Rue follows me to the coffee pot in the morning, hopeful for some food. When I turn on the light she doesn’t wince her eyes. The house already has a lightness to it – the sun has already risen and it reaches into the house, begging for us to rise, to see, to live.
Two days later, our sheets still smell like laundry detergent trapped into our bedding by the Sunday sun. I wake up and snuggle in – it smells so good, so fresh.
Our schedules get packed. The ‘list’ for each night grows like the grass now.
“Sometimes you get home and it’s like you have no time at all. Other times, you come home and it’s like time is pausing,” says J, at 8pm, after finishing his long list of after work to-dos and realizing it’s still early. We haven’t figured out this time thing yet.
Spring into Summer – a desire to be at the farm, stronger than any other season. To follow the rhythms of preparation, planting, tending, waiting, harvesting. The life cycle.
All the good lessons I’ve learned in life were planted on the family farm I grew up on. And in the summer, I long to be woken up early by planes spraying nearby fields, and falling asleep when it’s dark with a full stomach from a late supper for the farmer.