I have lived here for about seven years: floors have shifted, doors have opened and opened and opened—gardens have been planted and the fields populated by bees, birds, sheep and so much more. This is a magic place: a very magic place. The house is a 1798 farmhouse with lots of history and frequent spirits. It speaks to me.
Circles, songs, drums, gatherings and workshops: all have happened here. The walls have embraced harmonies, tears and celebration. The outdoors remind us of the fabulous truth of nature.
Nearing spring, seeds are planted and it smells like earth inside. As they grow, they move to the hoop house...and finally to the rich and supportive soils that are natural to this land. The gardens bloom and abound, the fruiting trees and bushes happen up, and the foraging continues all season long. There is so much to celebrate.
By seasons end, the root cellar is full, the shelves are filled with preserves and canned goods, the freezers are paced with what veggies I could not otherwise keep/process.
The sun streams through all directions. We sit high up. There are few words...or just too many.