I haven’t quite admitted to myself that some of the decisions I’ve made over the last month are going to have a lasting effect on the daily distribution of my time, and yet, I’ve already had to get up three times in the writing of this post to 1.) feed the donkeys, 2.) let the cat in, and 3.) respond to a full-blown chicken meltdown that, upon investigation, was the result of one troublemaker finding his way outside of the nugget box. Apparently it’s time for an upgrade.
Truth is, for the last four years–since MysteryMan and I broke ground on the Memorial House–I’ve had this idea in my head about a mythical point in time where I transition from spending all of my time building my future life to actually living it.
Part of me didn’t actually believe that it existed, especially after I sold my half of the Memorial House and started this new adventure. And don’t get me wrong, there is still a shit-load of work to be done on the Liberty House– I mean, I would literally sell one of my non-essential internal organs on the black market to have a working bathtub in this house for a good soak–but once I started hoarding farm animals the way old ladies hoard cats, I was, in effect, starting the transition from “building it” to “living it.”
My brain is still trying to catch up to what this means for my usual routines (or lack thereof). Most days, when I sit down to write a post, there are a plethora of house-building activities that have occurred recently to write about. Tonight I sat down, thought about the last several days, and realized it consisted of:
- One evening spent in a small panic trying to find a supplier that wasn’t out of hay
- Diagnosing and treating rain rot on one of the donkeys (yep, real thing, not real fun)
- Trying to prevent chicken meltdowns every time I try to change the feed and water in the nugget box (singing Joe Pug seems to help)
- Chasing a coyote off my property at 7:30 in the morning wearing heels and carrying a purse and laptop
(Same coyote, different day.)
The other truth is that I love building shit. I mean, right down to the core of my being, it’s what I’m meant to do…. and I’ve toyed with the idea that that means I’m not ever meant to have a “normal” life. One with clean dishes and a well-vacuumed floor. Because if you want to spend your time both building shit (figuratively) and shoveling shit (literally), something’s gotta give. It’s definitely going to be laundry.
If I somehow give you the impression that carrying the weight of this house, the work associated with it, writing about it, and finding time to make up songs to sing to the cat is, you know, effortless? Eh, not so much.
There is almost no minute of my day that I’m not rushing to do the next thing on my list. I often forget things (sometimes important things, like filling my fuel oil tank). I never go to bed feeling like I’ve done everything I should. After eight years of blogging, I feel guilty if I’m off my game for a few days, if I’m not funny or not cranking out posts every day. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll wake up five years from now and this great adventure will just be one big blur of chicken feathers and sawdust. Sometimes I’m even more afraid that I’ll wake up in five years and feel just as rushed and behind as I do today. Most days I don’t have time to worry about what I’m afraid of though, I have a house to rebuild, donkeys to hug, chickens to tame.
So, hey, I’m figuring it out… and if anyone out there has a magic wand that lets you get everything done in a day, I’d totally trade you one of my kidneys for it.