It's early afternoon here, and the sun is high, shining hotly into the front windows of our old Dutch farm house. My mind is clear but my fingers are still tingling, after a brisk walk through the cool green fields with our Marley-esque labrador. And then there was that bit of stinging nettle that I touched while playing ball with the dog. Ouch.
I love living out here. Seriously, what's not to love about living in a place where you can wake up, throw a jacket and some galoshes over your (not so stylish) pajamas, disguise yourself with a baseball cap, and go out the door? No makeup, no "over-the-shoulders-boulder-holder", no cell phone... just me - in my Life is Good shirt and crimson-red cotton pajama pants - and my overly energetic chocolate-colored canine buddy.
The only neighbors we crossed paths with was a family of gargantuan hares. They dashed across the road, not far ahead of us, while the dog gnawed blissfully on his red squeak(less) ball. At first oblivious to the audacious rodents that somehow always manage to outrun him, he smelled them once they had disappeared on the horizon, at which point he sprinted left and right looking slightly confused, and bounced back again, slimy ball squishing rhythmically in his half-open mouth.
Of my walk, you're either thinking, "That sounds great" or "She must have been a sight... poor dear". But it is so superbly liberating not to care (sometimes)... not even the slightest bit.
Yes, I've always wanted to live on a farm... and now I know why. Welcome, home. Mind if I stay a while?
I love living out here. Seriously, what's not to love about living in a place where you can wake up, throw a jacket and some galoshes over your (not so stylish) pajamas, disguise yourself with a baseball cap, and go out the door? No makeup, no "over-the-shoulders-boulder-holder", no cell phone... just me - in my Life is Good shirt and crimson-red cotton pajama pants - and my overly energetic chocolate-colored canine buddy.
The only neighbors we crossed paths with was a family of gargantuan hares. They dashed across the road, not far ahead of us, while the dog gnawed blissfully on his red squeak(less) ball. At first oblivious to the audacious rodents that somehow always manage to outrun him, he smelled them once they had disappeared on the horizon, at which point he sprinted left and right looking slightly confused, and bounced back again, slimy ball squishing rhythmically in his half-open mouth.
Of my walk, you're either thinking, "That sounds great" or "She must have been a sight... poor dear". But it is so superbly liberating not to care (sometimes)... not even the slightest bit.
Yes, I've always wanted to live on a farm... and now I know why. Welcome, home. Mind if I stay a while?
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