We can learn a lot from nature if we pay attention.

Have you noticed the way the trees throw down their roots?
They reach deep into the ground,
spreading low and far,
creating a firm foundation for the tall height it will reach.

These roots find their place first.
Before the height comes the depth.
A firm foundation.

Then it grows, and grows and grows.
and stretches itself far into the sky,
as high as it can go,
reaching out.

And when the wind comes it does not break,
it bends.
It bends to the left and then to the right in a sort of dance.

It’s roots keep it firmly planted in the earth
and the tree does not fight against the elements,
but has learned to move with it.

For the wind is not it’s enemy,
though it blows and blows.
No, the wind has a purpose.
As it blows through the branches of the tree, it throws off the old, dead parts. The branches that didn’t make it;
The needles that dried up.
And it spreads the new:
the seeds in their pods, in their cones.
It carries them to the places on the earth to regenerate.
Everything working together to regenerate life.

And its in watching nature that I realize,
everything will be okay.
It might get really bad,
{It already is},

But I have hope,
as evidenced in nature,

that everything will be okay.

There’s something about this season that pulls us into the present. It asks us to slow down, to notice, to feel. To hold on and let go, sometimes in the very same breath.

I’m not a professional writer, just someone who enjoys finding meaning in small moments. I loved writing this piece, and I hope it resonates with you too.

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Peach Fuzz

I barely make it to the counter before dropping the produce I just bought all over the floor. My two youngest kids race around me, zig zagging through the kitchen with nerf dart guns. “Outside!” I yell in the toughest mom voice I can muster, but really, I don’t mind. Summers at the Cape are something I look forward to all year long. Our family has been coming here since I was a kid. My sisters and I would run wild around the house terrorizing the adults while they too tried to shoo us outside, exasperated at our youthful energy. My grandmother would just laugh and chase after us, only to call us back in later to “taste-test” whatever she was making for dessert that night.

“Mmm, coffee,” my father grunts as he ambles towards the coffee pot. “Morning, Dad.”

I smile.

With his white hair tufts sticking in every direction and his old man robe, my dad has become the cutest thing to me in the past few years. No longer the strong, unshakeable figure of my youth, age has slowed him down and softened him up. It had shrunk him a little, too.

“Morning, Jessy Boo.” He smiles and comes in to give me a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re up early.” He muses then turns back to the coffee pot. There’s not a thing on this earth my dad loves more than his coffee in the morning.

“Yeah, I had to get up early to make sure I got the best peaches because you…” I stopped. He was already walking away, coffee in hand, no doubt to his favorite chair in the living room where he’d spend the morning reading the news and the rest of the day complaining about it.

I chuckle to myself and refill my coffee tumbler. The Farmer’s Market was alive this morning with other shoppers competing for the best fruits and vegetables. I always make my way to the peach stand first, just like Grandma taught me when I was little.

“The best peaches are the early morning ones that haven’t been squished or sniffed by everyone,” she’d say. I remember as a little girl imagining people sniffing the peaches, their runny noses leaving slug trails on the fuzzy sides. Even as an adult I can’t get that image out of my mind, so I’m always there right at opening before anyone else has had a chance to touch them.

I pull the first peach out of the bag. It’s summer perfection. The epitome of long lazy days wrapped up in soft, fuzzy skin. Its tangy scent takes me back to the summer I turned 16 and tasted love for the first time.

I was at the town’s 4^th of July fireworks show with my family. My aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins – everyone was there. After a while, I just needed a break from it all. Seeking an escape, I asked if I could go buy a soda. Knowingly, Grandma pressed a $5 into my hand and with a wink whispered, “Just be back before the show starts.” She was a saint.

I took my time walking over to the stands and got in line. That’s when I first saw him. He was a few people in front of me and a good head taller than most of them. He wore a royal blue baseball hat low on his head, which made his hair flip out at the bottom (and butterflies flip out in my stomach). Every now and then he’d turn his head sideways and I got a glimpse of his handsome profile and angular jaw. As if he could feel my gaze, he turned and locked eyes with me. Mortified, I quickly looked away. Omg did he really just catch me staring at him? Blood rushed to my cheeks. How embarrassing. When I got the nerve to look his way again, he was up at the register. The line inched forward, and I tried to figure out something to do with my arms. Be cool.
I glanced his way again, but he was already gone. A quiet disappointment settled in before I could stop it.

Then suddenly, he was there—standing beside me.

“Hey,” he said.

I looked up, surprised.
He held my gaze for a moment, then asked, softly,
“Do I know you?”

“Oh, hey. Um, I don’t think so?”
“You look familiar. What’s your name?” He asked.
“Jess.”
“Hi Jess, I’m Nick.” His easy smile reached his eyes. “Do you live around here?”
“No, but I come here every summer with my family.”
“Ah, maybe that’s it.” He smiled wider, seeming to relax. His arms were full, but he extended one hand holding a cold drink out to me. I looked at it and laughed as we awkwardly fist bumped.
“It’s nice to meet you.” We locked eyes again. God, he’s cute, I thought.
“Where are you sitting?” he asked.
“We’re just over there,” I said pointing to the right side of the crowd.
“And who is ‘we’?” He tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows comically.
“My family.” I laugh.
“No boyfriend?”
“No boyfriend.” I can’t seem to stop smiling.
“Good.”
“What about you?” I ask, raising my eyebrows back at him.
“No boyfriend either!” He shakes his head and we both laugh.
The line moves up again and suddenly I’m next in line to order.
“Would you want to hang out a little before the fireworks start? I have to run over and drop these things off first, but we could meet back here in say, 10 minutes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, see you soon, Jess. Don’t be late.” He turns and walks away.

That was the first of many nights we spent together that summer. He was 17 and lived just a mile from the house we were renting. My family insisted I bring him over so they could meet him—and, as my dad put it, “make sure he’s not a Cowboys fan.”

Nick got along easy with everyone. “She’s been bit by the love bug,” I once overheard my grandma say as I ran out one evening to meet him.

That was the night everything changed. Summer was ending and I felt panicky that we were leaving soon. Nick hugged me and kissed me and told me we’d be okay, but inside, I knew it wouldn’t. We laid a blanket in the tall grass and made love for the first time under the waning August moon to the sound of crashing waves and a choir of crickets.

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“MOM, where have you been?!” The peach slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud, jolting me out of the memory. Janie yanks open the refrigerator door and leans in—my sweet, angsty teen.

“I’m like so hungry.”
“Have you tried eating?” I deadpan. This gets me well-deserved eyeroll.
“I mean it. I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat!”

I look at her, long, lanky and beautiful leaning into the open fridge. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she wrapped her chubby little legs around my waist as I danced with her around the living room?

“If you can wait, I’ll throw together some eggy burritos when I’m done putting this stuff away.”
“Fine.” She closes the fridge and looks at me for the first time that morning. “Did you get peaches to make Grandma’s Pie?” I pick up the now bruised peach and present it to her.
“Of course I did.” I hold my arms out and smile adoringly at my firstborn. She walks over and wilts into me, letting me wrap her in a bear hug. I smell the top of her head and breathe her in.
Bone of my bone. “Call me when the burritos are ready.” She pushes off me and stalks out of the kitchen.
Flesh of my flesh.

Early motherhood wasn’t my finest season. The days were long, the years were short, and nights were an eternity. But before all that, I’ll never forget the joy of holding my first baby in my arms.

Labor pains started around 11 the night before she was born. At first, the contractions were slow and manageable.
“Like bad period cramps,” I told Josh, a little too confidently.

But as the night wore on, they kept getting worse—sharper, closer, harder to breathe through.
When they finally hit five minutes apart, I was panting.
“It’s time to go,” I said.

I labored through the early morning hours. By the time the doctor said it was time to push, I was already there.
My body didn’t need permission—it moved with instinct, guided by something deeper, something ancient and feminine.

I wasn’t just birthing a baby; I was birthing a new version of myself.
I pushed for life—hers and mine—and labored us both into the next chapter of our lives.

Forty-five minutes later, Janie was born. Her fierce cries pierced the quiet room, and the nurses cheered. When the doctor placed her in my arms for the first time, the tears flowed freely. I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I couldn’t believe that this tiny miracle was mine to keep. I looked at Josh whose own eyes were overflowing. “She’s beautiful, Jess,” he whispered. “Just like you.”

The nurses soon took Janie to be washed, weighed, and measured while the doctor looked after me. Finally, they brought her back, swaddled in a pink hospital blanket. “Like a little burrito.” I chuckled to myself.

I spent the morning staring at her precious face. I couldn’t believe this was my baby. I watched as her tiny chest rose up and down with each little breath. I caressed her arms with the tips of my fingers, savoring their softness. The tiny little hairs reminded me of peach fuzz. I was smitten and more in love with life than I’d ever been.

“Do you need help with those?” I turned to see my mother smiling at me as she makes her way into the kitchen. “Oh, no thanks, Mom.” I turn and start pulling the rest of the peaches from the bag.

“Mmm, those look good. Your Grandma would be proud.”
She’s next to me now, reaching into the bag to help even though I told her I didn’t need it.

My Grandmother’s peach pies were a staple during the summers we spent here when I was growing up. After she died, it was Mom who insisted we keep making them every summer.

“Everyone loves them—we can’t let tradition die!” she’d say. But I think it was really her way of keeping my grandma alive.
Sometimes, I’d hear her talking to her, like she was still right there in the kitchen beside her.

Grandma passed a few years ago. Though she was in her eighties, it had still come as a shock. My grandma was in good health for her age. She went on daily walks, volunteered at the local food shelter, and met up with her neighbor to play pinochle. I had just dropped the kids off at school when I got the call.

“Jess?” The shake in my mom’s voice told me immediately that something was wrong.
“Mom? Is everything ok?”
“It’s Grandma, honey. She’s had a stroke.”
“Oh my God, Mom! Is she ok?”
“Well,” she paused, “We don’t really know. They rushed her to the hospital in an ambulance. She’s there now, but she’s in a coma.”

I panicked. Not Grandma! She’s too young, too healthy. This can’t be happening.

Somehow, I drove home. Mom told me to wait until she called with more news, so I paced around the house in a daze. When she finally did, there wasn’t much more to know. She had the stroke while at the food shelter and someone called an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, they were able to stabilize her, but she didn’t regain consciousness. The doctor said that while this was common, there was no way to know if or when she’d wake up. But due to her age, it didn’t look good.

I visited Grandma in the hospital every day until the end came. She never did wake up. The doctors and nurses were kind and gave us the time and space we needed to process the inevitable. We knew Grandma would want us to let her go if it came to this. But even knowing that didn’t make it any easier. When a week passed with no change, we had to face the truth—she wasn’t going to wake up.

The day before we said goodbye, I asked if I could have a moment alone with her—just once more.

I sat beside her bed late into the evening. She looked so peaceful lying there in the glow of the bedside lamp. I took one of her hands and gently stroked it. Her skin was so soft. I traced the large veins that pushed up from under her skin. So delicate.
I couldn’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks or hold in the sobs any longer.

“My grandma. I’m not ready to let you go.”

I cradled her hand against my wet cheek, squeezing it and kissing it.

“Please wake up. Please, Grandma. Please…” I begged in vain, willing her to move, to give a sign she was still in there. My heart ached. I couldn’t imagine a world without her.

As another transition unfolded before me, the foundations of my world shifted once again.

Eventually my tears slowed. I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and blew my nose. I kissed her hand one last time and cradled it against my cheek. So soft and smooth, like the peaches she’d use for making pies at the summer house.

I shook my head, pulling myself out of the memory and back into the kitchen. A few tears had escaped, and I swiped them away. What is with me today? I picked up one of the peaches and breathed in its summery scent once more. So many big memories packed into such a tiny fruit.

I looked out the window then to see my mom with a giant nerf gun in her hand lost in a dart war with my two younger kids. I put the grocery bags away quickly and hurried outside to join them.

Breakfast could wait a few more minutes and tonight, we’d bake peach pie.

But for now—we’d play.

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At one point, I must’ve pushed too far. I can’t remember what I did to piss my parents off so bad, but I’ll never forget when my dad decided the rightful punishment was to burn my Nirvana poster in the fireplace. Lord have mercy that I don’t repeat the same misgivings of my parents. I just sat there on the couch, tears rolling down my cheeks, sobbing at the injustice of it all.

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Middle School encapsulated that beautiful time in life where we rebelled for no reason and every reason—to test limits, to taste freedom, to see how far we could expand. We felt everything and saw everything all at once… depression, suicide attempts, grunge, french kissing, hands slipping beneath waistbands in the dark corners of a theater, a friend’s dad caught in an affair, hallway fights, and bus stop beat downs. And the ‘90s delivered the perfect soundtrack: Nirvana, Green Day, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden amplified our collective budding rage.

Sometimes I still feel that youthful chaos running through my veins, a reminder of the girl I was, the girl who still stews inside me, sneering at authority figures, questioning the systems at play, rolling her eyes at the status quo, and screaming into the void.

Last week, a 6th grader at my daughter’s middle school tried to take her own life in a bathroom stall. I don’t know what else to say, except that it happened.

When I was in 7^th grade, a friend swallowed a handful of ibuprofen at school in an attempt to kill herself. Nick had broken up with her, but there was probably more to the story, more to her reasons for no longer wanting to live that I didn’t know about at the time. Thankfully, she was fine. She was rushed to the hospital by ambulance and had her stomach pumped. I remember thinking how awful that would be, to have my stomach pumped…

Into the Void

It’s wild, standing here now as a mom, watching these kids walk through the very fire we once danced in.

They leave behind their brightly painted elementary schools and are thrust into halls thick with hormones, angst, and the ache of figuring out who they are—and how they fit into the world.

One part of me cringes at what they’ll be exposed to.
But the other part knows: this is their rite of passage. A necessary chaos.
It’s a part of growing up.

Adolescence was, is, and will always be a long, sustained scream into the void.
A cry of existence, declaring: I am here.
We are here.
We are alive.

And they’re just warming up their vocal cords.

Because it’s only when we go silent that we begin to disappear.
And it’s only in silence that we die.

To the young teenager:
I hope you scream.
I hope you scream into bathroom stalls, into hallways, and into the silence. Carve out your existence!
Be a siren and sound your warning when you see that
the systems we’ve built and permitted to continue, are making us sick.

You are the canaries in the coal mine.
Don’t stop singing.

To the forty-something year old parent:
I hope you scream, too.
I hope you scream into bathroom stalls, into pillowcases, into policies.
Be the siren, sound the warning:
the systems we’ve built, the systems we’ve allowed, are making us sick.
And now they’re making our children sick, too.

You are the canaries.
Find your voice and
Don’t stop singing.
Please, don’t stop singing.

Once the initial paperwork was signed and in the faithful hands of our realtors, the owners of the home asked to meet with us. We set up a meeting at the villa for the following week.

We walked through the courtyard and onto the vine covered terrace where we first saw Juan and Debra. Juan, a Spanish man in his 70s, speaks very little English. Debra, on the other hand, is a Minnesota native who fell in love with a dark-haired Spaniard and uprooted her American life to spend her days with him in the Spanish countryside.

They had lived in Casa Durillo for over 20 years, becoming its second owners after purchasing it from an Italian family who built it in the late 1960s. Over time, they lovingly renovated and updated the villa, making it their own. Debra brought a photo album to show us how the property had evolved through the years and across seasons. She pointed out images of a once-thriving garden where she grew all the ingredients for her favorite Spanish treat—gazpacho. Together, she and Juan had planted the fruit trees that now flourished in the lower orchard.

At one point, Debra looked at us and exclaimed, ‘Where have you guys been? We’ve been waiting for you!’ She told us they had always hoped to see children running around the property, a family truly enjoying it. The fact that we were fellow Americans probably helped, too.

As our time together came to an end, Juan took Chris’s hand and led him around the property, showing him how things worked and pointing out details he wanted him to know. Chris felt honored and later remarked that it was like holding his own grandfather’s hand.

When it was time to say goodbye, we embraced warmly. Juan and Debra had poured their hearts and hard work into Casa Durillo—it had been their home for many years. Our hope was to honor that legacy as we stepped into ownership.

The paperwork took a few more months to finalize. Buying property in Spain is similar to buying in the U.S.—just slower. 🙂

You put down earnest money, get a home valuation (appraisal), and schedule a survey (inspection). Then comes signing a mountain of documents (thankfully, digital signatures exist) and making the deposit. We handled most of this from our home in California, navigating it all through emails, WhatsApp messages, FaceTime, and a mix of Spanglish—or maybe Cast-lish?

For a while, we only told our family. We were still unsure if something might happen at the last minute to derail the sale. Buying a home in another country felt uncertain and unpredictable

Finally, in late October 2022, the sale was final—Casa Durillo was officially ours! The keys were handed over to our realtor, who would keep them safe until we could return. That night, Chris and I poured ourselves a glass of Spanish wine and officially renamed Casa Durillo Villa de la Luz—’Village of the Light.’ We toasted to our next great adventure, grateful for the journey that had brought us here.

None of it would have been possible without our incredible real estate team, who patiently translated and guided us through every step of the process. And, as is typical in Spain, some of them have become like familia to us.

A few months before, a buyer from the UK had placed an offer, but was struggling to secure a visa due to complications caused by Brexit. Although this posed a hurdle, Nico assured us it wouldn’t necessarily harm our chances of having our offer accepted.

He’d draw up the paperwork and get it to us that night.
We shook hands, kissed cheeks, and left the square in slight disbelief and a little buzzed.

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Greedy Americans

The next couple of weeks served as an exercise in faith and patience. While the seller loosely accepted our offer, they wanted to be fair to the potential buyer from the UK. They gave them one week to get their visa in order and move forward with the purchase, or they would move on to us.

I felt a myriad of feelings that week: excitement, fear, worry, impatience, certainty, uncertainty, and so forth. Would the other buyer come through with the visa in a Hail Mary move to win the house? Or would we intercept them at the pass? We spent that week getting our own affairs in order in case things worked out in our favor.

The week eventually came to an end with no movement on the other buyer’s end and the gauntlet passed to us.

That scene in Under The Tuscan Sun where Diane Lane steals the house from the other buyers kept running through my mind:

“You greedy Americans. You think you’re so entitled. You ruin everything!“

“A lot of us feel really badly about that.”

Wells, Audrey, director. Under the Tuscan Sun. Touchstone Pictures, 2003.

Though I’m not sure I felt so bad. Casa Durillo was OURS! Or, at least we had a chance. Ahead of us lay a mountain of obstacles but Chris and I were certain: moving forward was the next right step.

To be continued…

Casa Durillo had been on the market for over a year already and I could see why. The pictures were low quality and showed quite a bit of clutter. But it had a pool and a large property, which was rare this close to the pueblo. I knew we had to see it. I told Chris about it and we set up an appointment with the realtor for the following week.


Casa Durillo

Nothing could have prepared me for the way I felt walking onto the property for the first time. The large iron gate opened up to reveal a beautiful Spanish villa with dark wood shutters, colorful painted tiles, and white washed walls adorned by blooming bougainvilleas. It was magical.

We toured the outdoors area of the property first. The current owner had taken great care to curate a beautiful landscape complete with a variety of flowering plants, native trees, and an vast array of succulents. At the lower part of the property lay an orchard filled with trees producing oranges, almonds, olives, grapefruit and more. Nestled on one side of the orchard were two crumbling concrete benches, now uneven and leaning a little as the ground shifted over time. I love old things and this crumbling relic of the past felt like a treasure.

To say I was enamored by the property is a harsh understatement; I was in love. We toured the house next and once again, I got caught up in the magic of discovery. We followed terracotta tiles down hallways that gave way to what seemed room after room. Though over-stuffed with furniture, boxes, and years of clutter, I could see this house was a rare gem.

We walked out the front door to views of the deep blue Mediterranean sparkling in the July sun. Shaking hands with the selling realtor, we promised we'd be in touch. Once outside the gate, our realtor Nico looked at us with raised eyebrows and said, "How about we go for a beer?"

A Dream

A few nights prior to our viewing of Casa Durillo, I had a dream about a house.

Chris and I were walking around a village in a foreign country, trying to find the location of a house we wanted to buy. Upon finding it, we snuck inside as if we weren't supposed to be there. The owner and their family still lived in it so we quietly snuck around their personal belongings. At one point, the three daughters showed up. They told us that they'd leave some things for our kids to keep when they moved out. And as dreams go, in the next scene they had moved out.

I'm not sure what the dream meant. I don't think it was necessarily prophetic in nature since I often dream of houses. However, I think it may have been the catalyst to searching the listings on our friends' real estate website.

As we drove into the village to meet Nico, Chris and I talked over the possibility of putting in an offer. We were completely surprised and stunned by how much we both loved it.

But what about our plans for Portugal? We have appointments and tours already scheduled. Do we really want to buy in Mijas? Is it a good investment? Does it make sense?

Twenty minutes later, we were drinking beers while Nico rolled a cigarette.
"Well, what do we want to do?" He asked in that straightforward no-bullshit manner of his.

To be continued...