of stories, exploration, studies. We pore over DaVinci’s notebooks, memorize The Tyger, learn how Rembrandt died bankrupt. We sew felted bluejays and chickadees while listening to Dorothy Canfield. The girls forage the yard for winterberries to hang dry in their closets. I stay inside with Earl Grey and a poem, my son beginning a replica of Trajan’s Market next to my elbow.
One Saturday morning, before the weather turns, we stuff a picnic basket with marcona almonds and gouda to meet friends at a nearby park. My friend’s father is a busker, so he brings along his guitar and harmonica, and I watch in delight as he strums quietly in the background, kids stopping mid-cartwheel to inch closer for a listen. Soon, a small crowd forms by the monkey bars, and the grass is warm and the sun is high and the music swells to meet the great symphony of childhood – creaking see-saws and clanging metal slides and thwacks of basketballs on backboards. At once, hope catches me. And it stays.
I sleep with my phone on my nightstand, ringer on high. Any moment, a dear friend’s husband will call to let me know she’s in labor. I’ll gather the canvas bag I’ve packed for the occasion and sneak out of the house to accompany her as she welcomes her fourth child. We’ve planned it for months – she’ll pace the living room while I camp out in the kitchen prepping food for her birth team, or busying the dog, or distracting the kids – and I promise her I still want to be there, that I’m ready, that I’m honored, that I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
I realize I mean it.
Books finished:
O Pioneers, by Willa Cather
Swimming Studies, by Leanne Shapton
Hind’s Feet on High Places, by Hannah Hurnard
The Boxcar Librarian, by Brianna Labuskes
Love Poems for People With Children, by John Kenney
Farmer Takes a Wife, by John Gould
By Any Other Name, by Jodi Piccoult
The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans
I replenish our firewood stash just in time for Ken to return home from the mountains for the season. I preheat the oven and we stay in our pajamas all weekend long, swapping stories of moments missed, catch each other up on things fully shared but only partially understood: skid steers and children’s book proposals, cabin skirting and yogurt cultures. At night, the kids dig Monopoly out from the game drawer, grateful to have our Scottish terrier back on the board.
This morning, I wake to snow. Soon, the kids will sport hot cocoa mustaches like tiny Nietzsches in ribbed pajamas. We will open our dusty Dickens, fill the home with Crosby croons, warm mittens over the floor vents.
And we will, once again, await the season that awaits us: one of redemption, of birth, of peace.
Erin, I catch my breath whenever an email post lands in my mailbox. Your book, Chasing Slow, had a significant influence on me, and I think you’re a beautiful writer. Your way with words touches my heart every single time. Thank you!
Thank you, Melody!
I loved that book too and save these emails for a quiet few minutes when I can read it slowly : )
Thank you!
I always look forward to your emails Erin and your book Chasing Slow sits pride of place in my living room. A root for life. Thank you for your beautiful words and all my love with your news.
This is so kind to hear, Kelly – thank you!
It’s beautiful, full of warmth of love .
xoxo
This is beautiful , I love reading your emails ❤️
Sending love and caring thoughts!
Thank you, friend!
So beautiful. Thank you for your words of hope.
I am so grateful you take the time to share a glimpse into your life. Sometimes I come back to your posts for inspiration and an example of a mom who is living presently and feeling life too. I’m so sorry about your miscarriage, that is heartbreaking. Praying God would give you (and your family) comfort in a specific way.
Thank you, sweet Megg. That is so encouraging to receive.
xoxo
You are a beautiful writer, Erin. I love seeing your name in my inbox. Sending love!
Thank you so much, Joyce!!!
Sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Marla!
Erin,
I’m in such a habit of scanning and skimming emails. When I started yours, I forced myself to slow down and savor every word. Thank you for writing.
I’m so sorry for the loss of your baby.
Praying for you, friend.
Oh Sandy – thank you so so very much. Sending hugs to you!
Edwardian Lady???? ❤️
I’ll remember you in my prayers this week. Sending you all the love your big, beautiful heart can hold.
Love, Pam. xx
Edwardian Lady???? ❤️
I’ll remember you in my prayers this week. Sending you all the love your big, beautiful heart can hold.
Love, Pam. xx
YES! It’s a beloved favorite. And thank you, friend.
Erin, I got the pleasure of meeting you in real life at the Franklin W+F conference. It was an honor and such a special moment in my life. Getting to see how kind and thoughtful you are… everything I read from you is actually played out in every moment of your life! I adore you. His Light shines through you. Hope to see you again and HUG you! 🫶🏻
Oh friend, I remember you! So lovely to see you over here in this small corner of the world, and sending love right back to you and your beautiful family. Thank you for such kindness today!
Sorry for your loss. Holding you close in prayer today.
Thank you so much, Reagan!
Oh my I feel as I am sitting with a beloved friend. May the gentleness and love that is you in every breath you take hold you and enfold you in grace. And I mourn this child who has been robbed of a life of incredible beauty.
Thank you sweet Deb – you are such an encouragement.
I so enjoy whenever your name pops up in my email inbox. Your emails are such great reminders to slow down and enjoy the simple moments of life and motherhood. Sending you love as you grieve the loss of your baby. 💕
Thank you so much, Jenn!
When you have words, I’ll be ready. Maybe they’ll say what needs to be said for my own trapped grief. A warm and loving hug for you, my dear.
Right back at you, friend. Trapped grief is a lovely way to put it, for now. We’ll find the words someday, won’t we?
I was just thinking about you yesterday, I was looking up the timing of something from Design from Mankind blog era and I was reminded, that you, more than anyone else I was aquaintanced with at the time were always, ALWAYS, a kind champion of others. This is a beautiful entry, wishing you some peace in the coming month.
Oh this is such an encouragement to me, Jackie – thank you for sharing this with me!
Such beautiful words for a such a hard time.
Sending love and peace to you and your family.
C.
Thank you so much, friend.
Thanks for the gift of your words and heart, Erin. I’m so sorry about your miscarriage. Sending so much love.
Thank you, sweet Amy – I hope you’re well!
I’m so sorry for your loss, Erin. I’m holding space in my heart for you & your family. I’ve had two & they’re still hard to talk about.
They really are very difficult to process, aren’t they? Still finding the words, but I know they’ll come. I’m so sorry for your losses, as well.
xoxo
Wow. As I read, your loss hit hard, right there, those three words. I’m so sorry. Lord, surround this beautiful woman as she mourns and grieves what could be. Be near to her family in this season.
Like many others have said, your emails always seem to be one of the few I open. Beaconing me to sit and stay a while. Thanks for sharing your words and moments and encouraging many to stay present.
Oh Nicola, thank you for such kindness.
Erin,
I consistently tear up reading your emails, this one especially. I have had a few miscarriages and as I am rocking my newborn to sleep, stealing these little moments to read your blog – I am sobbing for you and your family. Life is such a twisted journey full of joyful highs and sorrowful lows, I will be praying for you and your family as you navigate this time of slowing down, of grief and of peaceful reminders of Christ’s love.
Thank you so much for your prayers, Jeana —- I will relish them!
May you be comforted in your loss. +
Also, was the Canfield Understood Betsy, or something different?
Also I read the John Kenney poetry when my son was a baby and I cried laughing in the bathtub. I need to see if my library still has a copy.
Hi Rosemary! It was Understood Betsy – I just love love love that book. :)
So sorry for your loss.
Your words and photography are a gift to me.
Please keep living intentionally, writing and sharing with us.
Thank you!
Thank you for the kind encouragement!
Your writing is beautiful, and I yearn to tame autumn with you.
Thank you so much, Lynn.
I love you so and am so proud of you for sharing something so vulnerable. Your trust in those who love you is just what the world needs, my friend. Thinking of you often…
I love you too, sweet friend.
xoxo
Hi Erin, love your writing and wanted to add miscarriages suck. I’ve been there. It’s so much hope. and poof all gone. Sigh. Hope you feel better. prayers.
Thank you for your prayers and understanding!
So sorry for your loss, Erin. I hope in sharing this that you received some comfort in knowing you’re not alone and sisters will grieve with and pray for you. Life is hard, and beautiful, and difficult, and fun, and easier when done in community knowing we all struggle and understand to some degree…
Thankful for you!
You’re exactly right, Ruth. Thank you for your kindness.
I am truly sorry to read about your miscarriage. Sending lots of love and hugs.
I am grateful for the piece of yourself that you share in your weekly emails.
I am still chasing a slow, happy life . . . nothing fancy, nothing grand.
Chasing slow for me looked like bidding goodbye to all social media. And in honor to chasing slow I am winding down on my life as a doctor in London – where everything feels harried and hurried. Desperate to leave a culture that demands I respond right now. Saving my 14 year old from the functional anxiety that has plagued his generation.
As I near the end of my 5th decade I am intent on pursuing the things that set my soul on fire. I have started to write again. Making room for the stroke of my pen on my laptop screen and letting my stethoscope go on a sabbatical.
Thank you, Erin. For reminding us all that life is about the simple seemingly unimportant things.
Oh Dr. Toyin – thank you for sharing so I can celebrate such a transition with you! What a remarkable thing it is to leave behind what perhaps wasn’t yours to carry. Sending love from the states, and big hugs to your 14 yo, who is so so blessed to have a brave mother with the capacity to pivot. :)
Your kind words . . . thank you.