Field Note No. 1 — A Beginning

I have always loved the places where beauty gathers quietly — the edge of a field at sunrise, the stillness inside an old book, the soft clutter of a creative corner, a child’s laughter floating through a hallway like light made audible. These are the places where I first learned to listen.

Motherhood has a way of scattering us and gathering us all at once. What once felt certain becomes fluid. What once felt small becomes sacred. Every day seems to offer its own palette — warm wood and cool morning air, watercolor moments that run together at the edges, a softness we didn’t expect, a sharpness we wish we didn’t feel.

And yet, within all of it, something steady keeps calling us home.

I have come to believe that motherhood is less a path to master and more a landscape to walk — one filled with seasons, textures, rhythms, and the quiet symbolism of daily life. There are moments that bloom open without warning, and moments that ask for patience, for pruning, for faith that roots grow long before we see their green.

These field notes are my attempt to pay attention. To notice what is good. To gather what is beautiful. To remember what is true. To hold the laughter and the ache, the sunlight and the shadows, the noise and the stillness, all together in one open hand.

I want to live motherhood as a kind of listening — to God, to my children, to the gentle wisdom woven through the ordinary hours.

Here, I hope to write with freedom. To let words wander like children in a field, unhurried and curious. To let beauty rise naturally, without force. To let hope appear the way dawn does — quietly, faithfully, again and again.

If you are here, perhaps you are learning to pay attention too.

Welcome.

May these notes meet you somewhere along your own path, and may they invite you to look again at the ordinary moments that are already carrying you somewhere holy.