In the mornings I rise easily, called from bed by birdsong and the lowing of various farm animals stirring. No matter if it’s full sun that greets me in the summer or the blue darkness of early morning in the winter I still awaken happily, already feeling fulfilled before my feet hit the floor. And every morning it’s the same, as my feet move from the softness of the rug by my bed to the worn floorboards that have been walked upon for over a century, a rush of feelings flood me. A feeling of rightness, of being in the right place at the right time, of knowing that my purpose has been met. There’s ceaseless energy that occurs when the exhaustion of constantly seeking, of searching and not finding, of wanting for more, is overcome by knowing that all is as it’s meant to. There is no more time wasted over wondering, chasing or feeling uncertain, there is only a deep stillness. Like a well that has been filled to overflowing, it’s a feeling that seeps out and encompasses others. My daughters, my husband, my dogs that walk alongside me in the field, all tethered to this strength of knowing that all is well.
It’s in the daily tasks that I feel perpetually useful. Productivity measured not by a graph or a spreadsheet or a device but
The vast darkness of night, the black cape of sky stretched as far as we can see, splattered with stars and crescent of moon. Sometimes we forget that the rest of civilization exists, trying to remember the hustle of a busy metropolitan city or the never-ending progress of our old neighbourhood as it expanded into high-rises all around us. We aren’t lonely here, a dog barking signalling a car coming up the long and winding driveway, the crunch of tires on gravel. Guests always visiting and sharing in what we’ve created. It’s why we did it after all, to show what was possible, to connect in a way long forgotten and to offer that to those we love. A gift, the perfect kind, that delights the giver as much as the receiver. Sitting down together at a table laden with things we all made, a milk pitcher spills over with lilacs, their aroma intoxicating us as we open wine and laugh freely as old friends do.
A rambling house with space for everyone and all of our creative endeavours. Space to share, space to grow. Meaningful work shared in the kitchen, in the gardens, in the fields and the barns. Work churned out in my writing cottage, a place only for me where I pour out the ramblings of my heart. Acres of meadow, of forest, crisscrossed by creeks and rivers and dotted with ponds. Surprisingly hilly, rocky outcrops, so many spots to hide and to seek. Old growth trees perfect for shade and for forts and swings. A place hidden away and happened upon in the most delightful way, created by a soul-longing decades in the making. A place that when we came upon it we felt like we had returned from where we first came, the knowing that all the feelings of home we’ve been creating in each new place we’ve resided had sprung into being only because this place existed. An origin. A feeling so deep and impossible to describe because its resonance was matched only to this. Hiraeth. It was worth waiting for as the waiting birthed the creation and in the unfolding lessons were learned, life was lived and each part of it made up a beautiful life worth living.