I cry a lot. I mean, A LOT. The simplest of beauties or joys moves me to a place where, if I didn't cry, then awe would surely split me wide open at the seams. This tendency of mine has only exacerbated by the acquisition of this small piece of heaven that I now call home. My husband and I bought an old farm, a sanctuary smack dab in the center of suburbia, and have spent the last few months renovating it. We are the first to own it outside of the original farm family and, as I putter around, I find evidence of other lives spent here; old newspapers, trinkets, tools, horse halters and bridles carefully hung on hooks along the barn walls. As I turn these treasures over in my hands, I imagine their daily lives, who they were, and what inspired them. My love of this place, connects me to these would-be-friends of mine in a way I never considered possible.
When I turn into my driveway, I turn the music off and roll down the windows, no matter how cold it is, so that I can listen to the creek that runs the length of the drive as it rushes along beside me. On some days, the hawk that shares this property with us flies just ahead of the car, guiding me home. Soon, when the leaves of the trees return, the branches will reach out for one another and form a canopy over the drive, and sunshine will spill through, illuminating places here and there.
I usually make it halfway down the driveway before I begin to cry. People have said that once I get used to it here, I won't be so affected. I hope they are wrong. I hope I never get so used to the beauty of this life that I cease to be moved to tears.