Over the weekend, Glenn and I were talking about the fact that neither of us ever gets bored. Even when the cold or the rain keeps us indoors for days on end, and during those stretches when we don’t stray from the property for days, neither of us has ever uttered aloud “I’m bored.” It just doesn’t happen. I haven’t always felt this way. I used to get super antsy and squirrely in the past, wishing I was somewhere else, doing something different.

Perhaps it’s just part of aging, learning to appreciate more of what’s right in front of you. People pass away, or move out of your life, or otherwise disappear, as do circumstances and places. Learning to be fully immersed in what’s right in front of you really has helped me to conquer boredom, as did becoming a parent. There will always be so much to do, and learn, and investigate, and explore.

A good deal of life is fleeting, ephemeral, transient. Today I’m incredibly appreciative of the life lesson of being content with right where I’m at. Love the way that comedian Louis C.K. puts it (he’s such a genius-I especially love this bit from him):

“I’m bored’ is a useless thing to say. I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to say ‘I’m bored.”

Here’s hoping the week (and life!) ahead of you are boredom-free. The sight of clothing on the line, the emergence of sage flowers, our entryway greeting of rose quartz (the cove is riddled with it!) & a turtle shell & an animal skull, and the heady fragrance of the locust tree blossoms is making me super in love with this place today. With so much to see and smell and touch and hear and taste (picked up a mess of fresh strawberries at the tailgate market this past Saturday!), there’s no room for boredom.

Do you like serendipity? By which I mean, not the flick starting John Cusack and Kate Beckingsdale (although that film is some kind of adorable and exceedingly well acted), but the “wait, did all the stars in the heavens just align this very moment?t” sort of magic that sometimes happens. Well, I do. A. Lot.

Such was the case about two weeks ago. An editor from a new periodical wrote, asking if I’d be interested in writing a story for them about dyeing with botanical materials (I’ll tell  you who it is closer to publication time). I heartily agreed, as I’ve got a copy of their premiere issue and it’s just grand; I’d be more than thrilled to hitch our wagons together. The thing is, although I’ve dyed with fruits and vegetables and, well, coffee grinds, I hadn’t yet dabbled in dyeing with plant matter. In my usual intrepid spirit of a strong willingness to figure things out (and, hence, be able to write from a “beginner’s mind”, if you will, for my written audience), I ordered some books on the subject right away and started researching the topic online until the books arrived two days later.

And then. AND. THEN. Two days after the solicitation from the magazine, the May schedule of classes for Small Terrain, a local homesteading supply shop run by my enormously talented friend Natalie Pollard, arrived in my inbox. Guess what class was scheduled for May 15th? Natural dyeing with a local fiber artist. Boom. Done. Serendipity, all up in my inbox.

I took the class last night and it was packed with invaluable information. Lindsay Warf truly knows that of which she speaks. And it was embed with a sort of mystique, too, watching as all of these bits of fiber transformed and morphed into various shades with a bit of madder root, some alum, and, later, a touch of rusty nails.

If you’re in the Asheville area, do check out Small Terrain. Before the class, I purchased a bag of organic layer feed, a 6-pack of yogurt cultures, and various sized Weck Jars (Natalie has the best prices I’ve ever seen on this brand of jars, anywhere, hands down). Then I enjoyed a knowledgeably and affably led class, in the comfort of a beautiful store filled with equally lovely fellow attendees. I’ve taught two classes at the shop in the past, and just signed up to teach a canning class there this July (details to come). I adore this place.

Natalie has filled a void with Small Terrain. Sure, it’s exceptionally well-curated and filled with gorgeous items (HGTV Gardens even gave her shout out this week!), but it’s so very much more than that. It’s a community hub, a meeting place for classes and conversation and ideas to flow. It’s the kind of place that enriches the experience of living here.

Have you ever sat in the middle of a forest floor, on a vintage tablecloth, sipping rhubarb & spearmint proseco, nibbling on fried sage leaves with parmesan and 5-spice pickled cherries and smoked trout with watercress and goat cheese with violet jelly and pea pesto sandwiches and rosemary skewed meatballs, while in the illustrious company of women covering a broad spectrum of age groups? No, you say? You haven’t sat close enough to wild turkeys to hear them calling out *right* beside you as you cast your gaze upon pink and white wild lady slipper orchids? Pity. Neither had I, until this past Thursday, that is.

The riot of culinary and green thumb talent that is Barbara Swell invited me to what she dubbed a “Ladies Ladyslipper Boozy Tea Party” in the woods surrounding her home. Myself and several other women each brought an item from our garden or pantry (I brought the pickled cherries mentioned above and a jar of my “Moroccan Road Pickled Okra”, the recipe for which will be in “Handmade Gatherings”), while Barbara whipped up lovely libations and victuals (the fried sage leaves and meatballs were both her offerings).

Food, drinks, and picnic basket in hand, we made our way to the forest. Barbara is the queen of vintage and retro collectibles and toted our wares in a metal picnic basket. Once we reached our destination, she spread vintage tablecloths and presented us with vintage paper napkins once belonging to her aunt. Conversation and bubbly flowed. We chatted about topics ranging from fairies (of the forest persuasion), to Argentinian Tango (an instructor was in attendance and had a war wound on the top of her foot), to the ethics of wild food cultivation, to asking poison ivy to only grow where you’d like it to grow (which apparently works, at least, in my circles). Parting gifts from a fellow attendee included Jack of the Pulpit or Solomon’s Seal plants.

It was, without question, one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. Truly. We toasted to the ephemeral beauties of spring and to friendship and to connection and soil. The turkeys called to us, and we in turn to them (if we ever share a bit to drink, ask me to let loose my turkey call; I’ve been perfecting it for some time and, according to my boozy ladyslipper compatriots, I do a mean impersonation). It was a perfect homage to spring and all that is fleeting and lovely. I’m grateful beyond measure to get to call this lovely patch of Earth my home, and to delight in the company of short-lived yet graceful wild orchids and strong, creative, vivacious women.