Some days I sit at my computer and I have as much trouble thinking of what to write, as I did ten years ago, when I first began blogging. When I had no idea what a blog was, or why anyone would publish their ideas and pictures, like a coffee table diary, for the world to browse. This line of thinking frequently leads me to the notion that Chickenblog has run its course, that I've said about all there is to say, that in fact there is no call for leaving this personal journal out on the coffee table. Then I make a unique connection with someone out there in the world, I share a laugh, a comforting cry, and I feel like, obscure as I am, strange as this new medium is, it serves some purpose, somehow. William and I were talking about how ten years of deep thoughts and other musings really is a rather significant thing... maybe not for history's sake, but at least for our own. Which is why, I suppose, that even when I cannot think what to write, I still sit here and share something... for our own sake, for our story, for next year, or ten years from now, when we wish to recall the Monday, in May when we were here.
Here, balancing and playing, on our teeter-totter. With our goats. Making things, sharing ideas, facing our challenges, and celebrating whatever success and occasions move us.
The barn gets cuter and cuter, and I promise an update, soon. It's not finished. Two doors need to be hung, and there's still some trimming to do. Other projects are competing with completion of the barn. And even when the barn is done, there will still be the chicken run and goat pen to build. Honestly, none of this disappoints me, or makes me feel anxious. It's really quite amazing to see all the progress that has been made, especially when I think back just two years, to where we started. Those memories do make me anxious... what a frightful mess I made of my poor farm.
I remember, my gardening and farming frustrations, eight years ago, when we were renting in the TreeHouse. We had no place to plant our garden, and no idea when we could hope to have a place of our own. I am still recovering from all the strains and frustrations of being a renter, from the damages, and my own inability to stand up for myself. It was... it was. And maybe the crud makes the blessings we enjoy now extra sweet, but please: let's not say that 'the crud was necessary,' or that 'the hardships are the reason I can be happy now.' I was plenty prepared and willing to be happy, and thankful, without all that crud. No, I remember those days, and just feel tremendous relief, perspective, profound gratitude for these days, here. It feels like a constant prayer: thank you, thank you, thank you.
Deep thoughts, and other musings, on a Monday morning.