I can feel it in my bones.

I have never been a dreamer. The more I learn about myself, it becomes clearer and clearer that, though I don't like to admit it, I have a pretty significant pessimistic streak. I've never let myself have dreams because, well, what's the point if it is possible that they won't come true?

Ridiculous, I know.

I am not sure what has changed, but little shimmers of dreams are starting to slip in. And who would've thought it, but dreams don't have to be big, grandiose schemes. They can be small and simple. And these days, I find myself entertaining a few of that sort.

No body deserves to be this content.
Or every body does. One or the other.
Bones are resting in knowledge that,
one day, they will be slumped,
wrapped in beads and cardigan,
wielding spraggled hair of forsythia.
They cannot see the in-between,
but that, dears, is inconsequential.
Consequence is unyielding.
It is the end with which they are
finally able to begin.
They know who they want to be,
and therefore, are.

I'm figuring out what it means to be home, finding out what I love here. Last night, I set up a sewing machine, and I'm teaching myself how to use it. Today, I walked the entire perimeter of the farm -- wanting to take pictures, but contenting myself with looking, listening, breathing. I'm getting ready to go sit in a rocking chair on the front porch and write.

I'm thinking to myself, I want to be old here, but it looks like I already am.