Lit from a window with dark and drama as if a Vermeer farm house woman painted on old canvas, weathered and worn with time. Where is my pitcher, my cup, a book held just so, or an open letter draped in my perfectly poised hand?
Instead, I loom mighty over a laptop, screen cold blue and buzzing, surreal, unimaginable back in baroque days. Both the computer and me.
The window is open. Damp air thick, smelling of wood smoke wafting from another clean up fire Bob is burning. And the sound of roosters competing in a crowing match, one on the river side, one by the garden. Diligent guards, knowing the hawks are close by. Allowing their ladies to peck and scratch through the fresh layer of damp decay.
And always, over and through it all, here has an ever present thrum of river. The sound a ubiquitous murmur, something that’s always there though so familiar you don’t always hear. Similar to that of traffic I was once used to in other days and feeling far away lands. This is what I hear, here and now.
A gray day. Ancient oaks with spindly outstretched arms like old woman’s fingers, gnarled and swollen from too many years gripping the shovel, the hoe, the broom, the wooden spoon; stand silent over ground matted with leaves still a robust brown covering ever green grass and rich black earth.
The writing desk, before which I’m perched, and upon which my lap top resides, this week brings me out beyond this familiar view to strange places on the open road where I once was. It’s that vibrant green and lush of late spring. The sound is of horses walking in unison, clip clop on some unnamed logging road or alongside a foreboding highway where cars and trucks zip by without meeting eyes or noticing the oddity of a woman riding along miles and miles of barbed wire fences, locked gates and “no trespassing” signs, still somewhere in the north of California.
A Long Quiet Ride, coming back to life in words. It’s not always easy to share. Of course it was harder to do. How does one share what happened out there? How do I bring you with me?
Conserving my words as I sit and stare out the window above my desk.
Wanting them to flow forth for the work at hand.
The book that’s stirring, simmering and working its way out of me now.
Yet poems are what mess around in my mind.
And what can a gal do but play with them, with a mischievous smile and twinkling, rolling gray eyes?
Evening now, leaning back with bent knees.
The familiar feel of warm worn leather holding the bones of my back.
I’m on one side of the sofa.
You are on the other.
Your feet are bare, broad, firm and warm.
While mine look half your size, wrapped in striped wool socks, holes in the toes worn through from wet leather boots left by the door beneath a dripping slicker.
Feet entangled, intertwined. An easy touch. Mindless and comforting as toes play with one another, finding familiar places to be.
While rain pounds down outside onto saturated deck shiny with water coating each old wood board, shimmering alive with pounding rain. And inside the old wood cook stove crackles and casts an amber glow into the half lit room smelling of the last of this seasons roses, rubbed down dogs drying by the fire, and chicken soup simmering on the stove.
We’re quiet.
You are softly spoken.
Teaching me to conserve my words.
A challenge for this rambling mind.
Lost in thought as silent phrases spill across pages of the notebook pressed against my thighs.
As I look up to meet your eyes, looking into, through you and back into me.
Entangled.
With words.
Sitting alone with my muse.
This weekend was rich with poems, poets and a coffee buzz. It’s hard not to succumb to the words that dance in my mind and twirl along my tongue as I read them aloud.
Real. Raw. A little rough around the edges. No frills and nothing fancy.
Some days unsettled in shifting clouds, stirred by wild winds within and around me.
Other days grounded in terra firma, pummeled by fall rains, nourishing dormant seeds, creative seeds, growing enough to give a part the self to others. Because what is life without something to share?
The other day, I had this revelation. A big one. It hit me:
I’m happy.
A year away from 60 and finally having grown into my skin. (Notice I still won’t say grown up.)
That skin’s a little loose and wrinkled, now weathered like driftwood and aged like well worn levi jeans. It is familiar; it fits me well. Finally at home in my skin, here or there, or someplace yet to be. But always a wild place. A quiet place. With plenty of room to roam.
And today at least, there is no place I would rather be. No time I would rather return to. No life I would rather have than mine. In all its imperfections, complications, confusions, and curiosities.
I am as happy as I’ve never been.
I have never felt more whole.
Not despite flaws, fuck-ups, wrinkles, wrong doings and imperfections. But perhaps because of them all.
The road map of my life so far, etched across my face.
The woman as seasons. Each of us a leaf on a big beautiful tree.
Here and now as I watch those leaves fall and trees left bare and my skin weathers and hair grays, this is where I am.
Our lives are each a work of art.
This is what I created. So far.
Already an ocean of wondrous waves that somehow I managed to ride. Some that lifted me high, others pulled me down, yet mostly there is floating, out there on the open sea with the big blue or black above, open and seemingly endless, holding me as I rest, nourishing for whatever wave comes next.
The highs are based on love. Birthing, mothering, parenting and evolving into adult friends with my son. Forming a strong, supporting and enduring equal partnership with my lover – something I never felt worthy of. Dogs and horses and learning to commit with courageous heart in this ever changing world, with ever evolving relations. Being true to my calling, creative expression, the art of of writing, and crafting a quiet, wild life. Somehow I managed to build my own box, yet not get stuck inside it. Remaining true to being the outdoor cat, somewhat feral, fleeting and self sufficient.
And the downs, to date, admittedly there have been a few. All the challenges, from poverty and placelessness, loneliness and single parenting, drinking and depression – these were part of the picture too. These have been my teachers, the wise ones gifting compassion, empathy, understanding, and true wisdom based on the balance of heart and mind, first hand. And grit. Definitely a lot of grit. Without much for formal education, I was not formed. Instead I learned to dig in the ground with bare hands, find raw clay and form my life myself. Inspired by the natural worlds where I found myself, I have tried to make it beautiful, wild and free, full of creativity and curiosity, passion and peace, respect and responsibility, and above all, love.
Of course there are things I regret. The hardest was wishing I was more present for my son rather than struggling to make ends meet and prove my worth to others who didn’t matter near as much as he did. And things I wish I had learned earlier. Going sober tops that list.
At times I wish I had a crystal ball to portend my future and lead me the right way. Instead time is the wise one and will share her wisdom with me as she unfurls in seasons yet to come. And all I can do is accept what she brings me, hopefully with grit and grace and gratitude. All the while, remaining a little wild and holding onto a childlike mind that finds beauty and magic and wonder and awe every day.
How long will this wave last?
I have lived enough to know that nothing lasts forever.
And with each passing wave, we learn about balance and flow.
For now, I am here.
This morning I sit out in diffused sun beneath a waving veil of high clouds. Eyes closed. Lulled by the song of the river, blending high notes from flickers and phoebes, chatter from dippers and jays, and a light wind softly trembling through the last holding leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks. And ever the refrain of the river harmonizing wild and free as the blood that flows through me, inspires me, fires me, and keeps me afloat.
I walk the trail paved with fallen leaves and emerging mushrooms and lingering thoughts I cannot shake free from my mind. Big leaves, oaks orange and brown, vibrant aspen gold of maples leaves the size of dinner plates, and dogwoods’ delicate reds, ranging from rich crimson to a dreamy peachy pink like water color spilled across the page.
The season inspires poetic words I long to master of emotions tamed like circus lions, emotions that pass by as quickly as these leaves are stripped from tree by rousing wind in which my soul surges, and my heart feels very very warm, somehow settled, an unusual feeling for me.
We run to catch the leaves. Yet our rapid movements make the leaves dance in a maddening unpredictability we cannot control nor capture.
Instead we sit on the deck beneath the old trees, where silent and still, a leaf gently falls into outstretched, opened hands.
It is a good place to be.
A pause between rains.
One day the river rages, thick and silty. The next, a calm clear flow.
But the pathway remains the same. Banks like skin, like soul, containing, confining, defining.
Somehow through it all, though every moment brings different waters, the river remains.
Changing, and yet, unchanged.
And I wonder, are we not the same? Though parts may soften, as water to stone, slowly over time, chiseling away coarse edges, washing away the ever altered surface into grains of sand, softening with time and age. A sandbar moves from here to there. Banks scoured. Rocks tumble and settle anew. Fish battle their way upwards as entire trees are swept away and brought out to sea.
That is my course.
That is where and I how I flow. At least for now.
Some days wild and raging, brown and turbulent, roaring like thunder in steel gray skies.
Other days gentle, buoyant, holding soft and quiet as a trickle as I sit here alone, sun burning golden through closed eyelids.
Mystery prevails the process.
Edges blur. Sides merge. Like oil on canvas as the brush takes another stroke.
Finding beauty both in the creating and the creation and all the wonders of this imperfect life.
In that time and space between here and there and somewhere else, there is this.
A slow gentle unfurling. Of the breath, of your heart, of all the crazy busy things we all have to do and should have done yesterday but really, you know, can wait.
A time to smell the roses, quite literally in this case, in the garden, as blooms begin their annual renaissance and the grande display for nose and eyes begins one petal at a time.
In the days before we leave here and head there, there is time to lay back in the lush grass of the garden and revel in the roses just coming on, heavy and bending and fragrant and bright.
Just enough time.
There has to be.
What matters more?
One more milled board, mowed lawn, window washed, garden bed weeded, or top of cupboard cleaned?
Well, maybe.
But no. Take time. Make time. There is time.
Would my life go on if I missed a weed? What about if I missed this moment?
I’m trying to remain present. Here and now. Be her now, you know how it goes.
Love where I am which is not hard to do as there is so much to love.
Vibrant green meadows, glossy new full leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks, baby chicks hidden in the jungle that the grass is growing into, swelling fruit on peach trees. Geese and ravens, redwing and quail, and the phoebe that has nested in the eve above the picnic table every year since we’ve been here. Horses fat and sassy needing to be escorted into the barn at night because really, leaving that lush meadow is not what they choose to do. The new dog running circles around the old dog (funny since the old dog was the young one just a few years ago).
And yes, those roses.
I sit out on the steps at night under the light of the waxing moon, tired sore and sunburned from a full day which for so many of us is an integral part of spring, and a calm sense of anticipation washes over me, soft and silver as the light in the cloudless night sky.
A heavy letting go.
I have left and returned before.
The calm before the chaos. Twenty days before we load the horses and chickens and last of the lumber we milled and make our way across Highway 50, heading to the high country of Colorado to break ground.
Leaving our little bit of paradise behind is not new for me. Remember, two years ago how I up and left this time of year with a few horses and a four month challenge to make it Colorado?
This time we’re driving.
A different adventure awaits.
After a journey of seeking, which the Long Quiet Ride was, I thought I found the answers. My excitement to be “home” was overwhelming, coming over me soft and bright like a gentle swell ready to embrace me. So close I could taste it. Only rather than receiving the loving arms of this land, I was punched in the gut. I returned to the greatest trauma of the whole trip, which kind of broke the whole thing up. And left me wondering (among other things): Where?
That was then.
Now, it’s a different adventure, different journey.
I’m not saying my inability to sit still is a good thing. But it is a thing.
It’s not just itchy feet. It’s a longing. That longing to belong. Harmonizing with curiosity.
Stepping outside the box is easier when you don’t have a box to begin with.
So we’re setting out to build another box.
And holding onto this one, just in case.
Alas, it’s just a box. Something to define and confine.
And at the same time, hold you tight.
Here’s little ditty for Mother’s Day.
As the garden grows and the seasons change, so do we.
I don’t have a bucket list. If I really want to do something, chances are I’ll do it.
I have few regrets, few things I didn’t do that I wish I had.
I hope you feel the same.
Not that I did them all well. That’s not the point.
The point is, I tried. And failure is part of the path. The yin to the yang. You know.
Still…
There are times I wish I knew more before I dove in to certain things.
Mothering tops that list.
As in: if I knew then what I know now…
But it takes living and learning to know.
I am somewhat in awe of the few mothers I know who feel they did it all right. I was not one of them. Few mothers are.
For it takes failing, falling and fucking up. Really. I’m afraid it does. If you don’t do all those things, you haven’t tried. And if you’re not trying, you’re not learning and growing and really living. You’re stuck like a stick in the mud, right? Like all living things, we cannot remain stagnant for long.
Okay, so I failed, fell and fucked up maybe more than most, I dunno. But no one ever accused me of not trying.
That’s how mothering was for me.
The things I wish I knew… Why don’t they teach that stuff in school? I don’t mean changing diapers and dealing with leaking boobs; I mean the important stuff like understanding emotions, communicating clearly, listening. Tools to remain calm and patient and kind when you’re sleep deprived, financially strapped, frustrated, confused, and feeling alone. Seriously, that stuff is way more important than Roman History and Algebra, right?
Seems like there is a trend and current expectation that mothers are now meant to be perfect, and parent perfectly. That’s not only wrong, it’s not possible. Besides, if perfect was possible, by whose standards of perfection would we judge?
Sheltering children, coddling their wisdom, padding their world and giving them all the answers rather than allowing them the time and space to figure it out themselves? How will they learn to learn? Sometimes you gotta skin your knees.
A balance between the two, between being handed life to you in a silver spoon or on a silver platter – and the school of hard core hard knocks, would of course be ideal. But I’ve yet to see a truly ideal life. Reality is unique, not ideal. There’s always ups and down, good and bad, so accepting and learning to live with that reality is one of those things we don’t want but we do need.
I’ve been a mama for 32 years. I don’t write about him much because (1) he probably doesn’t appreciate it, and (2) he’s is Colorado, not California. (Suddenly that choice to build in Colorado makes some sense, yes?)
Nothing has ever mattered more to me, or defined my choices more, than being a mom.
So many say the same. As we stare off softly, upward, maybe inward, a gentle smile upon our lips, and you know what we are thinking about.
Our children.
Our pride and joy. Not the pride for having, say, built a cabin or put in a gorgeous garden. It’s different. It’s not ours. It’s for them. I can’t explain that kind of pride well. Can you?
Have I told you how proud I am of mine? Not for making the most of what I gave him, but for making so much on his own. From his adaptability to his authenticity, from his self-earned college education to his successful career. From his empathy in dealing with dear old mom and dad, to his badass ways behind the wheel or at the shooting range.
I’d like to take credit for teaching him. I used to say I homeschooled him. Truth is, he self-schooled. I’m a pretty crappy teacher, and the two of us, well, we butt heads. He figured it out himself. Pretty damn well, I dare say.
I am guilty all too often of giving unsolicited advice. But the best advice I think I gave him, showing, not telling, thus teaching by example, was this: you gotta figure it out yourself. That is how we learn. And you can. If you want to. You can make mistakes, and change direction, and drop out and divorce, fall apart and get back up, and with all of that, we learn, we grow, we live, our own beautiful, unique, magical, mysterious, authentic life.
It’s like the old Zen teacher telling her student:
I can point to the moon. But you have to find your own way there.
And if you’re stubborn, like my son is (can’t imagine where he learned that) then chances are, you also gotta find your own moon.
So what do I know now that I wish I knew then?
Oh, so much! Let’s start with:
Cultivating curiosity and compassion.
Took me along time to learn this was okay. More than okay. That’s where the beauty of life is born.
Then propagate creativity and courage, which can come naturally with a solid foundation and safe place to “try.”
Get comfortable making mistakes, and learn how to learn from each one.
For sure, the Old Man’s Three C’s: care, connect and contribute.
Belong. To the land. To the people. To your dreams.
And finally, love. Deeply, passionately, beautifully. Whatever, whoever you want to love. Love. Have the courage to love. Even when (not if) your heart gets broken, you lose someone or something, or you change your mind. Find the courage to open your heart wide, more fully, more wholly, less discriminating. That’s the key to living fully, deeply, richly.
Connection, connecting from the heart, is the greatest reason to live.
Love.
Don’t be stingy with love. I promise: it will never run out.
Okay, finally, that thing about an invitation.
Ready?
Here it goes.
Yes, I ramble. But have you noticed? I’m rambling to you.
My writing is meant to be a conversation between us. At times it feels one sided. I do the sharing. You do the reading. But there’s no connection between us.
Why not?
I’ve said this before: This blog was started as a way of sharing our “out there” lifestyle. But instead of being a how-to or pretending to be an expert, more often than not it’s about “in there.” Usually it’s a combination of the two, and always, always, a good excuse for me to work on my craft, for the love of writing. However in addition to all that, it’s also a way for me to reach out, share, and connect.
That said, it matters to me to know people are out there, reading this regular random outpouring. When I check the numbers on this blog, folks are reading it. But only a small percentage, it appears, leave comments, “like” on Facebook, write me directly, sign up to subscribe or otherwise share the connection.
Speaking of sharing, this is a video shared by Cathy this week. It’s wonderful. If you’ve “listened to” some of the videos I shared in the past, you’ll see why she shared it, and why I love it:
So here’s the invitation.
Inviting you to share in kind.
I’m putting myself out there for you.
Will you please let me know you’re reading, that you’re with me, that somehow we are in this together?
To those who have been responding via the blog, leaving a note or like on Facebook, or writing me directly – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
For those who are just passing by, seeing if you want to stay a while, I welcome you to return and see if what I say and how I say it is worthy of your time.
For those who DO return to read somewhat regularly, if you enjoy my work, please let me know.
BTW, WordPress, who hosts this blog, makes it real easy to subscribe (see the bottom of this page), and equally easy to unsubscribe. I do hope to share more often (maybe twice a week?) once the building project gets underway. Right now we’re just warming up, in the early, what would you call this milling madness: pre-fun stage? In kind, I will do my best to honor your time, not flood your inbox, sell my meager mailing list, or otherwise curse you with spam and bad karma.
Meanwhile, the garden grows. And though I obsess each day in hours spent digging, watering, transplanting, tending, weeding and seeding, the magic that makes it grow humbles me. I think it is that sense of humility and wonder that drives some of us to toil endlessly over things growing in the dirt, when going to a grocery store would be so much easier.
End of the day I sit on the swing above the garden while dogs and wind chimes joyously play, noting that the grass needs mowing, the horses feet are in need of a trim as are my fingernails embedded with black from the soil where my hands are digging deep, and a good kind of tired eases into me, over me, down to my bones.
A break from sawdust and gear grease, in this season of chartreuse in the sun, and in the shade a shamrock green, I keep busy keeping the homestead going, getting irrigation up for the season, brushing the horses and dogs all of which are losing their winter coats, repairing broken pipes, and endless entertainment provided for free by the latest batch of chicks born just before Easter.
I sit here at the computer beginning and end of each day, a little sore and sunburned from earlier or the day before, searching my soul for a creative outpouring to share with you, inspire you, or maybe make you laugh. But tonight it feels more like just sitting there beside you in our tiredness, maybe in a comfortable silence, feet up and heads back and a smile upon our lips. That’s how it is in high spring. I think you feel that too.
As my fingers pause above the keyboard, hoovering, awaiting the moment to descend, I wonder what can I share beyond the view, the sounds, the scents, the seasons, and somedays that feels like enough.
And so I write, as I have done over ten thousand days before this one.
Just to write.
What’s the point, I question?
Just to write.
To hone my craft creatively. And share my words courageously.
It may not seem like much, but sometimes I feel it’s all I have to give.
What else can I do to contribute and connect?
Do we ever really know?
But what we can always do is try.
So I try and write, and hope that what I share may be well received.
I returned to blogging for the creative outlet. I told you I’d focus on alternative building, off grid being and slow living. Funny I find myself sharing more about what’s in my head or the view before me.
A quiet life.
A quiet voice.
A life with time and space to listen.
I never felt as lonely as in a big city surrounded by so many.
So much noise, I could not hear.
So many voices, I could not be heard.
Solace was found in wide and wild, open space and emptiness.
I wish to live with the sound of rushing waters and robins early morning, the redwing in the willows and wind chimes keeping me company on breezy afternoons, the evening shrill of frogs and crickets or endless silence and stillness as you star up into the stars.
These are the sounds I wish to hear, above the mindless chatter and seemingly senseless cacophony bombarding from big loud places.
And at the same time I know that this silence can be uncomfortable for many, maybe even most, like sitting across from someone at a table and finding yourself stuck in that awkward pause that silence so often can be.
When I first started building and living off grid over thirty years ago, I don’t think we used the term “off grid.” It was more like “un grid.” It wasn’t about living without dependency upon public utilities. It was simply living. “Without” was a part of it by necessity, not choice. Most of us were just trying to get away, be away, or trying to make do, and that was what we could do.
We were an odd sort back then. (Maybe we still are.)
There was old man Brinker, a WWII vet and eclectic artist who would take me to the coffee shops by the galleries of Taos or Canyon Road. He’d offer black coffee to my two year old son and chain smoke cigarettes in his old red Ford, smiling at and waving to young low riders that would raise their hands cussing us because he drove so slow.
There was Tim the goat man who’d pop up half clad in the wild sage bush when and where you’d least expect, with wide eyes and disheveled hair, looking around saying, “Seen my goats?”
There was the Mama Cass mama with long flowing floral skirts and a big booming voice that would hug you so tight you’d find yourself lost in her abundant bosom.
There were potential relationships that never would be with the bad ass biker, the grizzled cowboy and the spanish outlaw with scars on his legs inviting me to go into the firewood business with him. Alas, back then, my baby was the only man I had eyes for. My hands and heart were kept full.
There were the women’s women who taught me about women’s circles and full moon drummings and wild women collectives, permaculture, hand suede stuccoing, and killing rattlers that loomed in the lumber piles where my child played.
Then, we called our world “alternative.” Choosing to build, live and be outside the box. Not a part of the system. None of the above.
Building a straw bale shack myself with a baby on my back wasn’t a choice based on lack of trust in the system or wishing for more independence or feeling it was a “greener” way of living. It was a choice born from necessity. It was all I could afford.
Don’t get me wrong. That didn’t mean I felt lacking. Though there certainly were thing I was longing for, like stability, security and connection, and even a little cash to get a full tank of gas, I loved the simplicity, being closer to the earth, and doing it myself. Whatever it was. Or have the community kick in, and in kind, be there for them when it was their turn.
There was excitement, pride, and respect for the naturalness, plainness, and directness that simplicity allows. It was a time and space comprised of a group of folks out there doing the same thing. So there was camaraderie. It wasn’t about outdoing the Jones. It was about helping the Jones’ out. Knowing the Jones’ needed it, and so did you. We’d roll up our sleeves and lift bales and spread stucco and share whatever building materials, seeds or groceries we had salvaging that could help another out.
So you see, it wasn’t about intentionally living without. It was just about living. However we could.
Solid walls were an upgrade to a tent, and that’s where my baby and dogs and I had been living before my first strawbale was built.
In those days, at least in my circle, there was no solar power, no running water, no building codes. Way down some dusty dirt roads, and a little outlaw, we hauled water. Used outhouses or a shovel in the shade behind a pinon tree. Foraged and dumpster dived not to be hip but because we were hungry. Used pay phones. Siphoned gas. My meager garden was kept alive by the water that first was used to bathe the baby and wash my clothes.
Now “off grid” often means living with all the comforts of “on grid,” but with a sense of responsibility and independence. And that’s great too.
But some times, an added element of simplicity can take you beyond “off grid” and back to the bare bones. And really, one way isn’t right nor wrong. It’s all just personal choice. And sometimes, just all that one can do.
Last week, a friend asked where our solar array was. He hadn’t seen it at our homestead. It doesn’t stick out. We have three little panels sitting on the roof of our garden shed. That’s it. It was a small start up system we had set up back in Colorado and brought in the horse trailer as we traveled west. It was meant to be enough to charge power tools, devices, use limited satellite connectivity and maybe an occasional light. Enough to get us started. That was six years ago. It continues to be enough. I still prefer candles and gas lamps to the latest greatest LEDs.
I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. It works for me.
In light of that…
We spent the last several months downsizing our plans for the cabin we will be building this summer.
Over and over, we worked the plans out to be smaller and smaller. Not a trendy tiny house. Just a Little Cabin.
Less foot print. Less concrete. Less plumbing and electric (if at all to begin with).
And built with our trees, and our hands. A labor of love.
The smaller our plans got, the more simple our ideas became, the less stress we felt, and the lighter we became.
Simplicity is a temptation that entices me.
I may forever be lured by the fantasy of getting back on my horse and heading out, with nothing more than my pack horse can carry.
Just get on your horse and go.
Though the likelihood of me ever doing that again is slim. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.
The stress of forever seeking grass and water for the horses, slipping of steel shoes on hard pavement, sharing roads and camps with swarms of mormon crickets, roads with traffic and without safe shoulders to ride on, too many bears and not enough cell service to talk with my husband at the end of most days, forever fences and eternally locked gates and map apps that I never could quite figure, and feeling far more lonely than I ever wanted to be… I found simple is not always easy.
Staying home is easier. Turn the horses out in morning; call them in for the night. All the mowing, hoeing, weedwacking and watering is still easier than life on the road in today’s not so wild Wild West with a culture primarily clueless to horses and blind to horse travel.
Sure, I think about it. Where and how I’d go. What I’d do differently next time. What else I’d take and what I could leave behind. Maybe I’d even try to convince my husband to go.
But that’s a whole other story, another adventure I don’t need to be thinking about now.
In fact, this week, I’m not even thinking about logs, sawdust, milling, cleaning slash and making one board and beam at a time, and the story we’ll share of putting them all together.
Right now, my story is simply about preparing, planting, weeding and watering.
Watching the garden grow, one row at time, one breath at a time, one gentle wind at time, moving the oak leaves, tall late spring grass, wind chimes, the table cloth on the picnic table, and the refuse-to-be-contained wisp of hair that flutters across my smiling face.
Gin Getz 