I woke up this morning to the low rumble of a thunderstorm rolling through. It was my day to sleep in, and I succeeded. My garden is rejoicing as I drink my coffee on the porch. The smell of the rosemary lingers and I feel an attachment to this place and time. It took seven years for our roots to grow deep enough for this suburban neighborhood to feel like home.
You should know, the day we moved into this house was a true dream of mine. We signed the dotted line, and they handed us the keys to our 80s model, three quarter acre plot of official adulthood. We were starring in my very own imaginary HGTV reality show. Finally, I could see what it was like to don my lady toolbelt, and put all those hours of dedicated DIY viewership to work!
Within the first two weeks, I had artfully destroyed every room in the house with good intentions. My saint of a husband put it delicately as he asked "How can we focus your energy into one project at a time?" In hindsight, I can see that I was a bit drunk on possibility. I'm always a bit drunk on possibility. One area at a time is an inspired momentum.
Reminds me of an Emerson quote I read recently.
"Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience."