From the drafts folder: February 28, 2024

One year ago, I drove my trusty Subaru down a single-track drive hedged by waist-deep snow banks, hoping I’d turned in to the right chicken farm.

I was exhausted. Frazzled. Burned out. I’d booked a glorified chicken coop on a whim a few days prior, looking for an escape from the hubbub. I stood in the cloud of my own breath as I punched in the door code and took stock of my weekend accomodations: bunk bed, table, chair, electric heater, and 4 walls to hem in the sides of the cozy 12×10 foot shack. Perfect.

That weekend changed my life.

Rather, it gave me permission to change my life.

I emerged from that snowy 48 hours of sleeping, skiing, snacking, hiking, napping, and journaling with this focus:

“I purpose to be intentional in pursuing and supporting joy. I’ll keep some things (like cold showers, weekly cardio goals, and practicing instruments); revise some things (weekly to-do lists); and add some things (no screens in bed). I’ll forgive myself when I don’t get everything done, especially when it’s because I chose to be present.”

I am proud to say I’ve kept to this purpose of being present, and this past year has been richer because of it. In the year since holing up in a chicken coop, I have: resigned from a job, eaten lefse fresh from a Norwegian hearth, painted a garage, learned about nature with neature nerds, walked 100 miles along the Lake, had my heart broken and filled again in Colombia, placed my hand on squeaky knees in Peru, walked barefoot in Minnesota, and — today — completed a work contract.

Finishing a work assignment always leaves me reflective.

Did I make a difference? Did I do my best?

Did this change me? Was it for my best?

It’s never just a job. 

It’s Bob and Mary and Bruce and Joe; Amy and Andrew and Keith and Sharon. It’s listening with my ears and my head and my heart, praying all the while that maybe — just maybe — these lovely humans might see that I really do care, that I really do want to take their pain and trade it for wholeness.

It’s Kimmie and Dani and Amber and Anne; Stacey and Rae, Emily and Christina. It’s teammates who know what it is to invest in someone’s health journey, to walk with someone in struggle, to advocate for them in an infrastructure that seems bent on turning people into profit.

It’s never just a job. It’s a passion.

And passion doesn’t allow for halfsies — I’m all in. Even when I’m in a place for just a spell, I’m invested in its success, because ultimately, I’m invested in the success of people like Mary and Alice and Jason.

It’s always hard to step away to rest, because Renee and Sue and Sheri still aren’t whole. Courtney and Steve and Ryan still hurt. No matter how many bandaids you have, it’s never enough. And truth be told, I’m not sure how many more bandaids I have — so rest I must.

Perhaps I’ll find another chicken coop.