On an update from the farmhouse.

Slower days, sweeter things, and strawberries you have to eat standing up.

It’s been just a week since we moved to the farmhouse, and while the change hasn’t been dramatic or showy, it can be felt. We’re still getting settled, but even in the midst of the mess, life already feels different in subtle ways. The days seem to unfold more slowly with more time outside and less time staring at screens. We find ourselves paying closer attention to the small things that once blurred into the background.

The strawberries have just started coming in, only a few each day, four or five if we’re lucky, but somehow that makes them even sweeter. This kind of joy can’t be saved for later or stored away for another time. It asks to be experienced in the moment, and maybe that’s the best kind of abundance, the kind you can’t hoard.

We thought we had our own rhubarb patch, but when we pulled back the leaves this week after deciding to make strawberry rhubarb crisp, we found lots of green, but barely any stalks worth picking. Turns out we didn’t need the big basket after all.

Luckily, a kind neighbour with more than she needed generously offered us some of hers. We served it warm, with vanilla ice cream melting over the top, and life doesn’t get much better than that on a warm June night.

There’s a particular kind of joy in a bowl filled with things you’ve grown yourself. Tender baby greens and sun-warmed strawberries, tossed with a drizzle of olive oil, a splash of vinegar, and a twist of black pepper. It’s simple, honest, and deeply satisfying in a way that has nothing to do with the recipe and everything to do with the journey from soil to table.

Our peonies, which we had looked forward to so eagerly, didn’t grow buds this year. But when I picked up a bunch from the store and placed them on the kitchen table, they were just as beautiful, in a different way. I think there will be plenty of humbling moments supplementing this year.

And then, as if making up for it, the roses began to bloom vibrant pinks, soft peaches, and buttery sunset tones that made us pause just to admire them. We’ve also been gathering wildflowers from around the property to brighten our home. A good friend gave us a kenzan set as a housewarming gift, and I’m looking forward to creating our first proper arrangement.

As we move through this new rhythm of daily life, I’m beginning to realize how often beauty shows up in unexpected ways. The good things don’t always look like we thought they would. And sometimes, the disappointment we feel in one moment becomes the very thing that opens the door to something better, or at least, something just as meaningful.

The apple and pear trees are beginning to fruit. The raspberries are forming. The kale is almost ready to harvest and the lettuce is still giving generously. Every day brings a small new discovery asking us to slow down.

After two extremely challenging years, I can finally feel myself coming back to life. Maybe it’s the slower rhythm of the land, the scent of the roses, or the act of feeding my children something we pulled straight from the soil with our own hands. Whatever it is, I want to hold onto it. Not just for myself, but as a reminder of what’s possible when we stop rushing, stop reaching, and stop trying to squeeze more into already-full days.

I’m realizing that slowing down doesn’t mean doing less. It means noticing more. It means paying attention to what’s already right in front of us: the strawberries that won’t wait until later, the flowers blooming just once, the fleeting moments that are easy to miss if we’re always looking ahead.

My hope is that we learn to pause not just when life slows us down, but because we choose to. That we step out of the rush long enough to notice what we’ve been missing. The strawberries won’t last forever. The rhythm will change. The blooms will fade. But if we’ve practiced paying attention, we’ll know how to return to what matters, not just once, but again and again as a way of living.