Thursday, September 29, 2011
I feel like time is pulling away from me right now. My house is a wreck, my baby has not made it out of his jammies for two days running. I walk around outside in golden air and in rain, rain, rain, and I wonder why it never really mattered that much, until now.
I have loved this farm. It's inspired me, brought me untold joy. Still, there was always a tiny sliver of something missing. I could have been content to stay here forever. But I wouldn't have insisted on it.
Knowing all of this, it's confusing to watch my kids run down the barn hill and feel like life will never be the same again.
How many hours did I really love this land? Not that many, really. I loved the idea of it, the quiet of it, but not necessarily it.
What is it in us that makes us believe that it's easier to just stay? Why did I ever decide that my life and my home were one and the same?
I know you'd like some answers. I'm excited to start dishing, trust me. But it's not all settled up quite yet, so I'll wait just a bit longer.
I can hear the orchestra doing that buzzy, jolting, tuning thing they do behind the curtain. None of it makes sense and you wonder why they don't all just pick a note and go with it, give us a little confidence that the rest of the show will be worth it.
A moment later and the curtains part to the kind of silence that forces you to keep looking. And then.
So, I'm playing a C and Cory might be just a bit ahead of me. This house is a G, the one we're hoping to buy is an F#. It all sounds sort of awful together, but we're behind the velvet drapes, so who really cares?
Here in just a second or two it'll come together, a beautiful thing. When it does, you'll be the first to hear.