This place, this farm life, is taking me over.

A couple friends have driven out (to this faraway place) to view the land we've inhabited. I watch them on our yard tours and am shocked at the changes I see. Changes in them? No, those within myself.

Our friends arrive pristine from the city, yet in my farm clothes and muddy barn shoes I point to the bees in the center of the compost pile and my friends hop backward, with a squeal, even. I work around bees daily-we are acquainted. And until we moved here, almost no one would have seen me in "play clothes," especially ones in farm dirt. But I cannot stay clean here, I don't even try, and I step into the barnyard hay without thinking, but not so my friends. They hover at the barn's doorway.

It rains and they dash to their car for an umbrella. Me? Rain or clear--I work in both and lately my head is always wet, from rain or sweat. I just wait with a sigh for them to push the umbrella up before we continue.

I take my friends to the back meadow and they become like whirling dervishes while they swat at mosquitoes (this following a dousing of DEET, even), missing half of my meadow narration, you know, my, "See what God hath wrought." Mosquitoes are just a fact of my new life and I come away a little sad that my friends are distracted from the amazing beauty of all this.

My garden is one big exciting project--to me. The fire pit I'm digging is anticipatory delight. Our orchards are ever on my mind--how I worked in them today, along with the projected tasks I'll do tomorrow.

But my friends see this as a lot of hard work, work not done by them, so not as appreciated. But delve into the work yourself and it's a delight and satisfying and the kind of labor with rewards like a good night's sleep, a little weight loss and smiles from the deep for a job completed.

I'm shocking my friends, I realize this. They know only City Debra, not the country gal stuffed down deep, hidden, all these years. When change comes suddenly, it usually brings confusion and only time and observation will restore understanding.

I'm becoming a farmgirl--and I saw it today with the last yard tour. Or more likely? The farmgirl in me finally has a place to work out the dreams from her soul. A playground for all the games she could only stand and watch wistfully for years, games she can now throw her whole body and heart into.

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The above photo shows our pocket doors in between the diningroom and livingroom. Kinda cool.

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And this photo, below, is my make-it-yourself nightstand. There's no room beside my bed for a real one, so I created one on the wall. Works great. Farmgirls are terrific at making do. :)




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