Monday was a day of rain and rest.

Tuesday we worked all day harvesting for the local CSA and wholesale orders on the coast.

Wednesday, G took off early to do the coastal deliveries, and got back later than intended. While he was gone, I washed produce bins,  did some farm laundry, and spread endless feet of row cover out to dry. We spent the rest of the afternoon finishing harvesting for the local CSA. While he delivered those, I rolled up the endless feet of row cover. I hate row cover. Finished then day with an hour of hoeing.

Yesterday was mostly spent hoeing. I can't quite believe it, but I spent 5 hours yesterday doing it. Leaving me kind of in awe of my body's cooperation and adaptability. I also laid out drip line, washed bins, and sowed some brussels sprouts and parsley in the greenhouse.

Today is a big harvest day. I think we will try to get a lot done early, as it's supposed to be in the mid-80s.

I will try to post some photos soon!

Here. Intense focus was required on the drive out: (donotpukedonotpukedonotpuke.) I did not puke.

G seems grateful I am here. I am grateful to be here. I am grateful he is grateful, too.

I'm tired, and haven't even started in on farm work. I spent most of the afternoon cleaning the outdoor kitchen, which was dusty and cobwebbed after 5 months of sitting idle.

Now I am sitting on the porch with a soundtrack of crickets, a distant tractor, and the neighbor's obnoxious goose.

There was a part of me that was disappointed I didn't step out of the truck, take a deep breath of country air, and decide "now I am happy." I even felt a little uneasy this afternoon wondering when, and if, this happiness might strike. And what did it mean if it didn't?

I finished cleaning the kitchen and found G in the field, spreading chicken manure. I asked if he wanted help, but he suggested I go get settled. I unpacked, then went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. I wrote a little bit, stared out at the trees, sipped tea. I realized that I am learning something important; I am learning that happiness does not just happen. No environment, person, thing, or circumstance is going to make me happy. These things can enhance life and contribute much joy, peace, companionship... But happiness has to come from within. (It's amazing how many times I have heard some variation of this, but never really understood until recently.)

Happiness requires legwork. I am used to running on a fuel of negativity, anxiety, rumination. I think i have to actively wean myself of this, and replace it with acceptance and a sense of being present in the moment. Luckily I have a beautiful place in which to practice.

I looked up a few minutes ago and realized the trees in front of me are loaded with small fruit. A peach and a fig. Rain is predicted for tomorrow, so in a bit G and I are going to roll up the row covers.

Light, steady rain. Going out to the farm today, and I am glad it is raining. Rain is comforting, and softens my nerves.

G was worried he hadn't completed enough in terms of his host duties (the outdoor kitchen needs a cleaning, and the blackberry bushes are climbing wild around the cabin) but I assured him I didn't mind- I just want to be out there and start working. 

Friday, early evening on the back steps. A deepening golden light and a soft breeze that sways the hem of my skirt, and the lilies, poppies, and sweet peas M has planted spontaneously but thoughtfully. One of the dogs seems to have the same idea I do and sits nearby looking appreciatively into the light. I hear crickets, birds, and the dryer chugging in the basement. Breathe.

In a week I start a new adventure. I'm going back to the farm I was at two years ago- hopefully for a longer stay. It is a bittersweet thing- sitting here and feeling a sense of something (full of pain and growth) winding down. It is exciting, too, to become aware of something new taking tiny, fresh form.

I have been trying to start a blog for months, but it never felt right. Partially, writing is very hard for me. My head feels full of half-started thoughts, but the opening through which they can escape and be realized with words feels very small. (I have this image of hundreds of thoughts tumbling towards a pinpoint opening, crowding each other so that not even one can get out.) I get frustrated and give up. But I think practice and persistence is the only thing that will widen this opening and allow more words to come. So, please forgive me my awkward and stilted trespasses! Writing feels important, even if the things I am writing about are not.

Currently, a sunny Sunday morning. I have a daunting amount of sorting and packing to do. It's manageable, but only if I start soon and work steadily. Plans for music, coffee, and a few breaks. Sorting is the unpleasant part. I'll be so relieved to finish it, and feel more justified embarking on the fun aspects of this change.