The older I get, the less tolerant I become of cold, wet days. I find the gray seems to somehow enter my bones. I can't seem to drink enough coffee or put on enough layers to touch the cold in this drafty old house.
I stay as busy as possible trying to catch up on paperwork and finish household projects left unattended during growing months. I try to ignore the thinning pantry shelves, the emptying freezer. During wet stretches, I find myself out-of-doors anyway, rooting in the mud, trying to convince myself that I really can pull those weeds without disrupting too much topsoil only to discover my foolishness after I have thoroughly muddied myself. I pull out old planting charts and fret over when I can start planting, when I can expect to feel the full abundance of a garden bursting with too much produce to process. More than enough to can, to freeze, to barter, to sell, to FEAST. January is a thin month, so unlike July. Spring seems so far away.
I find myself looking more for inspiration, for words that help me focus less on the fretting, for words that help me focus on the gift of a slower pace, the gift of enough. One writer I particularly enjoy reading is Jenna Woginrich of Cold Antler Farm. She's a homesteader/writer in upstate NY. Today, on this gray wet day, I found comfort in these words:
"There's enough food for everyone on the farm today.
There's enough wood for the fires to burn today.
There's friends on the phone to call today.
There's books to dive into and love today.
There's good dogs with full bellies today.
There's a cat curled up by the stove today.
There's snow falling all around me today.
It's all enough, today."
http://www.coldantlerfarm.blogspot.com/
So tonight, I'll tuck myself in, down comforter pulled up to my chin, knowing that today, there was enough.
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