These are the days of miracle and wonder.
– Paul Simon
Or more accurately . . these are the days of gratitude and normalcy.
Last week we spent several days last week digging up grass and tilling the ground on the plot of land we call “home”. I used an electric tiller, on loan to us from our neighbors, for the better part of three days. I worked hard in the hot sun next to my husband and wild boys, got a farmers tan and callouses on my hands to match. And I have never been so grateful for a bad tan and sore hands.
The month of migraine hell, and its residual effects, helped me realize the beauty of normalcy. There is such value in a hard days work, so much reward in sweating and working to watch an idea become reality. There can be such transcendence in enjoying one’s health.
There were several moments when I would stop and feel the pain in my back, the soreness in my arms from working the tiller back and forth, the exhaustion in my body and just say, “thank you, thank you, thank you” to God for all of it. Health and strength is such a gift, one I’m not taking for granted these days.
We’ve discovered that our dog, sweet as she is, goes “savage” on the chickens, trying to rip them wing from leg if we let them co-mingle in the yard together.
We’ve discovered that the lack of a hard freeze this winter has led to early arrival of flowers, weeds, and insects of all sorts.
We’ve discovered the joy of long walks to re-set a morning, the peace of drinking coffee on the front porch once more, that white paint really does work miracles to revive a drab room, that raising three boys is just about the most wild and fun and exhausting thing we’ve ever done, that the trailer is still one of the most magical places on earth.
We’ve been reminded that it’s always a privilege to share our home, our wine, our dinner table, and our time with people we love.
We’ve remembered why we moved here a year ago, why we don’t have a T.V., why we left social media, why we were so at home when we walked into the rooms of this house built in 1887, why we knew this was the place we wanted to root ourselves down.
So we’re doing it. After a year we’re finally doing it.
We’re looking around us and accepting that this little town, this messy rural existence, this town square and cemetery and drafty old house are ours now. So we dig up the ground and we plant physical seeds so that roots can grow down deep. We settle and heal and care for each other and whoever enters these walls as we wait to see what happens next.