We woke to a misty morning, something we are learning is very common for us here in what I affectionately call "the Shire." We live at the top of a hill, and if it is raining, or humid with a high dewpoint, we are often shrouded in fog. And while it is beautiful, and I fancy myself living in the middle of a Thomas Hardy novel as the mist envelops us, it is definitely the downside of hilltop living.
But these pretties don't mind it:
...and it makes for some extremely productive days at the office:
After all, it's quite something for this high mountain desert rat to adapt to this rainy climate so reminiscent of the settings I have loved so well in my beloved Victorian British novels. But when I consider that it is the steadfast yearning for such bucolic landscapes that has helped draw me here in the first place, I'm pretty sure I'm up to the challenge.
This afternoon, I weeded a garden in misty rain. All around me, a trifling chill, like early spring. My gloved fingers immersed in soil moist from persistent showers, pull at a web of roots feeding healthy but undesirable greenery like blood vessels to a tumor. The beetles I disturb scurry in a frenzy as their status quo collapses. A frighteningly large spider, burdened by her corpulent egg sac, totters hesitantly, then stills as she assesses the potential threat. I eagerly move to a different section, and give her--and myself--some space.
I reach underneath a shrub to grab the clever growth that shelters there. I firm up my posture and tug as tiny leaves release the drops of rain that have been collecting. The dewy droplets cascade down my arm, one by one then together gathering unto one another, soft as petals, this shower of loveliness.
When I realize. I am going to be happy in this place. In this strange climate where weeding in the rain seems more right than weeding in the sun. In this place of extremes where it can be the end of summer one day and the beginning of spring the next. In this place where I am learning who I really want to be. By myself. For myself.
To live in the midst of surprises such as this is what has drawn us to this place. The season that originally summoned us has arrived, to be followed by its even more beautiful sister, if one can even imagine that such a thing is possible.
And yet, our true selves linger somewhere between the life we knew and the dream that is being revealed. Between shafts of reality that cut us to the core, and flashes of faith that breed hope for the future.
We yearn for the familiar. For laughter with daughters and the ease of good neighbors. For the companionship of mothers and the solace of aunts. For the comaraderie of the office and the gift that is friendship. For book clubs and rock bands and mountains to hike. For the home we made so beautiful.
And yet, we revel in the blessings of our new life. There are no alarms. No regular commutes. No extracurricular commitments. There are wood chucks that forage, wild turkeys that gobble, frogs that sing, birds that warble, and now, deer that surprise. There is an ocean, there are farmers' markets, and there are our beloved Eds.
But most of all, we are absorbed in healing and discovery. We grieve the loss of our past lives in an effort to make room for the new. We are gathering unto one another, harvesting our bonds, while burrowing deep into ourselves in an effort to decipher our new reality.
We watch the moon and wake with the sun and marvel at the quiet.
We work side-by-side and eat lunch together and take tea breaks at four.
We've been to the ocean, we've walked through the woods, we've paddled a canoe.
We are half-way through a year, and looking ever forward to more surprises such as these.