Life is Elsewhere

Mentally, I have moved into the farm house.

I am sipping cold white wine on the deck, looking over at my two horses nibbling strands of hay from a hay bag. There is a marmalade cat purring on my lap.

I am thinking that for Christmas we will put a ping pong table in the basement.

I am living in a suspended state of hopeful and desperate desire, on the line between optimism and dread of disappointment. 

I like to have a Plan B.

I have no Plan B.

I have learned from hard experience (reference previous post), that imposing my will on the universe is the path to misery.

I am very fortunate, and I don't think that the universe owes me anything.  To the contrary.

I don't know when we will know.   I have absolutely no control over the situation.

I have a life which doesn't exist yet.  The old life is a distant spot on the horizon in the rear-view mirror.

It's going to be a big adjustment, not getting the farm.

Gracie will go to auction, probably.  Maybe they'll weigh her and pay for her by the pound.

I'll continue to visit Belle, like a visitor during visiting hours.  I love that barn, sure, but I can't see her from my porch.

I don't want to consult the I Ching or the Tarot cards or throw coins.  I would rather live in limbo than know that I won't get the farm.

I am elsewhere.  I am never coming back.  Don't send mail to me in town, I won't open it.

I am at the farm.  You can write to me there.

If your letter is returned, then you will know.  I am not home.