In the garden, the earth was packed in tight. The tomato vines were spindly and gray, dead with the season. I pulled out the tomato cages and rested them in the garage until spring.

The children clomped over the wet dirt in rain boots, bundled in fleece coats and soft hats. They pulled weeds and plants out of the garden, all of them the same by now, none of them beautiful any longer.

It’s never enough to let old things wither away to die. We must secure the ritual of saying goodbye and retrieve them from their hold, flatten the soil, turn it over and rake it smooth so that it can percolate through the winter. We had an array of tools and two soft bags to carry them in. I pulled back the chicken wire and rolled it up as waste.

We had free entry into the garden box and when the sky opened its tears upon us, we were not deterred. Let’s stay out here, even in the rain, Mommy, the kids said. And I wholeheartedly agreed.

There are times when you feel so alive, moments you wouldn’t trade for anything. And that was one of them.

Like yesterday, in the children’s garden at MSU, when Shaya told his name to a little 3-year-old girl and asked hers. They ran through the Alice in Wonderland maze and over the green bridge, trampled on the pavilion seating and wandered through the pine tree playhouse.

When it was time to go, Shaya waved and then walked up to Kennedy and through his arms around her. “Bye Kennedy,” he said.

And as we steered the car away through the winding campus roads, he was melancholy in the back seat. “I miss my friend Kennedy,” he said.

The moments. Little jewels. The sky was gray yesterday and Asher’s soccer team lost their final game of the season terribly. A shut-out. One boy sat on the picnic table at the edge of the field, wholly disinterested in playing another game. He won’t be back next season. He is trading soccer for tennis, looking for answers in another sport.

What was good about today? I asked Eliana at bedtime. 

Sunday school. Playing at the playground. The garden at MSU. Seeing Amanda. Being with you.

Jewels. Little things. The moments.

And a new week is dawning.

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Mommy, what do you think the future looks like? If there is a future, that is.

This from my 7-year-old at dinner last night. Lamb chops and couscous, pizza for those not so inclined toward meat on a Sunday.

“If there IS a future?”

Well, if we don’t reduce the carbon footprint, the earth will explode. Deductive reasoning for a second-grader, but oh so fatalistic.

I looked into his peering blue eyes, the concern pooling like a wading pool on a summer hike. He truly believed the world could end imminently and that only we could stop it. What a burden for small narrow shoulders.

“We can only do what we can do, honey,” I said.

We can take a vote. We can tell everyone in the country, and then in other countries, until we tell everyone in the world that they have to change their habits to save the world.

“I think you should work toward a future as an activist,” I said.

I cleared the dishes from the table, and my daughter and I set about making a cake in the Easy Bake Oven. The baby stood alongside his sister on a kitchen chair to frost the small round treat. Eliana poured too many sprinkles on top of the chocolate frosting. It took the two of them 3 minutes to ingest the entire thing.

Then, we climbed into my bed to read books. Eliana brought The Lorax. Where was Asher when we were to read a metaphor for industrial damage?

“I love this book,” Eliana said.

It’s a metaphor, I said.

“What’s that?”

When a story seems to mean one thing but really means another, I said. This one is about a made-up creature called The Lorax but really it’s about the damage humans have done to the environment with their factories.

“I like the Truffula trees,” she said. “They’re pretty.”

And we watched as the pages turned and the trees disappeared, and the sun hid, and the smog clouds covered the landscape, and the fish walked away on their fins, and the brown Barbaloots suffered crummies in their tummies and everyone had to leave but the Once-ler.

It ends on an up note, though. The Once-ler tosses the listening visitor the very last seed to plant a Truffula tree and start the world over again. And we close the book, thinking it’ll happen and the landscape will change.

Asher was in the bathroom while I read the book. I called to him and urged him to come, but he was reading his own tome and waiting for me to clean his ears. I didn’t know. “I can’t read minds, you know,” I told him as I tucked him into bed.

Can I show you the books in this Illustrated Classics series? he asked.

“Of course, honey.” And we set about counting how many we’ve read and how many we have yet to read.

Belief that you can change the world is the quintessential characteristic of an entrepreneur. And my little boy is off to a great start.

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It has been so long since I’ve visited here. The vanilla aroma of the lit candle flickers before me and the music on the stereo beats in time. Coffee steams in the mug. The window is closed for the night was cold.

There have been undulations this week, but there always are. I am remembering Vancouver now because it was quiet and serene, peaceful and low-lit. There were afternoons to stroll through and mountainsides beckoning.

The water lapped as it always does along the shore and away again. The oysters contained salt from the sea. The boats on the horizon waited for me. They beckoned a finger and I walked in their direction. I almost believe there were mermaids under the surface.

And now it is cold in Michigan. I don’t run from the cold, but it is early to be bundled into mittens. The children have already had hot chocolate twice, the canister from Ghirardelli in all its creamy reassurance.

This week has proven that decisions are made in earnest and everything does happen for a reason. It has been a week of long days and warm bodies cuddling between blankets and books. It has been a week of acrimonious exes and that is just par for the eventual course. Anyone who takes on the status of an ex has a cross to burn. Or maybe it’s a mission to uncover.

In the dark of the sunrise, the words chop into ingredients. I am mixing a stew, a batter to pour, the building blocks of something sustaining. Yesterday, I got the email that an editor has moved on, from Des Moines to Milwaukee. His colleague was let go in the economy downturn of this unbelievable year. Who is left? I have not pitched the ball in so long, I have no idea who’s catching.

But change is good. It is the fabric of the day, a cloak under which to readjust the hem and pat hair into place.

And to emerge – oh, to emerge! The sun is about to rise you know. It always does. The day will warm, too. There is no reason for despair. Even the most difficult of interactions ends in time and then it is on to a citrus scent which awakens the soul.

I believe the farmers market has a few good weekends left. Perhaps it is time to see what is ripe, to buy into the harvest. They always have something to try – tomatoes, with juice to dribble down the chin. And there is music, too. Someone to sing at the microphone as the stream gurgles along its path.

Yes, just sitting here and becoming reacquainted, this was important. It is a reminder that I am exactly where I should be and the stories are telling themselves.

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We supped over seafood and salad and in the course of conversation, she introduced the idea of a list.

“Well it was on my list, so I did it,” she said, wrinkling her nose as I slurped an oyster.

“Your list?”

“Yes. I have a list of things I must do in my life, and eating a raw oyster was on it, so I did it. I didn’t like it. I can’t stand the slimy things.”

Ahhh. The list. She also let herself be passed up in the student section at a college football game because it was on the list and dared to try other things that stumped, scared or otherwise repelled her, simply because it was on the list.

And so I left in the dark of the night, plucked the parking ticket off my car, and wondered what I would put on my list if I had one. I guess there is an informal, unspoken one already in effect.

Hiking alone in mountains unfamiliar to me. Check. Traveling to unknown destinations solo. Check. Eating in a restaurant alone. Check. Lots of alone things. Getting divorced without guarantee of future love. Check, check, check.

But would I sky-dive? Nope. Water-ski? Done it. Downhill slalom? No longer of interest. Hike the continental divide? Not even remotely. So what would I put on my list? And what would you put on yours? And what is the purpose of having such a list, of crossing things off, for the supreme satisfaction of having done them?

Last week, the founder of The Gap died. Don Fisher was 81 and succumbed to cancer. When he left this world, his business brainchild had reached the post of one of the world’s largest apparel retailers, with 3,145 stores and $14.5 billion in sales last year.

And while I grew up on jeans, plaids and khakis from this find-it-everywhere store, I never realized the meaning behind the name. From the Wall Street Journal obituary:

Mr. Fisher wasn’t known as a merchant or fashion designer. Rather, he propelled his business with an intense competitive drive and a passion for real estate…Gap became known as an iconic brand that made it the most profitable clothier in the U.S. during the 1990s. He set out to create a new kind of clothing store to fill “The Gap” he saw in retailing.

I am fascinated by his business pluck and the concept of spinning a brand out of the void. I am also impressed with his relative anonymity and his dedication to charity.

Mr. Fisher and his wife of 56 years, Doris, used their wealth to build an extensive art collection and support education. The pair has donated more than $100 million to the Knowledge is Power Program charter schools and Teach for America.

What is on your list? And what legacy are you leaving? Does anything you do make a difference?

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