It rains on Saturdays, too.

This morning, NPR ran a story about hospice care. They talked about the phenomenon of "life review", in which hospice patients and their loved ones feel the need to go over the details of their lives, telling their story from the beginning, over and over. Like someone staring death in the face, I find myself doing a daily life review lately. I go over the details in my head, starting in childhood and working forward. What decisions would I like to change, if I had the power to do so? How could I have done better, if I knew then what I know now? How did I get where I am, and become the person I am today? Do I even know who that person is?

The sad fact is, I don't. I have some vague idea of who he is not, but not of who he is. I know what he has done wrong, but not what he has done right. I have some idea of what he does not want for his life, but what he does want - what I want - is still largely a mystery.

Do we ever reach a point where we know, beyond a doubt, what we want to be when we grow up? When we can identify with clarity what will make us happy and fulfilled going forward? When we love ourselves, and those we have gathered around us, and all the holes in ours hearts are filled? How can we know? How can I know?

The chickens are scratching and pecking around the yard, as they always do. I am still watching, and wondering. Every day my questions seem bigger, and this little patch of earth seems smaller.

Rainy days and Mondays

What is it about this place that highlights my aloneness in such blatant and uncomfortable ways? I've always considered myself to be a bit of a loner. Though I enjoy the company of friends and family, I highly value my privacy, and need to have a quiet place to retreat to when interactions become overwhelming. A room, an activity, or even just the quiet space in my own mind - time alone has always been essential to my emotional wellbeing. So why is it that here, in this place of beautiful solitude, surrounded by the majesty of nature devoid of humanity, I am so lonely I can hardly cope? What does it say about me that I need my solitude to be punctuated by the neighbor's dog barking, a car driving by, or a housemate puttering in the next room?

The chickens give me some small relief, at least. Their gentle clucking and occasional spats feel like the barely heard chatter of aunts in the kitchen, bickering over the best way to bake a pie. But caring for Junebug increases my feeling of being apart from the world. She is not yet old enough to be a real person with whom real conversation can take place. She is my love, my sweetest love, but as yet is a bundle of needs and cries and tasks to be done. Years from now I hope she and I will sit down for tea and the sharing of our deepest selves, but for now our morning ritual of Cheerios (her) and coffee (me) is less than satisfying on an emotional level.

Where is the balance in a life like this? I can turn on the radio for a human voice, but the voices never ask me about my day, or offer a shoulder when I need to cry. I could call someone, but battery power is as precious as their time, and I hate to waste either on my trifling need for company. I could walk to town, but it is miles away, and Junebug's need for the comfort of home trumps my need to watch the locals tramp through the gas station market, going about their business with not a friendly glance for the blue-haired queer boy in the corner.

Was this part of my homesteading dream? Was it in the package all along, and I studiously ignored it in the hope that I would find a community waiting with open and accepting arms? Where is there to go from here but back to my window, coffee in hand, lips silent, chickens clucking softly in the yard with no idea that I am gazing at them with open envy.

The stuff of dreams.

Before we moved here, when we were living in a large city, I dreamed of days like this. Though the ground is still covered with snow, the weather is the warm and moist like early spring should be. It's warm enough here that I have left the front door hanging open, letting the scent of sun and budding trees and frosty mid fill the house. Classical guitar is pouring out of my radio. Junebug is standing at the open door, laughing at nothing in the way that toddlers do, and occasionally tossing toys onto the porch. In the distance, the chickens (who have started producing eggs, at long last) are clucking softly. The rooster is clucking right along with the, throwing in a hearty crow now and then for emphasis. Spring has arrived, bringing  change and life and joy back to the land.

In just over a week, my own changes will begin in earnest. My medical evaluation is happening, really happening, after all these years. As the farm grows into its potential, so will I. I am excited. I am nervous. I an anxious to throw myself into the arms of.this beautiful year, and give it all I have to give.