Where the old blue spruce once towered and lorded over the front yard, a stand of exactly thirty-two mulberry saplings have gathered, reverently circling the 7-foot section of pine stump that still lies in repose after we were forced to cut it down to keep its diseased and brittle self from blowing over onto the house. From the upstairs bedroom window where once I saw the long grey-green needles of a pine, there are shiny bright green leaves on slender branches dripping with berries. If Patrick weren’t cutting the acreage right now, I’d ask him to shake those branches while I lay on the ground in their shade with my mouth open.

But the grass needs cut before the rains come again this afternoon, before the next four days swallow him up in preparation to travel west for Sundance (the ceremony, not the film festival), leaving me to figure out a way eat mulberries warm and ripe from their lofty leafy perches with a minimum of effort. When I’m walking tomorrow morning at just-before-dawn, I’ll send my thanks across the fields and through the bedroom window where I know he’ll still be sleeping, grateful for his ability not to give into his bride’s every whim.

We begin and end our days in a swirling wave-pool of options, most of which we barely register as we move about our morning ablutions and nightly rituals. Of course I could consciously choose to leave the chickens locked up or not hang the laundry I tossed in the washer before I headed out the mudroom door this morning with my walking sticks held firmly in leather-gloved hands. But those choices would force others upon me later (reviving hungry and thirsty chickens fainting in this heat, musty-smelling shirts and shorts if left in a damp heap in the brown plastic laundry basket that fits nicely on my left hip), and I rather not clean up after my foolish self that way, so—laundry on the line and our sweet egg layers pecking the ground where I lovingly tossed their breakfast scoop of grain. If all goes smoothly until sundown, I’ll need only shoo them back into the coop and secure the door against the wily raccoons and that beautiful red fox I’ve seen sniffing around here lately. The gorgeous hot sun dried our bedsheets about seven minutes after I secured them with clothespins; it’ll be easy to gather them in before those gray clouds make good on their threat to drench us and make the grass clippings smell even sweeter. In fact, I think I’ll do that right now.

(Just stepping outside presented me with even more possibilities after taking down the laundry: use the newly-sharpened lopers to trim the burdock growing taller than the compost tumbler, and oh, look at that mulberry tree standing guard over the garlic. I’ll go back to the house to get a berry basket. Wait, there’s a web of bagworms on one of the branches, better cut that off and toss it waaaay out into the field. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Weeds under the compost tumbler and topping off the berry basket with another handful. Yep, you can eat the tiny green stems. Wait—wasn’t I writing something half an hour ago?).

Back inside, in the cool of the air-conditioned living room (window unit purchased from Sears for darn near nothing about nine years ago), I can hear the rumble of the lawnmower fading and I imagine Patrick heading through the meadow to the paths by the woods. Just steps away from the couch, in the downstairs guestroom/studio, my worktable is active with all the raw materials and supplies I need to make about forty blank hand-stitched journals. I prepped the covers until it got too stuffy in there to work and the sweat was rolling down my back. I could take a shower but it’s mid-day, on the weekend. I don’t have to be anywhere, so a spoonful of almond butter and a fresh glass of water is the better choice.

See what I mean? I realize I’m presenting as someone with more than a slight touch of attention deficit, but I’d challenge anyone to live here and not be pulled in all seven directions plus a few more, to tend to the unfinished business that is our land-based existence. Ain’t no medication that can calm that energy down and I wouldn’t want to take it anyway. I need every ounce I can get just to keep the weeds from creeping across the threshold to claim us as we slumber. When we signed the paperwork at the closing all those years ago, we had no idea what we were in for as the birthdays celebrated here pushed us toward sixty. For a flutter of a moment, I wonder if such clarity would have given us pause to reconsider. As I look at the two pints of mulberries on the counter, rich and juicy and waiting for the yogurt and maple syrup that will join them for breakfast tomorrow, the answer is a solid “no”.

We are humbled to our knees and excitedly brought to our feet in equal measure by the choices stretched out before us each day, each minute here. And mixed in there somewhere is a handful of anticipatory regret that we’ll be buried before we can get it all done. We know we’re going to leave a legacy that includes some pretty nice antique furniture and about seventeen acres of brambles that need to be tamed. But hopefully by then, the sycamores taking over the fields will throw off enough shade to keep the thorny population in check. We’ll maintain the paths as long as we can so future walkers can breathe in those first dewy hours of a new spring day like we do, and watch their breaths turn to frost in our lovely and wild winters.

Until then, it’s the options right in front of us that need our attention and so they shall have it. I’ll sew together a few signatures to fill the journal covers waiting patiently on the work table, and sweep the grass cuttings from the front porch before tucking in the girls and gathering the day’s eggs. Roasted rather than boiled potatoes sound a fine accompaniment to tonight’s chicken pot pie.

Patrick just came in and asked if I’d like to go out for ice cream later, a reward for all of our hard work this weekend.

I guess the journals will have to wait.