Property lines destabilize me. I doubt that a hundred acres, or even a thousand, could protect me from the internal wobble I do — balancing on a cable stretched thin. It’s just something buried deep down, and once flicked, it’s like a tablecloth being yanked out from under fine china, shattering every fragile piece onto the ground.
I hate that it happens, especially when there’s not a darn tootin’ thing I can do about it.
As always, writing is my refuge — the calm eye of the hurricane. It’s where I’m protected from life’s pelting chaos, tucked under cover and warmth.
The latest storm was sparked by a sudden eruption of uncertainty and fear. Two young boys (or so I thought) wandered onto our property. I assumed they were ditching school—the elementary is only a football field away—but Dave’s conversation with them revealed they were actually a land surveyor and property owner.
They were there with a mallet, pink tape, and property stakes.
Seeing the boundary much closer than I had anticipated, and watching two strangers tromping on what I thought was my land but wasn’t, felt like a slap across the face.
I did what I could to adjust—I vented to Dave, Maria, and my parents, all supportive and caring people who could take my fist-waving frustrations and “this isn’t fair” laments and soothe me back to solid ground.
I’m mostly there. Thoughts of tall fences, Leland cypresses, and a backyard sanctuary untouched and protected from property lines help soothe my achy mind.
But then there’s the embarrassment — the nagging voice that says I’m making a big deal out of nothing. To me, though, this little patch of earth matters. It’s my family’s peace, my communion with trees, brush, birds, and quiet. And as time created distance from the initial blow, I admitted I was catastrophizing.
A couple of hours later, Archie, for the first time in seven years, was nowhere within earshot. Panic and fear me. Walking down the road and circling the stretch of land that separates our property from Highway 341, I called for him, working to calm myself from the image of a lump of buckskin body possibility. I kept thinking, “This is my world. My crew is what really matters.”
Soon, I heard the roar of the Polaris carrying four family members. A search party. Two others were on foot, and Maria and Tim’s dogs led the way. We found Archie at the school track, locked inside the fenced area, anxious but safe.
And we’re healthy and well — that’s what really matters.
Just now, I broke away from playing a Super Mario Brothers game to stretch and fold dough for cinnamon rolls. Dave’s sister Cathy is staying for two nights and has been playing with Evelyn nonstop. She even brought a window art project I’m excited to hang up.
However shaken I was earlier, I know experiences like that are never far away. The calm, “all-is-well” consistency is what I’m shooting for. But I’ve realized the chaos and upended feelings will never fully disappear — not as long as I care, love, and want the best for myself and others.
And honestly, I’m okay with that.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 