A strong and steady downpour is the soundtrack to this morning’s kitchen work—I’m peeling a dozen freshly hardboiled eggs while they’re still warm (a pleasure, truly, as the shells slide right off), and if the sun keeps coming up for eleven more days, at least breakfast-on-the-go will be taken care of, without the morning rush hassle of trying to peel them cold and still get out the door on time. The windows are open as the rain comes down in sheets but the wind doesn’t blow the slightest bit sideways. And yet I can feel the air moving about. What meteorological magic is this? I need no answer to that question. It is enough to acknowledge and appreciate my current circumstance.

Some minutes later, the storm spent and the air a bit more clear, I watch as a solitary monarch butterfly flits about in the trees on the ridge and comes to rest on the leaf of a black walnut sapling, the only leaf not caught up in the thermal that’s causing the others on the same branch to flap about madly. More magic, more acknowledgement. And, as always, more gratitude for the random gift of right place, right time.

Whenever I notice what’s going on around me in any particular moment, which is most of the time, I don’t regret the time not spent ruminating about what might happen, what’s just around the corner that I can’t see, and the pile of work to the left of my keyboard back at the office. Oh, I do wonder at times what winter will be like, especially this year (in 2020, cue the Game of Thrones music, right?), but when my head goes to that future place and my feet are still touching grass and a flight of dragonflies darts about in the airspace above me, any thought of a future snowstorm that buries the trucks up to their axels fades away in that split second of imagining, and I wriggle my toes a bit deeper into the soft clover dampened by the downpour that just stopped a few minutes ago. As someone who spent most of her childhood and formative adult years managing all sorts of anxiety, I’m cherishing this hard-won peace. I worked at it, breathed through it and let it wash over me time and again until it was indistinguishable from my own skin. “Liz, you’re so calm. Such an earth mother”. That may be true, and I hope it is. But there is a long road over my shoulder that brought me here and enough lingering restlessness below the surface to remind me that Once and For All is a myth.

Yesterday, I walked the land with the day’s only egg tucked safely into the pocket of my shorts. If that doesn’t keep your spine straight and all sensory systems on full alert, I’m not sure what will. Seventeen or so acres later, as I concluded my steps making the final steep ascent up the slope to the house, the egg was still intact and my mind was filled with those recent images of tree branches reaching out to one another across the paths, on their way to a slow arboreal embrace. I had carefully ducked and dodged HUGE but nearly invisible spider webs stretched across the space in front of me, leaving the tiny architects to their now-passive hunting, and put my dew-soaked walking shoes on the porch to dry in the rising sun. Patrick and I had talked the night before about a few errands we wanted to run. A glimpse at the weather forecast showed mostly sun and late afternoon clouds, but a dinner menu was nowhere in sight. We made it up as we went along—the best kind of days, right? The ones with no agenda. We came home with a backseat full of mums and other autumn-hardy flowers to add to the landscape, after some time spent on the makeshift potting table just outside the back door (two long metal car ramps resting atop a pair of sawhorses). If I’d asked myself that morning what I wanted to accomplish by day’s end, I’m not sure it would have included burgundy, tangerine and pale blue pansies repotted into old metal colanders and tiny air plants resting boho-like on the kitchen windowsill. I’d have been content to see the sink empty and the drainer full, floors swept and the bed made. Now for the next few mornings I can gaze upon the lasting surprise of spontaneous flowers. To-do lists are sometimes overrated.

Please don’t let me villainize the virtues of planning ahead, though. That’s not what this is about or how I feel at all. Had we not sat down together twenty-four years ago with more than an Idea of where we wanted to be by this time in our shared lives, Naked Acres wouldn’t be part of our story. We talked into many wee hours and wrote down on bits of paper large and small what we envisioned for ourselves, trying not to be knocked off track by the unanticipated turn of events (episodes of financial precariousness, shifts in family members’ health—you know, the stuff of life). Eight steps forward, six back was the rhythm of our journey toward the land caretaker role, and whatever compelled us to keep moving forward, we’re deeply grateful for it, because here we are now, standing humble and awe-struck by the life that surrounds us. Of course we have another Idea of how our dotage will play out as the grass continues to grow and we become less able to start the mower. My gut tells me that’s a long way off, but my gut never registered the possibility of a pandemic either. I lean on my intuition both lightly and responsibly, and keep that pen and paper handy for the next round of “what do we do if…?” discussions.

For now, it’s reassuring to know that we can balance the sometimes teetering see-saw of what might come with what currently is.

That, plus eleven hardboiled eggs in the fridge, peeled and ready to eat, will do just fine.