January 15, 2017
Whenever I pass by an abandoned farm, I imagine rejuvenating the house, the barn, the flower beds and the surrounding fields. I dream of sheep, but not in the usual sense.
I’ve been an avid crocheter since the age of ten. I’m drawn to different types of yarn. The textures, colours and cuddle-factor.
Picture it: a small red barn.
A flock of sheep, heads down, grazing on the tender shoots of grass. A large vegetable garden located beside a stone cottage. Rows of lettuce, tomatoes, beans and cauliflower, too beautiful to regard merely as food. Laundry dancing with the wind, straining to be free of wooden clothes pegs. Two restless boarder collies, patrolling the fence line as the sheep graze. Six clucking chickens pecking and scratching at the loose dirt bordering the pathway between the barn and cottage.
A long driveway connects the cottage to a dirt road. Gravel crunches as a solitary figure takes the daily stroll to check the mail box. Upon returning, the figure walks past the cottage, stopping to stand beside a round table and lounge chair. One hand drops a few envelopes on the table, while the other brushes against the petals of a rose held captive in a vase.
Camouflaged by the shade of five flowering chestnut trees, the figure settles down into the chair. With notebook and pen, she continues on with the creation of stories.
January 1, 2017
The time of resolutions.
Resolutions require resolve. Focus. Determination. Vision.
What’s holding me back?
Fear of failure.
Fear of success.
Fear is supposed to be a good thing. Up to a point. It makes you realize something is at stake. Something worth preparing for.
Whenever I have a bit of serious thinking to do, I walk. Outside. For at least an hour.
Wrapping myself up in multiple layers of clothing, I step out into the dreariness of a murky day. The heels of my boots brand the fresh snow covering the sidewalks, highway and gravel road. Juncos fly from the dried stalks of wild grasses up into the bare trees. A chilling wind embraces my face, reviving a slumbering mind.
I walk past an older two-storey brick house, looking up at its front facade. Four glass windows had been replaced with solid brick. Why would someone choose to permanently deny sunlight?
A bit further down the road, the scent of fresh cow manure hovers in the air. Somehow sweet, it evokes the image of a straw-filled barn loft.
I inhale the silence.
Resolve somehow finds me, grasping my mitten-covered hand.