Babs isn’t the only person I know who does this.  My mother was an immaculate housekeeper but toward the end of her life she wasn’t able to keep up with it as well as she liked, so she hired someone to help.  Yet, each week she would continue to clean the house before they showed up.  I don’t get that.  I think if you’re hiring someone to clean your house, you should let them do their job and stop interfering.

     But then that cleanliness gene must skip generations, because my idea of deep cleaning is sweeping the room with a glance.  I admit, this means there are times when someone drops by unannounced and I quickly greet them at the door and then chat awkwardly in the front lawn without inviting them in.   I do this because I feel uneasy letting them see my collection of dust bunnies that have become large enough to be considered household pets. 

     I like to rationalize this house keeping deficiency as my small attempt at countering the media’s undue influence on us. Watch one hour of daytime television and the reasons for our obsession with cleanliness become apparent.  We have products that clean our air to our hair, our floors to our doors, our gutters to our putters, and just about every mentionable, as well as a number of unmentionable, parts and places.  The other morning after showering, shampooing, rinsing, moisturizing, brushing, drying, fluffing, flossing, tweezing, defoliating and deodorizing I was so worn out I had to take a nap before continuing my day. 

     It’s enough to make the rebel in me want to run outside and roll around in the mud.  But then I’d no doubt track dirt all over my floors and as soon as I did someone would show up and think I lived like that all the time. 

     However, what would be the real harm in that?  I doubt too many people spend their last few minutes on earth wishing they had kept their kitchen floor cleaner and brighter, or that they had done just one more load of laundry in an attempt to get their whites even whiter.  I’ve wandered through a number of cemeteries in my lifetime and have yet to see a stone engraved with the words, “Here lies Mary.  She kept a really clean house.”

     So, I bet when it comes to our Last Call we don’t regret the days we didn’t make the bed or do the dishes as much as the ones we didn’t make time to watch the sunset, or play with the kids more, or share a good hearty laugh with a friend.

     Besides tossing a little glitter in those dust bunnies and cobwebs in the corners of the room makes the house feel so festive!

       Yup, I did The Stupid….again. What began as an afternoon of cutting firewood soon became the challenge of how I might get Gizmo, my side-by-side ATV, from its perch balancing on top of a giant red granite boulder.

       I could possibly blame this misfortune on the fact the sun was in my eyes which prevented me from seeing the rock that was now a fulcrum for Gizmo. I might even share, in my defense, that I wasn’t wearing my regular glasses having learned from previous experience that chain saws spitting saw dust on them leaves the lenses so scratched the world viewed through them appears Impressionistic. Instead I was wearing my old prescription sports goggles, the ones I use to wear when I played racquetball and which my friends said made me look like Fearless Fly. These old sports goggles may not have been glamorous, and the prescription strength was years out dated, but they served well as eye protectors.  An added benefit was that if a game of racquetball should suddenly break out in the middle of the woods, I was prepared to step in.

       I wasn’t being careless. I rarely am when working outdoors. I know that agriculture is one of the most dangerous occupations in the United States. I had been driving slowly and watching carefully for the big rocks that the last glacier brought down from South Dakota and Minnesota and then left behind when it retreated. In fact, I was completely focused on a gathering of the rocks ahead when I heard the loud thump and felt the jolt of Gizmo coming to a sudden and violent stop on top of a rock hidden in the grass several yards in advance of the others.

       When you first find you’ve done The Stupid the reaction is usually some form of,  “Oh crap! How the Hell am I going to get out of this one?” This is exactly what I asked the sun, the wind and the grass. None of them offered any good suggestions, so I was left to my own devices.  The same devices that had created a teetering Gizmo in the first place. With some muscle I was able to push Gizmo back enough that the back wheels once again touched earth, but the front ones were now a couple of feet off the ground.

       I will spare you the rest of the grizzly details, including any recounting of adult language and moments of near meltdown, and just tell you that it took a truck jack, some more muscle, several intense bursts of trucker mouth and a lot of farm girl ingenuity but I was finally able to free Gizmo from that rock.

       Once again, The Stupid was a great teacher. I love doing things like cutting my own firewood. It makes me feel strong and self-reliant. But, as I mentioned, I am also aware that a lot of the tasks I am undertaking carry some danger and risk with them. That’s why I am usually hyper vigilant and always try to keep myself very aware of what I am doing and my surroundings at all times.

       That keeps me incredibly present, which is a good practice no matter what we’re doing, but even then,  it’s still way too easy to get focused on a bunch of boulders ahead and not notice the big rock right in front of you!

            But if you have ever received a bag of Friendship Bread starter you know that it can quickly become a curse.  Oh, it starts out innocent enough.  The small baggie of beige batter appears harmless.  It’s basically one package of dry yeast, some warm water, three cups of flour, sugar and milk.  The instructions that come along with the starter don’t appear foreboding either, although it does require a bit of a commitment.

            There is nothing insidious about any of that, you might say.  However, you would be mistaken.  Within the bag of starter and accompanying recipe lies a sweet confection that could easily take over your life.

            The first few days you simply squeeze the bag.  Of course, the recipe leaves it open as to how much squeezing is required.  Being a member of Over-Achievers Anonymous (yes, it’s true, we have our own 12-step program, only we’ve expanded it to 24-steps), I squeezed mine several times a day.  I pulled myself back from actually setting a timer and squeezing it every two hours.

            After being lulled into what would soon prove to be false security, the directions begin to get a little more complicated.  Soon you are asked to add more milk, more flour and a few other ingredients.  You then return to squeezing for another few days.  All of that is followed by adding the rest of the ingredients and separating the result into equal shares of starter, which you are instructed to now pass on to other unsuspecting souls.  This is how this edible chain letter is spread.

            This is also when I knew I had bitten off more bread than I could chew.  I was unable to find anyone who would take the starter bags of Friendship Bread.  It seems as though everyone I know was aware of the pitfalls of raising this bread.  And by now I indeed felt as though I was “raising” it because it was requiring more and more responsibility and a commitment similar to owning a pet.  It had to be tended daily and fed regularly, and it felt somehow cruel and heartless to dump it out.  I honestly considered driving mine into town and leaving the bags of starter near a house that looked friendly toward baked goods.

            But instead I called my friend Andy, who was a professional baker, to ask if I might drop off some bags of Friendship Bread starter.  His answer was a surprising and emphatic “No!”  Then in a softer, more compassionate tone he explained, “I love Friendship Bread.  It’s delicious, but it gets way out of hand.  Do yourself a favor and get rid of it now, while you can.  I’m telling you this for your own good.  It will take over your life.  Get out now!”

            No one else I knew would accept a bag of Friendship Bread starter either, and since I had so much time and energy invested in the ever growing bags of batter I couldn’t bear to throw it out, so I’ve been spending every spare moment squeezing dozens of bags.  I’m also spending 10 to 12 hours every couple of weeks baking the bread.  My freezer is full of the stuff and my countertops are overflowing with bags of bread in various stages of completion.

            Andy called the other day and when I told him I didn’t have time to chat he knew the real reason.  “It’s the Friendship Bread, isn’t it?  You didn’t get rid of it soon enough and now it has taken over, hasn’t it?  I tried to tell you….”  I hung up before he finished.  I had bags to squeeze!

             The passing of each one of these lives feels as though it has created a tear in the fabric of this community.  There are certainly holes where each once lived, gave, smiled, laughed and loved.  Each one had a space and place in the community that cannot be completely filled by someone else in the same way.  Each gave of themselves and their resources in a distinctly individual way and their absence is now palpable.

             So with each one there is great sadness at having to live on without them.  But there is also some trepidation.  I have never known life without Henry, Leroy, Judy, Jean, Edna Mae or any of the others who are no longer here.  And although no one can take their place, they did leave work behind for someone else to do.  They left places of giving that still need to receive.  They left songs to be sung that someone will be called to sing.  They left families behind who still need to be loved.

            And they left my generation to wonder, “What is this new place we find ourselves occupying?”  The elders were our insulation from our own mortality.  With them passing we are left pondering our own place in the order of life.  If we look at life as a ladder, as long as I have my elders a rung or two ahead of me, I don’t have to worry so much about that last step.  But with my elders passing that leaves me feeling rather precariously perched on higher rungs than I now feel comfortable.

             Most of the people I’ve had to say goodbye to lately lived lives that were full of family, service, community, adventure –  life.  They left behind amazing legacies.  They were active in the community, serving on boards, committees, volunteering in places where they saw needs that they might fill.

            I really do none of that.  In fact, I avoid most things that would require me to attend meetings.  So I wonder what will I leave behind?  What will be my legacy?  And what am I doing with my life that may count or matter?

            I am grateful for the opportunity to ask these questions, since my mortality is certain.  Maybe that too is part of what my elders have left behind.  Their passing reminds me that I can’t change the fact I too am going to die.  But I am in total control of how I live.  I am also grateful to my elders for being such good examples that a life well lived is the only life to live.

Yeah, I once again did The Stupid.  I’m not new to The Stupid.  I’ve visited it often through the years.  We all do – at some point.  Some of us more frequently than others, but who among us hasn’t found themselves scratching their head, gazing into their life rearview mirror, wondering how such a good idea could go so wrong so quickly?

There was the time I got my truck stuck up to its hubs in the backyard.  And about that, allow me to share a bit of my hard-earned wisdom with you.  When your tires are mired in mud, continuing to push the accelerator to the floor seldom works as well as you think it might. 

Lesson:  Forcing your will, on anything, especially mud, rarely works to your advantage.

There was also that incident when my chain saw became almost permanently wedged in the trunk of a fallen locust tree. 

Lesson:  Cursing will not speed up the solution to any perceived problem, although it might help you feel slightly superior — momentarily. 

At least until you realize you are still stuck, the chain saw has not wiggled an inch, or that cussing does not repair the gouge in the floor caused by thinking, “This file cabinet won’t scratch the floor if I only move it a few inches.”

I suppose I could blame my latest Stupid adventure to having purchased a dog tie out that was covered in green plastic.  Putting a green tie out in the yard.  What was I thinking?  Maybe I could hold accountable my ability to become lost in a semi-meditative state while driving my lawn tractor around and around my yard.  But that only means I was operating heavy equipment without paying much attention to what I was doing.

That attention was certainly focused the instant I drove over that cable.  As I heard the blades under the mower deck come to a screeching halt, I immediately knew what I had done.  There was no doubt – I had done The Stupid. 

When you find yourself in that place of wondering what you were thinking, or if you had been thinking at all, you hope getting out of The Stupid will be easier than the situation may initially indicate.  You hope it will be a simple task to drive out of the eight-inch deep mud ruts, or to glue the yard light back together after testing, by twisting it, to see if its frame is metal or plastic and discovering it is not only plastic, but very old, brittle plastic that is now in two pieces – one in each hand. 

But it is rare there is a quick and easy recovery from The Stupid.

This was certainly the case with the dog tie-out and my mower blades.  Over the course of several days of working on it every spare minute I had the patience to do so, I was able to get most of the cable unwrapped from around the blades.  But parts of the last three feet or so were seriously wedged into the casing of the blade mounting and would not budge, no matter how much I tugged, wrestled, twisted, cursed, whined, hoped, prayed, or, despite my determination not to, cried.  

After exhausting all of those approaches, I finally called my neighbor, Ron, who had helped me free my car from a snow filled ditch my first winter back on the farm. 

Lesson:  Believing that if you back up fast enough you can drive through a drift as high as your car window can mean leaving your car in said drift until spring or until a kind neighbor drives by with a chain to pull you out.

As Ron was gathering up his chain, and I was profusely expressing my gratitude and appreciation, that winter day he told me that if I ever needed help to call him.  “Really.  Anything.  Just call,” he said as he got back in his truck.  As I dialed his phone number, I was hoping he had meant that.  Fortunately he had and Ron showed up quickly, with appropriate tools, and had the last pieces of cable loosened in no time.

I had considered calling Ron sooner, but I come from a long line of stubborn people and was certain I could get myself out of this without anyone’s help.  I was strong and independent.  I could do it.  At least that’s what I thought until another moral of this story surfaced. 

Lesson:  On the other side of the “stubborn” coin is “humility.” 

It was humbling to have to call Ron to ask for help, but his readiness to do so and his assurance that “we all make mistakes” really took any negative bite out of it.  In fact, Ron hung around for awhile and we had a nice chat before he headed back home.  I appreciated that this had turned into an opportunity to get to know him a little better.

People often comment about how isolated I am out here, or how they could never live in a small community “because everyone knows everyone’s business.  And to an extent that’s true, but it can also be necessary.  We are isolated when we live in the country, and indeed there is often the feeling that people know a lot about each other’s business.  But those two things are connected.  Because we live rather secluded from each other it’s good to know what’s going on with those around us.   As we drive by we look at each other’s houses and property but that really isn’t because we’re nosey.  But rather we’re making sure everything and everyone is okay.  If we see smoke coming from some place other than a chimney or burn pile, we stop.  If it appears someone is having trouble, we pull in and offer assistance.  And if there’s a strange car in the driveway we slow down and make sure whomever it belongs to knows they have been noticed and a note of their presence has been made. 

Lesson:  We may be isolated, but we aren’t insular, and we take the axiom “we look out for each other” seriously. 

That’s why the most important thing I learned from this last run-in with The Stupid ended up making me feel much smarter. 

Lesson:  It may be difficult for us to ask for help, but we can all use a little of it now and then.   

And when you do need it, it sure is comforting to know you have good neighbors who will show up and free your mower blades — and you from The Stupid.

But, alas, that does not appear to be the case.  First thing this morning I began to read and hear not celebratory postings, not even many “job well done” but rather more of the same — accusations of not giving credit where credit may have been due, verbal attacks being slung back and forth between those who still see themselves as separate and divided, usually down some kind of political lines. 

It sickens me.  We are ripping this country apart at flimsy seams we have created ourselves.  Even in the face of completing a task that has eluded us for over 10 years we cannot muster the compassion to put our silly arguments and fault finding aside long enough to simply be Americans.  No, we have to keep picking at the wounds we ourselves have inflicted.  One side must feel superior by making the other inferior.  We equate intelligence with arrogance if we don’t like what we hear.  We hide our prejudices behind thinly veiled accusations and we hear enough gibberish over and over to begin to believe it, even if evidence to the contrary is staring us in the face. 

I am never a fan of killing, but not even I am naïve enough to believe that bin Laden would ever be taken alive.  There was no dead or alive option in the hunt for him.  So when news came that he had been killed, I struggled with my own feelings about reverence for all life and acceptance of this particular death.

What tipped the scales for me was the belief that the families of those who lost loved ones in the attacks on September 11, 2001 might feel as though some justice had been served by bin Laden’s death.  If that’s the case, then they certainly deserve that moment.  What I am now struggling even more with, though, is the inability of so many to be able to set down their differences and to stand together, to remember how it felt when we were able to do that after that day when the black smoke rose in three locations in this country and we lost thousands of our citizens.  At that moment we knew that together we could heal; together we would move forward and together we would do our best to protect each other – no matter what it took.

What happened to that American Spirit?  What is happening to us that we can’t rise above political pettiness and our differences, perceived or real, to rally as a unified whole?

A part of me wonders if we simply don’t need a bin Laden any longer.  After all, we are now doing to ourselves what no terrorist mastermind could ever even dream of achieving.  We are destroying our ability to be “one nation”, to be a people who can stand shoulder to shoulder in tragedy, as well as celebration.

If I am so naïve as to believe that we might still have that in us, then so be it.  I would prefer to be naïve than to be so jaded or so prejudiced that I refuse to accept that we might find that unifying spirit again.  I just hope we can find it without tragedy being our trigger.

Before the sun was completely up I set my intention to simply allow the day to unfold naturally.  I wondered if I would feel uncomfortably disconnected without a computer, smart phone, social media and all the technological tools with which I spend most of my time.  

But my goal was to be conscious of and pay attention to whatever was going on around me, and soon I felt myself settling more deeply into the day and myself.  As I sat and just allowed myself to be, feeling the perfection of the day, it felt as though I was sinking into my core.  There’s a Zen koan that asks “what was your face before your parents were born?” and allowing myself to move deeply into that part of me that always is, has always been and will always be, I felt I was beginning to understand the question, if not the answer.

Of course, without spending time in front of a computer screen, or constantly checking email on my phone, or habitually scanning the various social networking sites, I was awake, aware and more conscious of everything that was happening around me.  Every time I strayed and began worrying about some upcoming deadline, to-do tasks still undone, or wondering what was happening in the cyber world in my absence, something inside would gently bring me back to my intention of allowing myself to feel whatever this day held for me.  Often that reminding came from my heart which was asking questions like, “Where are you now?  What can you hear?  What can you see?  How are you feeling?”  Sometimes it was my bladder asking, “Do you have to pee?”  And being a middle aged woman, I usually did.

But by allowing my heart to lead I started really seeing things that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.  A raccoon ran across the road and into the shed, where I had noticed his tracks but had yet to spot him.  As I looked out my north windows four deer trekked up over the hill presumably to their daytime hiding places.  That was followed by a large flock of geese flying above the valley looking for feeding grounds.  

As soon as the day warmed enough I walked up along the edge of my pond which was still ice-covered in the center, but along the edges the ice was giving way to liquid and I could see the tracks of various birds and animals that had shown up before me for a drink.  As I walked up the hill I noticed four red-tailed hawks enjoying some time riding thermals in the bright blue sky above me and heard a woodpecker in the woods tap-tap-tapping.  I felt keenly aware of every sound and sight and felt tuned and tapped in myself. 

But the most amazing part of my day occurred while I was sitting on one of the large red granite boulders that dot my pasture.  I had stopped for a break and to sink even more deeply into the heartbeat of the day.  The rock was warmed by the sunshine and I felt, without a doubt, completely in the right place at the right time.  Little did I know just how right it would be.  As I opened my eyes after my brief meditation, I looked up just as an eagle flew directly overhead.  An eagle! 

What a sight!  What a day!  And what a gift to disconnect from technology and feel so incredibly connected to everything else, including myself.  It was such a surprisingly good day that I’m hoping to treat myself to a day of Connected Disconnection every week!

“The Sweet Granada is the best place around for chocolate,” was all she needed to say.  I immediately checked my calendar for an opening to make a road trip to Emporia.  And what a wonderful trip it was. 

It had been years since I drove highway 99 from Wamego to Emporia and I quickly remembered its dips and rises as I wound along this narrow, two-lane highway.  From Alma to Eskridge this road is particularly scenic, and is in fact part of the state’s Native Stone Scenic Byway.  It not only passes through some of the most beautiful parts of the Flint Hills, but features many miles of historic stone fences.  The only down side is that the road winds so much and is so hilly that only passengers can thoroughly enjoy all the views.  But even solo it is a gorgeous drive that will force you to slow down and enjoy the journey.

Once in Emporia I was focused on trying some chocolate, but I found so much more than that along the main drag of Commercial Street.   It had also been a number of years since I had been in Emporia and things had really changed – for the better.  During my last visit it was difficult to find a place to eat along Commercial Street, but that is certainly not the case today.  There are any number of sandwich shops, pizza places, local eateries and diners, and of course, The Sweet Granada, from which to choose now.  Emporia appears to be a city in renaissance mode and it is looking and feeling alive and vibrant.

Part of that rebirth may be due to the beautiful renovation of the Granada Theatre, nicely sandwiched between The Sweet Granada and the Granada Coffee Company.  The theatre, on the National Register of Historic Places, first opened on October 3, 1929 and was designed by Boller Brothers, nationally known theatre designers with offices in Kansas City and Los Angeles.  The original cost of the theater was $350,000 and it seated 1,400, making it one of the largest theatres in Kansas at the time.

But, like with many grand old theatres, the 1960’s and 70’s were difficult decades and the theatre fell into disrepair, closing its doors in 1982.  In 1994, with the theatre facing demolition, a group of businessmen and concerned citizens came together to save the Spanish Colonial Revival inspired theatre.  A three-year capital-campaign, completed in December 2003, raised $2.6 million for renovation and restoration of the interior of the theatre and today it stands, beautifully restored, as a multi-purpose facility for the arts, businesses and community.

The restoration was painstaking with all the colors, tiles and moldings as close to an original match as possible.  Even the ceiling was hand stenciled by local artists to its previous grandeur.  It has truly been returned to its 1929 elegance and is now home to movies, live theater and special events.

One door south of the theatre was the reason I was in Emporia in the first place — The Sweet Granada, which was opened in November 2004 by mother and daughter team, Toni Bowling and Kim Redeker.  The specialty sweet shop features some signature treats, such as the Martha Washington, a soft centered maraschino cherry candy with coconut and walnuts, hand-dipped in dark chocolate.  For coffee lovers another specialty is the Hamilton with Espresso ganache and caramel inside white chocolate topped with almonds.

I highly recommend the Pop-Choc, fresh popcorn drizzled with milk and white chocolate.  In fact, I suggest you get several bags of this because one will simply not be enough.  Feel free to tell yourself you’re buying them as gifts, but don’t be dismayed when you can’t help but eat them all yourself!  Oh, and they tell me they will ship any of their products anywhere!

On the north side of the Granada Theatre is the Granada Coffee Company, voted Best Coffee of the Flint Hills from 2004 through 2010.  You can’t argue with that and in addition to specialty coffee and tea drinks, the shop features muffins and light lunch fare, along with comfy chairs and sofas that welcome a long linger over friendly conversation.

Another fun stop along this block of Commercial Street is the new home of the Emporia Arts Council.  The council has as its mission to Educate, Advocate and Celebrate the arts, and the new facility houses a gallery as well as classroom and performance spaces dedicated to doing just that.  The gallery features Emporia and other Kansas artists’ works.  The art, all for sale, features blown glass, sculpture, pottery, photography, paintings, jewelry and a variety of other media.  This is a great place to find unique original art at great prices.

 Featured places:

            The Granada Theatre, 807 Commercial St., www.egtks.com

            The Sweet Granada, 805 Commercial St., www.sweetgranada.com

            Granada Coffee Company, 809 Commercial St., www.granadacoffee.com

            Emporia Arts Council, 815 Commercial St., www.emporiaksarts.org

            Highway 99, from Wamego to Emporia.  Part of Kansas Native Stone Scenic Byway from Alma to Eskridge. www.ksbyways.org

I had just gathered up an arm load of freshly cut firewood when I heard the sound of geese flying over.  This time of year the sound of geese is heard frequently around here.  I live near Jeffrey Energy Center’s cooling pond, a man-made lake and the deepest in the state, which helps cool the warm water coming from the electric generation plant.  Because of this steady influx of warm water the lake remains unfrozen and becomes the winter home of thousands of Canada geese and other migratory fowl. 

The geese make a daily pilgrimage from the lake into the river valley where they feed on leftover grain in the fields.  It’s an awesome sight to see the sky full of geese and watch as they circle then land in numbers large enough that the fields turn completely white.

On this day the flock flying over was small in number, only about 40 geese, but they were flying low and traveled right over my head.  That’s when I felt “the moment”.  I stopped with arms full of wood and looked up watching the birds fly over so close that I could see the individual colors of their feathers.  Time seemed to stand still and I felt like the most fortunate person on this planet to be witnessing this particular convergence of events.  In that moment I felt like a bookmark holding space for those who don’t have the opportunity to experience nature on a daily basis or are too busy to notice the wonders going on around them wherever they are.

It’s so easy to focus on what we need to do next, hurrying on to the next thing on our list, the next appointment, the next phone call that we forget to notice the wonder and the delights that are always surrounding us.  Oh sure we get to cross things off our to-do list and may even feel proudly productive at the end of the day, but what might we have missed in the process?  One thing I believe we miss is the opportunity to feel awe.  What if the Universe is always providing us with moments that would take our breath away and provide unforgettable feelings of connection, but we were too busy and hurrying too fast to even notice?  And that word – awe.  When is the last time you experienced that feeling of overwhelming reverence for something?  Yet, awe may be the most powerful feeling we can have.  Awe somehow intersects joy, mystery and insight and we are humbled as a result. 

University of California, Berkeley psychology professor, Dacher Keltner, found that when people experienced feelings of awe they were three times more likely to describe themselves as part of something larger.  Keltner believes cultivating awe is a way to unlock the truest sense of life’s purpose. 

This time of year we’re often too busy rushing along with our heads down, our jaws set, looking to the next thing to even make note of our own reflection — which likely appears as though we have been shot out of a wind tunnel.  We believe we have too much to do to even think about what amazing sights, sounds or awesome experiences might be unfolding all around us.

Anytime of year it feels humbling to stand in awe of something, but this time of year it might be especially helpful to stop, stand still, and breathe, just being for awhile.  We are, after all, human beings not human doings.  Is it any less worthwhile to be a bookmark, holding a place, marking a special moment than it is to complete everything on our list?  Are we any less valuable if we take the time to simply witness and appreciate the sharing of a smile, the warmth of the sun on our faces, or the flight of a flock of birds overhead? 

Yes, these moments of wonder may make us feel small in comparison to the amazing natural world, or the limitlessness of a starlit sky, or the vastness of the ocean but at the same time they can allow us the opportunity to also feel connected to all that is – even that which is larger and greater than us. 

If life is in the details, then every moment holds the opportunity for wonder, insight and, yes, awe.

     First of all, I now have a new perspective and definition of happiness. Over the last several years I’ve learned that being happy is a choice. It’s not dependent upon other people, circumstances, or anything outside of me. I have the power to choose to be happy. Simple? Maybe, but not necessarily easy — at least not in the beginning. There were a lot of old patterns and beliefs that needed to be broken down and sifted through. There still are those times when I think I might be happier “if…” But if I can’t simply BE happy, there is no person, condition or situation that can occur outside of that that could possibly “make” me happy, at least not in any lasting way. It has taken effort for me to create and tend my happiness, but the work is beginning to pay off and I find that I am now happy way more than I’m not, no matter what’s going on around me.

     So, in that sense, my happiness isn’t determined by where I live. I now have the capacity to be happy anywhere. That said, I admit, after some serious pondering, I am indeed happy living on this farm. In fact, I’m rather amazed at how happy I am here. I never imagined I could move back to my childhood home and find such peace, comfort and joy. Honestly, I was quite anxious about making the move. This was my parents’ house. Not mine. My houses were in Lawrence, Ottawa, Chicago, Kansas City, California and a few other locations. This is where I grew up, but this wasn’t my house anymore. And yet I have always been able to get up in the middle of the night and walk from one end of this house to the other without stubbing any toes or running into any obstacles. I know this place. And it knows me. So even if this weren’t my house, it is and has always been my home. No matter where I lived or wandered, I always came back to this house, this farm.

     I feel truly grateful to have that – to have a place in the world in which I feel deeply rooted and which has always felt like home. But moving back into the house I moved out of over 40 years ago when I was 17, often feels like living with an entire family of ghosts. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I often bump into myself as a child around here. I walk by the old brooder house in the backyard and remember the summer my mother helped me clean it up, paint it and turn it into my playhouse. I hear the wind moving through the pine trees below the road and remember planting them when we were all only saplings. Even now, as I write this, I’m sitting at my desk looking out the same windows I dreamed out of when this was my bedroom and I was just learning to both dream and write.

     And since my mother designed and my father built this house, everything about it is about them. I am constantly running into their ghosts here. At first it was unsettling and I would feel deeply sad, missing them. I still miss them, but it’s getting easier being here, living among the memories and dancing with the ghosts. With time, I seem to be learning to appreciate the past without it bogging down my present or adding a drab color to my future.

     But am I happy here? Well, recently while sitting on my deck at the end of the day I watched a red-bellied woodpecker tapping on the top of a pole in my backyard. We were less than 15 feet apart and he could have cared less about his proximity to me. He stayed there, tapping away, non-deterred, for over 15 minutes. He was so close I was able to look into his eyes. How often do we get to do that? It was one of “those moments” when you feel your heart open and you are fully present and connected.

     I have been having a lot of those moments lately. Almost every day I find myself stopping whatever I am doing to consciously witness the sunrise or sunset. There’s no big philosophical reason for this. I’m not marking the beginning or end of the day for any significance other than each sunrise and sunset is often more spectacular than the one before. It is simply awe inspiring to watch the sun rise or dip below the horizon creating splashes of golden light across the fertile valley, or pink and purple streaks across a sky that I never have to look up to see.

     So, am I happy here? Why in the world wouldn’t I be? In fact, I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been. And, yes, I plan to stay here.

     After all, where else would I go? I’m home.