spring, continued

I'm capable of making rapid fire decisions, most of which turn out well enough. But I also know that if I shift direction, move, or take on something new, thoughts of the old linger. For a long time. When I left Poland, I didn't exactly miss my life there  -- much of it could stand to be improved upon, from family life, to my studies, to my personal relationships, to my career prospects. And still, there was a lot to miss. Friendships left behind. My grandmother's house in the country. A feeling of belonging. And I'd go back to those again and again, traveling constantly to see my friends, and dreaming about my grandma's place. I had this running joke in my head that was a steal from Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. If you'd read the book, you'd know it starts with the line "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again..." For very many years, I would wake up and think -- "last night I dreamt I went to Gnizadowo again..."

 It was to be expected, I suppose, that I would retain a fierce attachment to farmette lands, to farmhouse life as we lived it for some 15 years. Memories of how it felt, how it looked are strongest now as we hit the peak of spring time flower growth. 

My emotional (to say nothing of physical) investment in that place was huge. And when I visit it now, it all comes back to me, through every plant that I put in, through every minute of a shared home with Ed. 

As with leaving Poland, I don't regret making a home now away from the farmette (but not too far away!). Still, when I return to it, when I touch the soil, pull the endless saplings, and creeping bellflowers, or creeping charlie, or any of the other invasives, it all is with me once more -- that feeling of belonging, of it all being part of who I am. 

I've learned that sometimes you can deeply miss a place, a dog, a person, without thinking that you'd be better off with any of those in your life still. 

 

A cool morning. Millie is still coughing and only mildly interested in food. But she has a small bounce to her so I'm not too worried.

(Henry's squeaky Grinch is by far her favorite toy) 

We stay home. And because we are in a cold spell, all breakfasts in the foreseeable future have to be indoors.

I do have a bunch of errands at the farmhouse and I decide to take the girl with me for a walk along the farmette lands. 

To me, it's breathtakingly beautiful there right now! 

The crabs are in full bloom and the lilacs are just shooting out buds of purple flowers. 

The first irises are out, the less conventional daffodils are still going strong.

What's there not to love?!

Inside, I use our joint printer for some stuff and then I sit on the couch with Ed. And here too, I get a rush of that feeling of warmth that came from sharing space with him. The rooms were always too dark, too messy, too demanding. The routines were firmly in place: lots and lots of work now in the spring. Too little time to think about what I was writing, no time at all to read. Even in retirement, I was always behind with everything. But there was that connection to it all. That warmth.

(bringing home a few of the blooms...)

 

 

Millie takes long naps during the day and then goes wild in the evening. I don't mind this rather twisted pattern. She is learning routines and expectations at the same time that she has had to struggle with one bug after the next. And she is a five month old puppy!  

Ed comes over after sunset (meaning after he'd put away the chickens). I feed him supper, we watch a movie. Millie is still a little scared of him. She stays close to my side, just in case the big guy does something funny.

I'm surrounded by warmth. At Sally's House. Once again on the couch. Same couch, same Ed, different setting, with an added puppy.

and so much love...