Clearing The Way

The Day the Dirt Work Began

There’s a sight I won’t forget- the first fallen trees in our woods.

It was the start of foundation work—our house is on her way, and the land had to be cleared to make space for her new home. Necessary, yes. But not easy.

We walked the woods with flags and plans in hand, mapping where the foundation would sit. The footprint seemed so small on paper, but in the forest… it asked a lot.

Each tree taken down felt like a goodbye.
Some of them, I had known for years—silent companions to seasons, shade-givers, keepers of birdsong.
And as each one fell, I whispered a promise:

“I see you. I’m sorry. I’ll make it matter.”

It was more than sentiment. It was grief.
Grief for what had to be lost to make something new.

The sunlight now pours into that clearing—more than I expected. It’s bright and open where it used to feel hidden and enchanted. That light, while beautiful, felt like it came at a cost. It changed the space. It took some of the quiet, the mystery.

But even as I mourned the shift, I reminded myself: this is not the end of the magic.
This is the beginning of its return.

Because she’s coming. The house.

She’ll root here soon, right where the trees once stood. And with her arrival will come new layers of life: moss and mulch and garden beds. Windows that look out to wild things. The slow return of vines, native plants, bees and blossoms.

I made a promise—to the trees that were taken and to the ones that remain.
I will replant. I will restore. I will care.

And enchantment will come back to this place.

It will come in the steps leading to the front door. In the swing that hangs from a new tree someday. In the wildflowers that fill the edges of the path.
It will come when old wood meets new soil and history settles into place.

This isn't just dirt work. It's sacred ground-breaking.

A home is coming. And so is the healing.