The other night I dreamed that I was writing again, and I knew exactly how to begin. It was a simple thing—maybe one sentence, maybe two. In my dream it started with just that, and then the words flowed out of me and by dinner time it was a book. I don't remember the first sentence, but it had something to do with stepping on dog shit in my bedroom*.
I then dreamed that I found a weanling mule wandering in the road, and I had nowhere to put him. No paddock, no pasture, no backyard, no garage. I roamed the streets beside him, feeling an obligation toward his safety and an utter, overwhelming lack of clarity as far as how to secure it. That dream ended when I saw the door to my home—the Ark—and suddenly the weanling was gone, and I was mounting the steps and opening the door and wrapping my arms around my boyfriend, who stood there silently awaiting me. It was the best feeling. A feeling of safety, of permanence, and of home.
Moving to the country and owning acreage was my mother's dream and it became my life story. I moved to the country with my mom at age 11, and in adulthood I achieved micro-farmer status when my ex-husband and I bought Bent Barrow Farm, on 1.25 acres in the Cascade Foothills. It was big enough for horses, goats, chickens, rabbits, and dogs, so it was big enough.
While the transitions that have taken me away from Bent Barrow Farm have all been good ones (a career I love, a community I adore, an amicable ending to one relationship and a beautiful start to another) I've struggled to resonate with an idea of home that doesn't include pasture. While my heart often says yes to this quirky, sweet house and this beautiful little yard that I bought two years ago, my head still says, "but couldn't we make a Winnebago on a 4 acre clearcut fit in the budget, instead?"
I didn't know I had writer's block until I dreamed I didn't, but I think the two things are connected. I think I want to belong here, in the Ark—and one way to do that is to tell a new story.
*this happened. Thanks, Russell!
💜
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