The heat wave that has smotherd California for more than a week is less intense today. As I write this, I am sitting outside, the air cool in the morning shade. An Anna’s Hummingbird is singing in the olive tree behind me—and then zooms up from a fuchsia bush to the highest point of the magnolia tree. Huge black bees the size of a jack ball fly heavily, slowly from the tips of lavender blooms to the garnet gladiolas, heavy and swaying in the breeze.

This stillness is good for my heart. And then the upstairs window opens, and a paper airline tumbles out of it to the ground near my feet. I look up and hear Justin’s laugh, then see His smile as he leans out the window, cracking up. He intended the plane to sail gracefully to my lap, not tumble awkwardly like a drunken acrobat committing suicide. We are catching our breath, about fully moved into our home. It feels good to be here. I am less overwhelmed than I’ve been in a while. Less rushing around, things feel closer to peace.

It also has been helping me to dream.

In the chaos of the last 10 months—full of physical and emotional transitions—the rhythms of relaxing in the arms of my Father, seeking His strength, voice, and wisdom wanned significantly. I tried to squeeze in time with Him around all the other things I had going on—layering prayer and worship while doing something else simultaneously. Seldom did He have my full attention. Seldom did my heart receive His peace.

And then, in the throes of moving in, exhausted from carrying furniture and unpacking boxes, I felt desperate for Him. I missed Him terribly. His presence, His whispers to my heart. I was eager to be with Him, to pursue Him earnestly…(Click the link in the title to read more.)

I am second-guessing everything. From my clothes to my food to my music to my time. Granted, it is spring, and the weather, even in easy-going northern California, is all over the place, and Justin and I work outside a lot—so each morning, depending on transportation (bike or car?) and whether it is rainy or chilly or windy or sunny, I stuff my bag with clothing layers, along with all the books or journals or tech stuff we need while we are out. What will I need? What should I expect from a day?

I tell my friends things are simpler living at my father-in-law’s house, with so much less to take care of. I realize how much time I spent, before we moved, cleaning and organizing—and, even, cooking. But now that the two boys have been gone during the school year, away at college, and it is just the three of us, plus Fulton—and now that we are living in tight quarters for a few months while our house is being renovated, there is less housekeeping to do. And that is good, in some ways. But in other ways, I have lost my footing. There is a cost, I think, to losing a sense of place.

The birds are singing out this spring day like they know what is required. They know what it is to be free, perfectly themselves, doing what they are made to do.

In the garden we are restoring, I am surprised by the number of birds that hop around, the soil their ballroom, under branches and bushes and leaves. I am sure they are throwing grand parties under the foliage, tasting the sweet soil as they forage and gossip and sing. I am surprised each time I walk through the path that intersects their (literal) stomping grounds, expecting birds to be gliding in blue sky, not dancing around, making the plants rustle like they are going to sway over to me, hands on hips, and threaten me to a duel.

Two weeks ago, after I gave up straining the fruit picker for the last remaining oranges from the robust tree holding court in the middle of the garden, (I have, I am sure, personally eaten at least 150 oranges since I started picking them in late fall) I sat in the back corner of the yard and read for two hours the book Justin got me for Christmas, a story of discovery and redemption for an English garden abandoned since World War I.