A Letter From The Woods

Dear friends, family, and anyone who accidentally landed here while looking for gardening tips:

It’s that time of year when people write glossy holiday letters announcing promotions, renovations, marathons completed, and grandchildren who now play the violin fluently in three languages.

This is… not quite that kind of letter.

So instead of a tidy highlight reel, consider this my end-of-year letter from the woods – a reflection on what actually happened, what mattered more than I expected, and what I’m quietly letting go of as we turn the page.

And since we’re already into the new year – how did that happen so fast?! – let me begin with the warmest of wishes for good health, happiness, and good fortune to you and yours. Now, with coffee (or tea, or another beverage of choice) in hand, let’s tuck in.

Life in the woods sounds like it should lend itself beautifully to a holiday letter. And in many ways, it does. But it’s also honest in a way that’s hard to ignore – and this year, it made that very clear.

It’s easy to tell charming stories about life out here: the deer in the front yard, the bunnies feasting in the garden, the fox trotting through on the hunt. With all the cute critters scampering about, it’s easy to forget there are some decidedly uncute aspects of nature… until you come face to face with them.

Or rather… parts of them.

GAH!

Like the day I was harvesting garlic. I was peacefully working away, popping out one beautiful bulb after another. When I couldn’t reach the next one, I moved to the other side of the raised bed, jabbed my shovel into the earth and – CLUNK.

Huh?

I gave the spot a little tap tap tap… then froze in horror.

Is that… TEETH?!

Not only teeth, but HALF A SKULL?! EWW. EWWW. EWWW! BRIAN!!!

Let me tell you, there’s not much more unnerving than finding half a skull in your garden. Where’s the rest of it?! From now on, I’ll be holding my breath every time I put a shovel in that bed. Secretly, I wish I’d spent more time examining it to figure out what it was – my guess is bunny – but at the time, curiosity lost to revulsion.

Then there was the morning Brian left for work in the dark, as usual. I watched from the window as he started down the driveway… stopped… backed up a bit… stopped… pulled forward… then back again.

Either he’d forgotten something – or something was very wrong.

I waited to see if he’d come back inside. He didn’t. He drove off. Okay then. I sat down for my morning writing stint, mildly curious but otherwise unconcerned.

Moments later, my phone chirped.

“Whatever you do, do not stop to look at the rabbit on the driveway – it’s got no head.”

WHAT?!!! EWW. EWWW. EWWW!

I absolutely did not want to see that. And of course, it was garbage day – which meant I was going to have to walk right past it.

EWWWWW.

I tried to carry on with my morning routine, but all I could think about was silently sending out a telepathic “cleanup on aisle 44” call to the forest creatures, hoping someone would claim their meal before I had to leave.

As luck would have it, there wasn’t a trace of anything left by the time I headed out – garbage safely stowed in my trunk so I didn’t have to walk past any carnage.

This time, my EWWW became a very heartfelt WHEW.

Like I said, it’s easy to romanticize life in the woods – but nature is always quick to remind you about balance.

As brutal and unpredictable as nature can be, I find myself more in awe of it the longer we’re here. I can get a little philosophical about it sometimes, but honestly – this planet is amazing. I’m reminded of it every single day.

Not just in the big, showy things like dramatic sunrises, glowing sunsets, or window-rattling storms rolling overhead – but in the quiet moments too. The many kinds of bees on the New England asters. A new bird passing through during migration season (this year, it was the Evening Grosbeak). A tiny flower pushing up through compacted gravel by the fire pit.

It all leaves me feeling utterly wonder-ful and fully present, every single time I notice it.

We count ourselves incredibly fortunate to have recognized the opportunity to move to the woods earlier than planned, rather than waiting for retirement. We built our dream and decided to keep working a while longer – for practical reasons, pension reasons, life reasons.

Now that we’re here, doing all the “nesting” things, it’s sometimes hard not to feel a little cheated when I leave every day for work. I catch myself daydreaming about all the things I’d be doing if I didn’t have to go anywhere.

It’s easy to forget that I actually like my job – and that we’re doing this to build a more secure freedom future.

I think that’s one of the quiet traps of modern life: we’re trained to always chase the next big thing, postponing joy today for a bigger joy tomorrow.

That way of thinking softened for me this year during a trip out west, when we were lucky enough to spend time with family – all together.

There was the feel of Luke’s little hand tucked into mine. Levi’s cries melting into calm as I held him close after a tumble. And the way Benson – after meeting his cousins for the very first time – warmed up almost instantly and was soon playing as if they’d known each other forever.

It’s moments like those that make being a long-distance grandparent ache a little. But they also remind me that joy doesn’t live only in the future. It shows up right now, in fleeting visits, small hands, and borrowed afternoons, and that there is still so much growing ahead for all of us.

As you can see, I tend to slip back and forth between being deeply present and in awe… and wishing the future would hurry up and arrive, even though I’m fully aware of how fast time flies.

That’s something I want to work on this year. If you’ve got any tricks, feel free to share them in the comments.

So this is where I find myself in this quiet, snowy season: reflective, grateful, and genuinely appreciative that you’re here reading this blog in my tiny corner of the internet.

Thank you.

And here is my wish – for all of us – in this New Year:

With love and gratitude from the woods,
 The Cottage Wife
 Carol

Your time here means the world to me. If you’d like to help keep The Cottage Wife ad-free, you can buy me a coffee, subcribe, like or share. Or just come back soon – that’s the best support of all. 🌿