Fable Farmstead

Winslow and me, outside our barn at Riverside Farm. This was our first farm, an early-1800s farmhouse in southern Maine. We were newly engaged and well rested (no kids yet!).

I’ve always been drawn to old things. Old houses, old letters, old photographs of people I’ll never meet. Basically anything old enough to have its own story.

For a long time I thought it was just a personality quirk. A fondness for history. A tendency to romanticize and imagine.

Perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was a way of reaching for roots when I didn’t know where my own were or how to start finding them.

More on that soon.

It’s been a quiet few months over here. Quieter on this account than in real life, anyway.

This winter, something happened that I’m still finding words for. I flew to Taiwan. I met someone I had wondered about my whole life. I came home different.

I’ve been sitting with all of it since, on the farm, with my kids, in the (rare) quiet moments throughout the day. Trying to figure out where to start.

I think this is how.

Over the coming weeks I’m going to share a story here. It’s about adoption and identity and belonging. About the land, and why I’ve always loved it the way I do. About loss, and motherhood, and what it means to find out at 38 where you actually come from.

Some of it will be here in smaller pieces. The longer essays will be over on Substack for those who want to sit with it properly. Link in bio.

Thank you for still being here.