I fell in love with tomato plants in high school. Mr. Golden’s 10th grade biology class to be specific. Ten stars to Mr. Golden and his “Alive and Satisfied” project which encouraged me to grow tomatoes by myself for the first time. My dad always grew tomatoes but this was *my* project and it was for a grade, so somewhere under grow lights off of D Hallway in Lincoln Southeast High School I tried my hand at gardening.

Did my plants produce any fruit? No idea. Did I bring them home after the semester was over? Not a clue. It was the first time, though, that my hands smelled like tomato plants and that was all it took for me to want to grow them again and again.

I am 47 years old now and coming dangerously close to being out of high school for [cough cough] 30 years. Time started moving fast about 10 years ago when our daughter went to middle school and I fully anticipate it will only speed up between now and my first steps into glory. Time is weird like that. Somehow the scent of tomato plants connects all those decades together. It hopscotches among eras and picks up memories from dad’s greenhouse in Augusta, Georgia; Mr. Golden’s warm and very alive classroom; two South 8th Street gardens with tomatoes that sounded like they came from Middle Earth; and now my home garden, planted for the first time among our perennial beds.

Cucumbers are my success story so far this season. I’ve grown them in pots for years and even though I learned something about cucumber sex–sorry, cucumber *fertilization*–with myself and a paintbrush in the role of absent pollinators, pot life was not working out for any of us. This year the death of a climbing rose fortuitously opened up a spot for a vining fruit and, voila, we’ve eaten two cucumbers already.

Math-wise, I’m not certain that my harvests are hugely profitable.

However, numbers cannot determine the quality of one’s life.

I gain copious amounts of joy by gardening. The plants are my babies and I’m obsessed with their health. I had to calm down and quit googling “furling tomato leaves” because I was so concerned with my Romas’ habits. I amended the soul multiple times and eventually told them to go with God. And you know what? There are two green Romas coming along nicely, so… okay then. The cucumbers are trying to overtake the roses, their tender vines sweetly curling around absolutely anything in their paths. And apparently the pollinators, who refused to tend to the pots on my deck, are more than happy to do the cucumber mating dance in a more reasonable location on the ground. My paintbrushes can be retained for their original purposes.

I’m completely certain that my neighbors think I’m insane as I daily, or twice or thrice daily, stand by the front garden, hands on hips, surveying my earthly domain with an admiring and critical eye. Is every home gardener constantly measuring their plants and thinking about how to clip them, divide them, shuffle them, and shift them next year? Is everyone else busting with pride that the black eye susans are finally opening up? Is anyone else wondering if Joe Pye was called a weed because it kind of looks like a weed but then again… THE POLLINATORS. Are other gardeners somewhat horrified that the spireas seem dead set on absolute world domination? Anyone else planning Bunny Soup after re-seeding their zinnias three times? No? Just me?

I buy tomatoes and cucumbers to, yes, fill our bellies. Our yields have become sauce for spaghetti and soup for grilled cheese dipping as well as chili for a burst of summer in the middle of winter. The snappy cucumbers elevate summer sandwiches and are shared with friends. But mostly I fill my arms with vegetable plants as soon as garden centers open up because it makes me happy. It keeps *me* alive and satisfied long after my time in Mr. Golden’s biology class came to a close.

A 5:00am wakeup time—becoming more common in the past few years—had me picking wallpaper images for my phone. This shot captures SO MUCH JOY for me. You know I’m serious because I wrote that in caps. Livia and I… mmm… invited ourselves along on my parents’ 50th anniversary trip to Sanibel Island last October and the location was absolutely dreamy. The water was just cool enough and the views were incredible. I found myself feeling more centered and at peace than I had been in a long time. My dad is walking in the background there, I’m admiring the world around me, and Liv, always the first to the sensory table in preschool, is shelling. Of course. We still bear loads of shells from the Gulf, months later, in frozen Nebraska.

I love my home. And I love to get away, especially to the ocean, and then I love to come home again.

This pic is giving me life today.

My birthday request: a slice of apricot torte from The Green Gateau. (I believe the restaurant orders it from a Lithuanian bakery in Omaha.) This dessert makes me happy. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the really wonderful birthday celebration! It felt especially sweet in the middle of Covid.

One of my absolute favorite classes in college was Art History. I still laugh about it some 20 years later because the professor asked us—on exams—to identify the artist and title of works based off little teeny black and white photocopies of the images. Oh my goodness, it was insane. And yet I learned so much that semester and I adored it.

I hesitate to even mention this great artist’s name as I think about the shots I’ve taken over the course of today, but here goes nothing: Caravaggio. I loved his work right away. Chiascurro drew me instantly to Caravaggio. How could I not love the play of light and shadow?

Today I found myself saying, if I want to take dramatically lit photos EVERY SINGLE DAY this month, I can! I feel this need to diversify for some reason, but I’m casting that boundary aside and I’m going to shoot whatever I want. I will say this, if you want to mess with light the way you mess with playdoh—keep shooting. Keep experimenting. Keep playing. Move your body, move your angles, see what comes through your lens. Happy December, friends.

After hanging three paper chains and nine new snowflakes I knew I would capture a piece of this activity for today’s image. There’s something lovely and slow about taping little fragments of paper together. There’s something creative and calming in using scissors and paper to make unique snowflakes for our windows. In this world where I am use to rushing—and yes, I’ve been forced into slowing down in 2020—I’m starting to see the peace in sitting still. The word “present” has been coming to mind since March. God is letting me mull on that word. What does it look like when a planner and doer focuses on being present?

Today is my cousin’s funeral. I feel like the absorption of her death is very slow for me and I’m wondering how long it will take before every pore in my body has digested the information. Surely a memorial service is a piece to that puzzle. All of my missing and wondering and confusion is connected to the wrongness of death. It’s okay to hate death. I don’t feel the need to wrap up this post with a bow for anyone, however I do want to say that Paula knew Jesus intimately. She loved him. He loved her and made her and called her to himself. Because of this our goodbye is truly a “see you later.”

Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty” (John 6:35).

Paula and I talked about our very human struggles when we’d message each other. Neither of us expected a life of ease and yet we both really wrestled with the hardships of this world. We commiserated. We prayed because we knew that the Bread of Life and the Light of Love cared about every detail of our lives. Sometimes our faith was very small indeed, and other times it was great. Now Paula is with her Savior, and someday she and I will both be perfectly restored and will live with him, feasting and banqueting with Christ himself. Amen.

Without a doubt, this delivery was the best and most beautiful part of my day. My love sent me birthday flowers to enjoy in the days before my actual birthday—and it made me light up from head to toe.

I most frequently take pictures of flowers and fruit on my dining room table, which is truly the heart of our home. It’s what you see from the front door and it receives wonderful light from the south and the west. It’s just a fact that I’m highly visual and really value beauty. I like vibrant colors and simple arrangements. I appreciate a balanced and full vase of flowers like no one’s business, and if the light tracks through the leaves? Well, I’m sold. My files are filled with flowers kissed with light.

So then, maybe it’s not that weird that I recently gave my husband some very detailed information on what kind of flowers I’d like to receive for the next year. We’ve been married 22 years and he’s really good at loving me in a way that I feel most loved: beautiful gifts. And when I opened the door to the delivery man this morning (two notes on that below), I realized Jeremy had been listening to every single word I said. His attention to specifics was spot on. It made my smile even bigger.

Two notes on the delivery man:
1) I think he might have the best job ever. He must make people so happy!
2) Liv and I definitely had a homeschool-in-robes-in-bed kind of morning. Our noses were stuffy and we were tired and wanted to stay cozy. All I have to say is that when the florist’s van pulled up out front I pulled the most Superman of wardrobe changes and with no time to spare presented myself appropriately dressed enough to answer the door. We Tredways aren’t really morning people as a whole…

“You can make anything you want in the kitchen. But you have to clean it up, too.”

This was my teacher prompt for Culinary Arts today.

And she was off. Handmade bowtie pasta won the day. Pasta-making is not for the faint of heart—it’s truly a process! But this is what happens when you have the ability to let a kid choose what their heart desires. The heart wanted pasta. It’s wanted pasta since The Heart first started eating pasta. And I have to give it to her, fresh pasta is delicious.

Sometimes I love this human more than I can even express. She’s cool. She’s committed. She’s motivated from a deep internal well that I cannot see, but I get to see the fruits of her creative stirrings and I’m so grateful God allowed me to learn all about life through my Liv.

I’m eager to see and reflect on more beautiful things through this year’s December Photo Project. Thanks again for joining me, friends!