A house is tucked back against the side of a mountain. All around it for a few hundred feet is land, open land. Before it sits pasture, a wide field with two alpacas grazing. There are giant dogs – Bernese Mountain Dogs, Newfoundslands, St. Bernards, and the odd Bassett Hound – wandering the land in their slow lope. Beside the house, there are beds filled with asparagus and peas just poking their tiny, found, leafy selves from the earth. The porch swing waits in these morning hours until someone comes and reads in her, a blanket wrapped around her legs for warmth in the early April afternoon.

Now, just now, I am in my office on the second floor. I am staring out at the pastures and the big oak trees between putting down a few words. I have coffee at one hand, and I am working hard to keep my mind on the page before me instead of on what I will next put in the ground – spinach, lettuce, is it too early for beans?

***

Years ago, I read Madeleine L’Engle’s A Circle of Quiet, and I saw her farmhouse, her office window, the rock on which she laid to think in the warm summer afternoons. I felt something stir in me then.

Then, some years later, I picked up Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and the stirring turned into full growth – like those pea shoots making their way to the surface.

Now, Jenna Woginrich’s dreams spur my own. I long to sit in the quiet of a farm in the mornings and write – to feel the place feed me as I have nourished it in the long afternoons and growing evenings of spring. I ache with the desire to walk that place and hear only my footfalls and the snuffle of a pack of big wooly dogs with names like Mosey and Meander.

My spirit and my mind are ready. My body – in all its desk-postured apathy – will come around.

***
This farm house – it’s not mine – yet. But it will be . . . and soon. And soon.

When you picture your ideal writing space, what do you see? What has inspired you to that dream?