Shifts in Season: New Partnerships, Letting Go, and Beginning Again

There are seasons that arrive loudly — full of visible change and forward motion — and then there are the quieter ones, where the real shifts happen just beneath the surface.

The past few weeks have felt like both.

A Different Kind of Yes

Seedlings thriving in a sunlit greenhouse, ready to continue their growth journey.

Over the years of living in this small town, I’ve slowly built relationships that feel less like networking and more like shared rhythm. One of those relationships is with a local farmer who has, in many ways, been quietly present alongside my own growing journey.

A few years ago, when my partner and I started renting an acre of farmland, she offered me access to her greenhouse.

It’s not a small structure. It’s the kind of greenhouse that feels expansive just standing inside it — easily large enough to hold my current garden four times over. The kind of space that holds possibility, but also responsibility.

It’s also about 20 minutes from our home.

At the time, I said no.

It wasn’t the right fit. The distance, the scale, the timing — none of it aligned with how I was working or how I wanted to move through my days. Since then, she’s occasionally suggested I come volunteer in the greenhouse. Each time, I declined.

Not out of disinterest, but because I’ve learned to be careful with where I place my energy. I tend to volunteer in ways that feel integrated into my life rather than added on top of it, and at the time, there wasn’t a gap that needed filling.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, she asked again — this time more directly.

Instead of answering immediately, I asked her a question: What is your end goal in asking for my help?

Her answer was simple and honest.

She wanted more plants to sell.

More plants meant more income — both through her roadside stand and through local businesses she supplies.

That clarity changed everything.

So we made a different kind of agreement.

Instead of volunteering my time in her greenhouse, I would do what I already do — start and propagate plants in my own space — and sell them at her roadside stand.

It felt immediately right.

There’s something deeply satisfying about finding an arrangement where everyone gets to stay rooted in their own way of working, while still supporting one another. I get to move at my own pace, in my own space, doing the kind of work that already feels natural to me.

And we both benefit.

It’s not about expanding for the sake of expanding. It’s about alignment.

When the Bees Leave

A blue honeybee swarm trap sits securely on wooden planks, set against a vibrant, tree-lined background, ready to attract and house incoming swarms.

Around the same time, something else shifted — something quieter, but heavier.

The bees are gone.

Over the winter, we lost two colonies. That’s always a possibility, even with preparation, but it doesn’t make it easier. In response, I set three swarm traps in the spring, hoping to catch new colonies and rebuild.

We caught one swarm.

For a brief moment, it felt like things might turn around.

But then, suddenly, both the surviving colony and the new swarm absconded.

Left.

When I checked the hives, it felt like stepping into a space that had just been vacated — not abandoned in chaos, but simply… emptied.

There were no queen cells. No signs of distress or struggle. Just frames holding honey, pollen, and nectar, suspended in time. A few dead bees, but not many, quiet traces of a space that had once been full of life. Not the kind of loss you expect to see.

The swarm trap itself told part of the story — still damp inside, not quite the right conditions for a colony to settle.

The rest is harder to explain.

Sometimes bees leave because something isn’t right. Sometimes they leave because something feels off, even if you can’t see it yet.

Standing there, looking into those quiet boxes, it became clear that what had once felt like a meaningful part of our system had started to feel like a task. Something I was trying to keep up with rather than stay connected to.

And whether you believe in intuition, energy, or simply the subtle awareness that comes from working closely with living systems — it felt like the bees knew.

So now, we reset.

We learn more. We simplify. We reduce the number of hives and materials to something that feels manageable and intentional.

And maybe, when the conditions are right again, we try again.

Or maybe we don’t.

Both feel like valid outcomes.

The End of the Pantry Season

A bountiful harvest featuring a vibrant assortment of tomatoes, tomatillos, and fresh cucumbers, ready to enjoy or preserve for later.

This time of year marks another kind of transition — one that happens quietly in the kitchen.

It’s the end of last year’s preserved food.

The tomatoes were the first to go this year, which always feels like a small loss. They become sauces, soups, the base of so many meals that carry the flavor of summer into the colder months. The last jars turned into chili and lasagna — simple, grounding meals that feel like a bridge between seasons.

Shortly after, we ran out of summer squash and kale.

Those were staples for quick, one-pot meals — the kind you can throw together on a busy day without much thought. Just open a jar, add a few ingredients, and something nourishing comes together.

There’s a rhythm to this process that I’ve come to rely on.

We grow as much of our own food as we can. What we don’t grow, we source from local farms whenever possible. During the growing season, we preserve — canning, drying, storing — not out of urgency, but as a way of extending the season.

It creates a kind of ease later on.

A full pantry means fewer decisions, fewer last-minute trips, more connection to what you’re eating.

And when the jars run out, it signals something important:

It’s time to begin again.

Sourcing with Intention

A small herd of elk calmly wanders through the misty early morning fog, surrounded by lush greenery and towering trees.

One thing we don’t currently produce ourselves is meat.

Instead, each year we purchase one lamb, one pig, and half a cow from local farms. It’s a system that works for us — filling our freezer while keeping us connected to where our food comes from.

We just completed our spring pickup.

This is our second year sourcing lamb from the same local farm, and it’s a relationship we’ve come to value deeply. What stands out most is not just the quality of the meat, but the way they care for their land, their animals, and the people they serve.

The local elk herd shares their fields for much of the year — a detail that says a lot about how that land is managed. It’s not just about production; it’s about coexistence.

And that same level of care extends to how they show up for their customers. Every interaction feels thoughtful, clear, and genuinely supportive — the kind of customer service that makes you feel like more than just a transaction. There’s a steadiness to it. A sense that they truly stand behind what they do.

They also offer educational classes throughout the year, opening their practices to the community in a way that feels generous and transparent.

It matters, knowing the story behind your food.

It changes the way you cook. The way you eat. The way you think about nourishment.

Returning to Art

A quiet moment beneath the surface. Electric Sea Turtle in Motion captures the gentle rhythm of a sea turtle gliding through deep ocean waters, blending movement, depth, and tranquility into a piece that invites calm, reflection, and connection to the natural world.

Somewhere in the midst of all of this — the shifts in work, the loss of the bees, the changing pantry — I found my way back to painting.

It started, in part, because of a much larger project.

My partner and I have a 1967 Divco milk truck that we’re slowly converting into a camper. At some point, he asked me to paint a mural on it — something inspired by the

Pacific Northwest. A landscape. A feeling.

Anything but white. White feels like something not yet fully awakened.

The idea felt both exciting and intimidating.

I’ve always considered myself an artist, but not in a singular, focused way. I move between mediums. I experiment. I rarely stay in one place long enough to feel fully practiced.

Last year, I set a New Year’s goal to learn painting more seriously — to develop detail, to explore different materials.

I got nowhere.

Then, for Christmas, my mom gifted us acrylic painting classes.

Something shifted.

Learning the basics — how to mix color intentionally, how to build layers, how to create depth — lit a small fire that has continued to grow.

Since then, I’ve completed a realistic abstract painting of a sea turtle. It felt like a turning point — not just finishing something, but actually liking the result.

Enough to share it.

Enough to sell it.

Right now, that piece is available on my website (https://www.lowlandgifts.com/product-page/electric-sea-turtle). And behind it, there are three more paintings in progress, along with a long list of ideas waiting to take shape.

More importantly, I now feel ready to begin the Divco mural.

The vision is starting to come into focus — a landscape inspired by Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Forest. If you’ve ever driven up that road, you know the view. Near the top, there are turnouts where the mountain tops stretch endlessly into the distance, fading layer by layer into soft blue-gray tones.

That’s where I’ll begin.

A background of shifting blues and grays. Depth without sharp edges. A sense of space that feels both expansive and quiet.

From there, we’ll see.

Beginning Again

Vibrant roses gracefully climb along the trellis, adding a splash of color above the garden pathway under the clear blue sky.

There’s a thread running through all of this — something about letting go and starting fresh.

A new working relationship, built on clarity and mutual support.

An apiary, paused and reconsidered.

A pantry, emptied and ready to be filled again.

A creative practice, picked back up and explored with new energy.

None of it feels like a dramatic reinvention.

It feels more like a series of small, intentional adjustments — choosing what stays, what shifts, and what is ready to be released.

This is the kind of season I’ve come to trust.

Not everything needs to grow at once.

Not everything needs to be held onto.

Sometimes the most important work is noticing when something no longer fits — and being willing to make space for what might come next.

And in that space, something new almost always begins.