And . . . home, again
February 8, 2013 § 1 Comment
I’ve remained on the quiet side the past couple of months, but guess why? Because changes galore have been happening. I like to take a little while to settle in before I start talking about it.
Remember when I went to North Carolina? Well. I’ve come again, with all my belongings and my dog in tow. We mean to stay.
I’ve faced transitions enough times that I feel something of an old pro at them (I no longer let all the uncertainty and newness pile up until I can do little more than burst into tears, for example). One of the best things about putting yourself into precarious and/or unfamiliar situations is that you learn to adapt, reach out, and trust. You fear risk less, because even while it sometimes makes things quite uncomfortable and even unpleasant, on the other side of risk you might find something wonderful. And you trust that the universe (or, for me, God) will catch you. In this overly-independent society you actually learn to accept help and to cultivate gratitude. People like to help people, did you know that?
I’ve been caught again and I have fallen into what seems to be a very good place. I’m so excited to be working in the farm and gardens at a year-round camp in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. Here in Orange County we have many, many small sustainable farms, fantastic food co-ops, winding roads, and horses galore. Two and half hours east, we reach the ocean. Two and half hours west, the mountains. Everyone has been so kind and inviting; southern hospitality is not a myth. Tassie is thrilled to have new friends, and so am I.
We went walking with one of our new friends and her dog the other day, and since I am currently camera-less (two broken ones), here is a first shot of us in North Carolina, courtesy of Leah Maloney:
Pardon the messy hair; some days, like those where the only things on the agenda are a long walk and a lot of reading, it just seems all right to let it stay a bit wild.
So. We are going to become southerners. Hold on tight, y’all. I can’t wait to find the stories that are here.
Barn moving
June 3, 2012 § 5 Comments
Aren’t barns superb?
I mean, the old sorts of barns, of course. Lucky me, to have spent much of my childhood in areas where these still exist, when many are disappearing.
They have been places for play, for rest, for work. They have been places for thought. For being alone. For discovery.
Last Friday we moved a red barn from one of our locations to the spot where I live in the white farmhouse. The barn is still propped above the place where it will settle, once the foundation is built up under it. It’s still hooked to a big ol’ Mack truck.
But it is here, rounding out the space. We all feel pleased when we catch that line of roof against the sky.
It makes the farm feel like a farm.
Aaah.
May 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
A clean look. What do you think? Better?
I do feel refreshed and relieved, as I do when I buckle down and really clean my house.
Speaking of cleaning, I have piles of boxes in a room upstairs, all the things from my whole life that have been dragged along with me or hanging out in Mom and Dad’s basement. Now that they are downsizing I have all these boxes handed over for me to sort through. I am not eager about this overhaul. It becomes necessary to decide which memories must be attached to the tangible. And which ones will stay in my mind.
This is a week for organization and planning and at the end I suspect I will feel even better. But thank goodness for someone who takes care to remind me that even in the midst of the mess, it’s important to get up and take a walk!
Half-packed
January 28, 2012 § 1 Comment
I have two and a half days left in Colorado. I’m stopping to visit a friend in Nebraska. But don’t ask me about much beyond that. When I see what’s around the next bend, I’ll fill you in!
For now, I am sitting in an apartment filled with boxes. Everything is half-packed. Unsettled, once again. This is an adventure, but adventure tends to have its discomforts and unease. In this moment I take comfort in the sound of the dryer (which I will soon, hopefully, be selling) and the even breathing of the dog lying on the floor next to my computer.
I am grateful for rhythms. Rhythms have a reassuring sameness. And yet even rhythms can be interrupted, reset, altered. (The dog must breathe faster when she is running, which is an important thing.) And you know? That might make for a more marvelous world. It might produce more wonderful music.
Kinds of Honey 