It’s that edgy, capricious time before a holiday. Very soon we will be leaving to cross the mountains and head for a week on the Fundy coast. Exciting, you say. And yes, I know how fortunate I am to experience tides again, in a beautiful old farm home, called ‘Upper House’. Actually, I’ve looked forward to this trip all year. Only now, part of me is hanging back, distressed.
You see, more and more, living intimately with our twenty, fairly wild acres here at Singing Meadow is seeming like enough, and more than enough. Going away is beginning to make less sense every year. Like the Wind in the Willows’ Rat, with his cherished river, our land here is meat and drink to us, practically all we need.
It’s midseason now, time tawny flowers in the meadow and in the gardens we’ve made closer to home. With satisfaction, I’ve discovered that the few black-eyed susans from neighboring parts of the meadow have been multiplying gradually and moving through the field towards us. It’s the time of ripeness here, with more loveliness than the eye can take in. How can one leave? Should one? It’s a case of broadening rather than deepening, I suppose, and I think I’m being drawn to go deeper on our small holding. More with less.
While I am away, I’ve invited my friend, fellow author Sara Beck, to contribute here.