Archive for the ‘Personal Journal’ Category

The Penny Prayer

Sunday, April 1, 2018

This story was told at my church a week ago, and I wanted to share it with you all.


A man was walking down the street when he came upon a penny lying on the ground. As he bent over to pick it up he said a little prayer of gratitude for the beautiful day; the bright blue sky and the warm sun in which to take his walk.  He stood still looking at the penny in the palm of his hand and reflecting on his prayer.  He decided that from then on he would say a little prayer every time he found a penny or took one out of his pocket. 


So—for the next 45-years, whenever he took pennies out of his pocket at the end of the day, or found one on the ground he said a little prayer; sometimes a grateful prayer, sometimes a thankful prayer, and sometime praying for a friend or family member. 


Each night when he came home he would put his pennies a dish on his dresser. As the dish filled up he switched a jar, which turned into a jug before the penny collection made its way to 5-gallon buckets.  As the years went by he collected more than five buckets full of pennies until one day he decided to take them to the bank.  It took the Tellers over 5 hours to run the pennies through the counting machine.


When they were finished counting, the man had more than $5,000 dollars’ worth of pennies.  The Teller was amazed, exclaiming “that’s a lot of money”! 


The older man just looked at the Teller and smiled before saying “no dear, that’s a lot of prayers”, “many of which have been answered”.


Who said there is no value in a penny?


Wednesday, March 21, 2018


Well—hello, folks.

If anyone is still out there, I’m back.

And, if you are still out there I applaud your perseverance for sticking around through this very long hiatus.

I have started and stopped, rewritten and reworked several versions of this post to explain the absence, but I decided to just cut to the chase—as it were.

There’s only one word for the absence.


That’s it.


I was in a big ole fat funk and feeling like I had to write blog posts multiple times a week was just adding to the stress of an already heavy life load—so I stopped—cold turkey.

It was almost 15-months ago I decided to take a break.  I thought it would only last a few weeks and then I’d be right back at it. But, that wasn’t the case. A few weeks turned into several weeks, which turned into a whole lot more weeks, and a lot more weeks turned into months, until next thing I knew almost a whole year had gone by.

But, in retrospect, the break gave me the time I needed to rethink life and my place in it. I came to a lot of conclusions, made a lot of decisions, changed directions and have implemented some new personal practices as I move forward.  That all sounds so ominous I know, but it has all been good, really.

The one thing I did realize is that I really missed writing about my suburban homestead, my time living on a larger farm, raising animals, gardening for food and pleasure, and generally sharing it all with you.

I’m not quite sure what form this new blogging will take, but one thing I do know for sure is that it won’t be crazy making. The pressure to create the perfect post with the perfect photos was just so overwhelming. There may be fewer posts, farther apart, with fewer pictures, because all of that takes time and is a lot of work.  This blog isn’t a business for me. It’s a creative outlet; one that I enjoyed very much and one that “I” let get out of hand, so I’m reining it in.

Now that DD is off on her own I also don’t have as many animals as I once did. In fact, I only have 6 layers, so many posts drawing on my 40+ years of experience raising livestock, farming, 4-H, and suburban homesteading, rather than “real time” activities, because while I may not be doing certain things at this moment, I have done them many times in the past.

After a year away from almost everything, my suburban homestead is a wreck, seriously. After months of not working in it, coupled with massive wind storms and wildfires last fall, there is much to be done, which I will begin to do right after it stops raining.

I am looking forward to jumping back in and sharing bits and pieces of my suburban homestead with you, sans the daily posts and beautiful “real time” photosJ

So—sit tight.  I already have a few posts in the works.

If you have stuck around, thank you, I mean that sincerely. And if you want, drop a comment to let me know you’re there.

That’s it, folks.  You’ll be hearing from me soon.

Barn - Coop View

Grab a cool drink and settle in someplace comfy folks, this is gonna be a long one.


I rarely, if ever, write about something I’ve read on another homestead blog, but a recent post about homesteading myths bothered me so much that after days of tossing and turning it around in my mind I had to say something.

First off, I want to say…I don’t know the blogger personally; we have never met, never communicated with each other. I drop by her blog once in a while and am impressed with the life she has carved out for herself and her young family. I’m also not here to defend her; she seems strong enough to do that herself.

So…what’s my beef? People who bash homesteaders because, in their view, we have not gone far enough, have not been authentic enough, have not been purist enough.

Like many most homestead bloggers, we love encouraging people young and old; city dweller or country newbie to find their way in the homesteading world regardless of how that looks. Pursuing a more self-sufficient life in a modern world is a very personal thing. No two lives, or homestead, will look the same. That’s the beauty of the community we are all trying to build. Variety is the spice of life and we can all encourage and support one another with our words, experiences and encouragement.


So, why was I bothered by her recent post?


It wasn’t her…honestly. Let me explain…

…I popped into her blog on the 4th of July weekend, just to see what she was up to. She had posted an article responding to emails she had gotten complaining that she was not a REAL homesteader, that she was not living a true homesteader lifestyle.  Like many of us, she sometimes dines out with friends or family, watches movies and eats not-so-homemade meals. In essence the commenter was telling her she was not authentic in her journey as a modern homesteader.

In reality, none of us are living the same life as our homesteading forbearers lived, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to. Homesteading in the 1800’s was fraught with injury, disease, starvation, crop failure, bankruptcy and depravation. If you study that era just a bit you’ll see that children died of all kinds of illnesses and it was not uncommon for women to die in child birth.

Is this the kind of authenticity the commenter was referring to? I sincerely hope not.

Comments like this are not unusual for bloggers who open their lives up to the blogosphere. Many of us, me included, have been on the receiving end of less than pleasant comments by people who think we are not doing things right because we are not doing things the way THEY think we should. You have to be pretty thick skinned to lay your life open on the internet, and I have learned over the years to just let these kinds of comments roll off and chalk them up to people who are looking for something I am not providing.

But, this post bothered me…a lot. It was not the bloggers response…that she handled beautifully. It was the idea of what we are all trying to do, what we are trying to accomplish was not good enough, at least not by the commenters standards.


Meat Chicks Brooding


As I went about my day, getting ready for family celebrations, I couldn’t get the post out of my mind.

As I fed the chickens and collected eggs murmurs crept into my mind, “am I not a real homesteader because I don’t have hundreds of chickens?”

When I was making everyone’s favorite baked beans I thought, “am I not a real homesteader because I didn’t grow, harvest, clean, cull, and cook those beans before they were used to create a family favorite?”

And, when I was pulling weeds, in what will be my new kitchen herb garden, watching my crazy little hen fluff herself in a cloud of dust, was I not a homesteader because I didn’t hatch her from an egg fertilized on my land.

I sat in the dirt thinking about that post, wondering how anyone can call themselves anything if they do not do it to the level of an anonymous audience.

Is a person who creates a few quilts a year, not considered a quilter because they don’t produce dozens a year?

Are the members of my church choir, not singers because they don’t sing professionally, have a record label or sing in a famous theater?

Is the painter who puts color to canvass for the joy of it not considered an artist because their works hang in a loving home rather than a gallery?

Are people who journal (or blog) not writers because they have not worked with big publishing houses?

Is the small land owner who sells at the Farmers Market not a farmer?

And, does my 40 years of raising livestock, gardening and pursuing a simpler way of life make me an unknowledgable fake rather than an experienced veteran?


Washtub of Greens

I thought about this commenter’s line of thinking all weekend and into the following weeks. Everywhere I looked I saw signs of people the commenter might take issue with because they were not doing their craft, living their life at a level the commenter would think sufficient.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, after finishing a full day’s work at my 9 to 5 job, making dinner from scratch, and doing evening chores around my suburban homestead that I finally sat down to relax. A cool breeze was coming in off the ocean, the soft wind pushing the day’s heat out of our valley. I sat on my patio watching my hens cluck and scratch around the yard as they do every evening. Fragments of that post still lingering in my mind. In that quiet, serene moment when I looked around and saw the life I had made, the projects that DD and I had worked on, and the food and animals that we had raised on a small suburban homestead at the edge of town, it came to me, something I was told many years ago, that has stuck with me all this time—hike your own hike.


What the heck does it mean to hike your own hike?


Hiking Boots


Bear with me while I explain.

It was back in 2011.

DD (aka Showie) was about to age out of two livestock programs that had taken us to fairs and expos and auctions all over California showing and selling sheep and chickens. Showing had been a huge part of our lives for 15 years. Prior to moving to our small lot at the edge of town, my sister and I had raised and shown sheep all over the western US for more than 30 years. DD went to her first ram sale at just 4 months old. Raising livestock was in our blood. It defined us, made us who we had become, and it was all going to stop in a matter of months.

Realizing that I would have a lot more time on my hands, I set out to think about the next phase in my life—the life of an empty nester. I thought about all the things I had not done, places I had not gone because buying, raising and showing livestock had always come first. I began making lists of places, activities, things I wanted to do.

One item on my list was to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a trail that extends from Baja California to the south, through 3 states, ending at the Washington/Canadian border to the north; 2,650 miles through the California desert, the glacial expanses of the Sierras Nevada mountains; through the deep forests Oregon and over the volcanic peaks of the Cascade Mountain range.

A hiking venture like this is a huge undertaking. People spend years planning and training for this hike, it’s not something to be taken lightly, but was something I wanted to do.

As I researched the trial, spoke with outfitters who advised hikers, and read the trail journals of people who had, and were, hiking the trail, I came to understand what a feat this really was. I also realized that there were parts of the trail I had absolutely zero interest in hiking—the California desert for one. Several hundred miles of searing heat and freezing cold, the desolate surroundings were less than appealing as well. The other areas I had no interest in were the high snowcapped peaks of the Sierras and Cascade mountain ranges; the potential for sliding off a cliff or down the side of a mountain was equally unappealing.

Thinking about these revelations and the kind of hiking I really wanted to do, I set out to create “my own” hike, a condensed version of the original that I could hike in sections over many years. (Hikers refer to this as section hiking rather than thru hiking where you go from one end of the trail to the other in one trip)

A year later sis and I set out on a long weekend for the first leg of our hike, a 20 mile section near Mammoth Lakes. Over the course of two days we hiked past rivers, waterfalls, lakes, ponds, woodlands and jagged rock formations. We saw a variety of birds and wildlife we would have never encountered had we not gotten off the beaten path. It was fantastic, the beginning of a life-long dream, we were hooked.

As we came off the trail, covered in dust, sweat dripping from everywhere, our hair all askew we couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment through the exhaustion. We made our way to the truck and pulled out our cooler. It was late in the afternoon and most of the picnic area was deserted. We set up our lunch at the edge of the trail—homemade chicken salad, fruit, cheese, nuts and a gallon of ice cold water. Food never tasted so good as it did that day. We sat in the shade eating, watching as hiker after hiker come off the trail and greeted us with the same dusty tired smiles we had an hour before.

I felt like part of a group that day, a group of people who were like me, just wanting an adventure, a challenge, and to be out in nature.

We must have sat there for hours when two young, spry men bounded off the trail like they had enough energy to hike another 20 miles. They greeted us, asked how we were doing, what we saw, where we had hiked. One thing led to another and they joined us at our table, pulling out a few bags of their trail food and bottles of water. They were pleasant and chatty, telling us all about their many hiking excursions. These were serious hiker, I thought.

During our conversations I found myself almost apologizing that we had not started our hike at the beginning of the trail. I made excuses about why we weren’t hiking the entire trail, that we had selected only certain sections. And, it must have seemed like I was asking permission to hike the trail over the course of years instead of the normal 5-months. When I realized what I was doing I felt almost sick. I didn’t need their permission or approval to hike where I wanted or to by-pass the areas I wasn’t interested in. Why was I rationalizing any of this to a perfect stranger!!!???

The guys were sweet and must have sensed that what I was really saying was…I. Am. Not. A. Real. Hiker.

We continued talking. They told us where they had hiked and where they were hiking on this trip. They told us about their lives and plans and how much they loved to hit the trails almost every weekend. Sitting there listening to these two young men I felt even more like a fraud. I hiked local trails; they hiked major sections of the US. Even though I had a wonderful hike, felt very proud of my accomplishment and was looking forward to our next trek onto the trails, I also felt slightly diminished, like what I had done was nothing compared to what these two young men had done, were doing.

I sat silently listening to them talk. I was in awe of what they were doing. I wondered why I waited so long. I felt like I had missed out on so much, wasted so much time not starting earlier in my life. I gazed off into the distance, their voices fading to a murmur, reflecting on what the hell I was doing. I was mid-life, I had a grown daughter, and I had not trained to hike a trail like this.

When the sun sank below the treetops and the air turned chilly, sis and I were ready for a long hot bath, a warm meal and a soft bed. We were spent. The young men decided to continue their hike to the next point on their map. I wished them well and safe trails. They hugged us and told us how awesome it was that we were out here doing our own thing. As they walked towards the trail, one of the young men turned back towards us and said something I will never, ever forget.

He said, “We all hike our own hike. Just because we do it differently than anyone else doesn’t make us any less of a hiker”. I smiled and thanked him, but what I really wanted to do was run up and hug him again because in those four words, a person who had hiked hundreds of miles in dozens of places around the country had just affirmed that I WAS A REAL HIKER TOO!!!

Why the long story?


Just this…

…homesteading, like hiking, is a personal decision, a personal challenge. We decide what and how we want our homesteading journey to look. Mine may not look like yours or the blogger in my story, but it’s not supposed to. We all have different interests we want to pursue, different skills we want to learn, different goals we want to reach.

No one homesteading venture is better than another, they all have meaning and value to the person who matters most—YOU!!

Throw off the shackles of convention, folks. Ignore what people think you should do or how you should do it.

In essence…HIKE YOUR OWN HIKE, folks, but always on your own terms.

Peat Pots Sprouting

The Music of my Farm

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

music on the farm

When I was 8 years old a friend of my moms gave us a used upright piano. It had been owned by a local church for ages and they were replacing it with a new one. Every attempt to sell it had failed, so one day it showed up at our door. It was old, showing signs of age and hard use. The keys were yellow and some were cracked and chipped. The tuning was off and some key pads were so worn down they barely made a sound when the key was struck. But never wanting to pass up a free deal, no matter how battered or unwanted, my mom let the beast into our home.

Our house was full; three active kids under the age of 10, pets running around, toys, activities, and school projects took up almost every inch of available space, but mom was not deterred.

The only place this monster would fit was the rarely used dining room; no matter that every time we walked through the kitchen door it would bang the side of the piano, adding to its ragged state and damaging the door.

After the delivery men left we three just stood looking at this old wooden box with its broken keys and warped sound, wondering what the hell mom was thinking. Little did we know mom had a plan, one that would be revealed to us just before school let out for the summer. Read the rest of the story »

Words to Live By

Saturday, January 12, 2013

“Tell me and I will forget;

show me and I may remember;

involve me and I will understand.”

– Chinese Proverb

Escaping Reality or Walking Headlong into It?

Saturday, December 29, 2012

I love my little homestead on the edge of town. It is a stormy weekend here on the Central Coast; grey clouds cover the sky and rain falls light and soft. The Sycamore tree outside my window is the color of New England, red and gold and brown. Leaves fall, swirling around with each puff of wind before landing on the wet ground, insulating bulbs planted this fall.

As I write, there is a blazing fire in front of me, crackling and popping with wood laid in back in September. A stockpot bubbles on the stove, full of vegetables and herbs and chicken raised and killed on our farm this past spring. Soft instrumental music floats through the house, the sounds of winter found on Pandora. It is quiet and peaceful and reflective. It is home, an oasis, a refuge from a chaotic world just outside me.

My friends and acquaintances say I don’t live in the real world, that what I have created is unnatural, a fantasy, a fake world not based on reality. They think I am hiding from life, from drama, from real problems and real situations. But, is it—hiding? Or, is it looking life square in the face and consciously deciding to have something different? A different kind of life; a better life; one based solely on realism.

The daily life of a farm is the most real place you can be. There is living and dying on a farm; crops to be planted so they grow to their most bountiful, animals to be bred so offspring is born during the right season, meat animals to be raised to get a family through the winter. Animals to care for no matter what the weather is, what other pleasures may be sought, what schedules must be kept. Oh, sure you can always run to the store to buy a pre-made meal, but is that the real world? Or, is that the fake and shallow world created by corporations and consumerism?

Is it more real to spend the day walking a mall full of pushing crowds and glaring lights and blaring sounds? Or, is a real life found in the natural flow of a farm? Is reality found in dashing out on a cold winter’s day frantic to get an extra discount on something you already have or don’t really need? Or, is reality found in a home that can care for its family no matter what difficulties may come?

How much more real can you be growing your own food, trading or bartering with others, helping friends in need and being part of a community that understands what real life is, appreciating the hardships and pleasures it can afford, while reveling in the natural beauty of it all.

I suppose we all have a different view on what is real and what reality is. It is shaped by our values, our upbringing, our life experiences. It ebbs and flows as we age and live and grow; deciding what we want for ourselves and from ourselves.

Farming is MY reality. I look out over my little farm and see a decade worth of work and striving and accomplishment. My farm is what solidifies me, quiets my soul, makes me happy, and makes me—REAL.

Do you find the homesteading life an escape from life? Or, a strong walk into reality? I’d love to know.


Moonlight Yoga and Moving On

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

I had the most wonderful evening last night. My dear friend, Anne, and I went to a moonlight yoga class at the beach. What a wonderful experience. We got to the park, over looking the ocean at about 7:45pm. The weather was cool and the fog was just beginning to roll in off the calm sea. The grass had just been mowed and the smell of sweetness mixed with the salt air made the evening even more relaxing. The class started out slowly with lots of easy stretches and deep breathing; just what I needed after these last few weeks of hectic schedules and preparations for Brianne leaving for college next month.

As the class progressed I could feel the tension in my body drift away. I have to admit I did think about my ability to move the next day, but frankly didn’t care I was having too much fun. The sun began to set and the fog thickened as we moved into longer and more difficult poses. We breathed in the damp air, looked out over the horizon and watched the stars get brighter. The moon began to shine, hanging low over the horizon. It was amazing…cool air, stars, moon, crashing waves. By the time the class finished darkness had fallen completely. We laid on our mats for a few moments longer, not wanting to leave this quiet place.

When I woke this morning I had none of the feared aches and stiffness I expected. I was refreshed and rejuvenated, eager to start a new day and a new way of living. This is my beginning of a life that does not revolve around sheep and shows and a daughter.

And, I am beginning in earnest. My long awaited greenhouse now has a floor and the walls will be finished by the end of the weekend. I will post pictures as we go. I’m excited about all of it. I can now keep my gardening supplies all in one place and the planned for patio on the front will be a nice place to sit and look out over the garden area. There’s so much I want to do there doesn’t seem to be time for it all, but I’m having fun making plans and setting projects in motion.

I’ll raise a glass tonight as I enjoy a country western swing concert followed by our annual fireworks display. Here’s to moving on into a new stage of life!

Happy 4th of July!!

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

I, like anyone, likes a good holiday. It means a day off work, more time on the farm, free time to do something new or time to spend with family and friends. But, the older I get the more I look back at how the life I lead today was but a dream for most a few hundred years ago. We in our modern world can’t even imagine the struggles our forefathers had to endure, the drive it took to carve out a living in a new and uncertain world, the strength it took to stand firm to their convictions. We have so much in our fast-paced instance gratification world that we often times lose sight of the enormity of what people went through to make our country free. So, as we party and BBQ and watch the colorful array of fireworks this fine summer day let’s not forget how it all came to be, how much we have to lose and how grateful we should be.

Enjoy my friends. And have a safe and wonderful holiday.

Life’s Perfect Storm

Friday, May 18, 2012

Hi folks. I know it’s been a while since my last post and I apologize for that. There has been so much going on around here that writing, which I love to do, has seemed more like a chore rather than the true pleasure it really is. Have you ever had one of those days when work and school and kids and home and farm and future created the perfect storm of chaos that had your world spinning out of control?  Well— we have, but not just a day. This has been going on since April. Some responsibilities can not be push off to another day, like college, scholarship and internship applications; job resumes and interviews; butchering ducks, working when the boss asks for overtime or attending livestock shows. They all have deadlines that must be met, while every other non-essential task like laundry, cleaning, gardening, dishes, grocery shopping…and writing on a blog take a back seat.

Finally, though, the grey angry clouds seem to be dissipating and I can see faint rays of light streaming through. The storm, at long last appears to be lifting, albeit slowly.

It’s been an interesting time, though, if not a busy one. It has served to galvanize my plans and my dreams of what the future will look like. It has shoved in my face, over and over, the chaotic, drone-like, unsatisfying life I DON’T want and pulled me more towards the life I do want for myself and my daughter.

Life will not be totally calm, it never is when a child goes off to college, but it should be more manageable. We will take it one step at a time, one day at a time, always moving forward. And, the first step starts today. A day off work will give me a big chunk of time to rein in a life that has been bounced on the rocky shoals over the last several weeks and come out battered and bruised, but not broken.

I have great plans working in my head, but I’m not ready to share them just yet. I hate to be a tease, but ideas and thoughts need to be worked on and fleshed out before they can be shared. Bear with me folks, life is getting back on track and we are taking back the farm. Literally.

Putting Pen to Paper

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

I just finished putting a pot of chicken soup on the stove, made from a simmered down homegrown chicken carcass cooked months ago and frozen waiting for such a day as this. An April storm rages outside; lightening illuminates the house and thunder crashes so loud it shakes the windows, making the cat run for cover. There is a warm fire crackling and popping near where I write; glowing hot with wood collected in the fall. It is still keeping us warm. My new dulcimer stands in the corner waiting for me to pick it up and strum the new cords I am teaching myself. We are happy and content to stay indoors and revel in simple pleasures on this wet spring morn.

What a life we have created for ourselves! A half finished flannel quilt sits patiently on a makeshift sewing table, made from scraps collected over time during shopping trips to thrift and second hand stores. There are lambs outside; the last vestiges of Brianne’s show career. A new batch of meat ducks huddle in a pen of wire, bedded down on a thick layer of shavings, keeping the chill of this stormy day at bay. Sophie, the Sebastopol goose, sits on a small clutch of eggs, ignorant of the fact they will never hatch…they are not fertile. But, she may be a mother yet. When I gently pulled back the warm covering of straw on top of the nest I found three chicken eggs. She must have gathered them from a wayward hen and made them her own. They have a better chance of hatching.

There are eggs in the fridge, laid by the hens who roam the yard. There is lamb and chicken in the freezer as well; all raised here on our suburban farm and butchered by the people who cared for them. Homemade sausage lays frozen in patties and links; taught to us by our friendly butcher Kent. Aside from the meat we have raised we’ve also baked bread from scratch, canned jams and relishes, peaches, made cheese from fresh goat’s milk. The honey we use comes from “the bee man” who pollinates a family farm. There are two trucks and a livestock trailer parked in the drive, waiting for the next farm chore or livestock show excursion.

We’ve held just hatch chicks in our hands, offspring from our little flock this time last year and watched as new born kits wriggle in the warmth of a soft fur bed. We’ve grown a garden full of vegetables and picked pumpkins that would make Cinderella weep with joy. We’ve fished for our supper and learned to shoot with both gun and bow. We’ve laid in bed on a cool summer morning and heard the songs of birds that call our farm home. We’ve stopped dead in our tracks as the cry of a coyote shatters the dark silence of our nightly rounds. We’ve built with lumber, sewn clothes, knitted scarves and quilted blankets to keep us warm in winter. And, we’ve captured it in a blog. We have customers that buy our products and seek our knowledge.

But there is still much left to do. We’d like to feel the biting cold on our face as a sled and dogs pulls us through the blue glow of a winter morning. We’d like to drive a carriage and use horse power instead of machine power to work a farm. And, we’d like to see dogs run the yard once more. We’d like to restart our sheep flock, long ago lost to a pack of feral dogs and feel the thrill of bringing a new crop of lambs into this world. We’d like to start a CSA of wool and meat and vegetables and fruit. And, we’d like to share what we’ve learned with others.

Tonight our plans are quiet. No hot dates or people to impress with shallow small talk of inconsequential matters. No…tonight is dedicated to this small suburban farm, plans for the future and life lived simply; a life that didn’t even exist a few years ago. Tonight I’ll help a new college student follow her dream and work on a few of my own. I’ll learn about raising and processing a pig, making plans for a new pig pen and I’ll read about heritage cattle to determine if this will be a new addition to our farm. This is normal, at least for us. This is everyday life for us.

I’ve been told by family and friends that I’m a fool to be wasting my time and energy on things that can be bought just a few miles from my home, that don’t require trudging out in the rain or sweating in the sun. I must be a fool then, to trade the shallow wasteful easy comforts of modern society to live this way, to do all this and dance at dusk to the sounds of sweet mournful instruments long past forgotten. They can say what they like. I wouldn’t change a thing, not for anyone. This is our life—sometimes messy, sometimes hard, sometimes sad. But, we like it. It suits us.

We may not have the riches of some and we certainly aren’t surrendering ourselves to the simpering, giggling, nauseatingly fake form of womanhood that so many feel necessary. But we are pretty dang happy tonight. We feel like the richest women in the world. Why you may ask, do we feel this way. Two simple reasons:

One: I always wanted this life and knew it could happen, not hoped but knew, and

Two: I wrote it down.

May sound strange, but it’s true. I believe this with every ounce of my being because I’ve seen it happen time-after-time. Years ago I was reading a piece written by a well-known motivational speaker. He had written about a “Dream Book”. A place to keep, write, draw and plan ALL the dreams you have for your life. He went on to state that 98% of people never plan or make goals for their lives, and even fewer take the time to write those dreams or plans down. Of the people to do take the time to put pen to paper 90% actually achieved their written goal. Amazing, right? There’s just something about making a written commitment to yourself. It makes the dream more real, more achievable. I strive to be part of the 90%

When I was going through my divorce I knew I wanted a place where we could have animals and gardens and trees. I wanted a REAL wood burning fireplace, a nice kitchen where I could make dinners from scratch, and most of all zoning that would allow us to do all the things we wanted without the prying eyes of a small minded HOA. So—I took pen to paper and wrote it all down. I drew out a barn to house the animals we would raise. I laid out cutting gardens, vegetable gardens, trellises, arbors, even a green house. I collected magazine clippings of flowers I would grow, recipes I would make and animals I would raise. All in anticipation that “one day” I would find what I was looking for. I carried my “dream book” with me everywhere so I could write down new ideas that came to mind. And I think because it was so much a part of me, so close to me at all time those ideas and dreams pushed me to never give up. But, time and trial can take its toll. I was discouraged, tired, pushed to my breaking point. Divorce is not easy folks. I WAS giving up, but trying not to. I was resigning myself to a life less than I wanted, but still holding out some hope that I would find what I was looking for.

Life is strange. It happens when you least expect it. I was sitting in a small café with my sister. It was Sunday. I had decided to take a break from the search for a home that would give us the life we so dearly wanted when the couple seated next to us got up and left. Lying on the table was the Sunday paper. I stared at it a while and then picked it up. I didn’t look through it for the longest time, just held it looking at the front page. I guess I was deciding whether or not to risk disappointment. But, I did open it. Thumbed through the housing section, reading about all the grandiose homes that were not only over my budget, but would not give me the life I wanted, until the bottom corner of the last page caught my eye. It was a barely noticeable ad for a house just outside of town. The ad said “small farm”. I looked at sis and she instinctively knew without me saying a word. She grabbed the paper and found the ad. We both sat there, silently staring at each other. We knew. We just knew.

We paid our bill and left. I was breathless driving to the address; excited, afraid, unsure. I had never bought a home before, never had a mortgage. I wasn’t even sure I could do it. We walked through the front door and my heart stopped. IT WAS A WREACK!! The house had been a rental for 12 years and it showed. But…it had a big wood burning fireplace, almost 3-feet wide, and land, enough for barns and gardens and greenhouses. The kitchen needed work, but it was roomy with lots of space. This wasn’t the little farm I wrote about in my dream book, but it had bones to build on and room to grow.

I say all this because I want you to know this doesn’t happen by magic. This farm didn’t just fall into my lap. It was thought of, conceived of and dreamed of. It wasn’t given to me either. I worked hard for it, scrimped and saved and did without to make it work. I had to be tough, wheel and deal and put people in their place when they tried to cheat me. But I pulled it off, paycheck to paycheck, a little at a time until it grew into something wonderful. There is a barn we build ourselves, fences, an orchard, berry patch, flower gardens, vegetable beds and grape vines; and—a new kitchen. Many hands have helped to make this farm possible and many hands have enjoyed the fruits of their labor. If a single mom raising a child alone can buy a home and build a farm out of a suburban lot so can you. I promise.

I guess the moral is…if you want your own land, want your own farm then please sit down and put pen to paper and write it all down. All the wants, all the dreams, all the crazy notions. Carry it with you and keep it close to your heart. It may take years before you can dance at dusk on your own land with chickens scratching in the background, but those years are coming anyway—why not have a farm at the end of them.

And keep dancing at dusk, folks. It couldn’t hurt.