As I was unpacking one of the bags I used when I taught, I found my leatherbound portfolio. It was empty except for a purple felt-tip pen, a few old business cards, and a single piece of paper that read:
This may be the first writing of many that details my journey to have a farm.
As my eyes carried those words to my brain, my heart shimmied. I wrote this. It’s my hand, but I don’t remember when. It was during that year when I lived in Baltimore, that year when I remember so little beyond walks to the water and the Wii fitness board groaning when I stepped on. That was a hard, hard year, and yet, there, I was still dreaming. This little glimmer beneath all the pain.
Here’s the rest of what that sheet of paper says:
Part of me is absolutely confident that I will have one, and part of me thinks the dream is so amazing that it can’t be possible. But I don’t know how not to dream, so I keep on.
This morning I went to Ike’s farm [an Amish market in PA]. I bought a doze x-large brown eggs and some sweet cream butter. I wandered through his greenhouse and caressed a salmon double impatient. I have no space for these plants in Baltimore, but I long for beds where I can bunch out piles of flowers.
There is nothing that gives me joy like thinking of this space. I imagine open sky and beds with dark brown mulch. I see lots of shade, but sun, too, on a garden that I tend with my own hands.
In this vision, there’s an old farm house, not a timber frame any longer. It’s creaky and gorgeous. Stacks of books are everywhere. My office is in a shed.
Here, I sit in this creaky, gorgeous farmhouse. I will have the timber frame still, and I had forgotten the shed in the office, but I’ll put that back on the plan now because I’m so enamored with that idea.
This is day three of living this dream. I am speechless with the gift.
What gift have you received that stopped your heart at it’s perfectness? Big or small?