I watched a movie with my daughter, and the whole time I watched it, I wondered about a dream.
The dream to live in the country.
The setting of the movie was rural Wyoming, trees towering to touch a bluer than blue sky. A farm with a cow, and a passel of cats. The smell of earth. Quiet moments with the stars.
Land to call your own.
I know it’s idyllic, but I’m prone to idealizing that which I don’t have. The reality of the country is much grittier and stressful than what I romanticize it to be. Still, I dream.
I dream of owning a few acres, gardening and canning, trying our hand at wine-making and vineyarding. Creating cheese. Raising chickens. Living in a sustainable way with a windmill or some solar panels. Not too far away from the hustle and bustle, but far enough away to hear coyotes, see the stars on a dark, dark sky.
I guess deep down I’m a farmwoman. Living in the suburbs.
And yet, here I am, gardening my small plot of earth, still struggling to maintain that. Oh the reality of life!
I wonder if this dream is God-breathed or Mary-breathed. I wonder. But something in me aches for the quiet, the simplicity, the beauty. The ache won’t leave.
So I slip onto my knees and wonder if I should let this dream die. Or settle. Or slowly burn inside me. God knows. He knows so well.
Today, I can rest there.