The Return

I'm easing back into this space, snatching little chunks, reclaiming time to put my thoughts down and to do what is so dear to me, photographing and capturing how we spend our days. This transition to the farm has been a doozy in so many ways, both heartbreaking and heartwarming at turns, and I haven't always felt the desire or ability to write, here. To say our days are full is trite, but nonetheless, they are. And as just about everyone in the U.S. knows, this winter has been rough weather-wise, and rough on five people learning to live together in this new old place, this one filled with ghosts and haunts, some cold with longing and rigid with bitterness, at that.

I miss, too, the scent of our other home, our Mermaid House, the familiar corners and light, where spaces are now empty, shelves hold no books, and nails stick out from plaster as accusatory reminders of our abandonment.







That's what I think and feel on the hardest days. A homesickness so deep it draws great sobs up and bursting out of me until I am doubled over with...change. It's not loss, truly, it's only change. Change that we asked for and sought and work so very hard for. And it is wickedly wicked, some days.

Then there are moments, hours, days, where this change seems easy and natural. When order is created out of chaos, when photos and art find homes here on these farmhouse walls, when meals are eaten together, cooked in this kitchen, when new skills are acquired, when we spend hours rebuilding this place, and when we explore our greater community and extend ourselves.





























In these moments, I know that home is us, not the house. I clutch that knowledge, cling to it, letting it settle in my bones. Home is us. Not the house. And winter is almost done.