At the left side of our property, as you curve around the drive, large limbs—each the size of three people laid head-to-toe—rest low to the ground like sleeping giants. One fell in a storm; two came down with the pole saw. They’ll clutter quickly if we’re not diligent. I’m prioritizing those branches. They’ve got to move—hauled to the burn pile at the back of the land, where they’ll wait until fall.
The last big burn was with my dad. He’s cut wood for years with the Lions Club, fundraising for their causes. Even with a stiff, artificial knee, nothing slowed him down when it came to getting the property in shape.
What I don’t love? The rapid fire of sixteen gunshots coming from an acre or two behind us. I’m not against shooting, but what on earth are they aiming at? If it’s an animal—poor thing—it’s either shredded or they’re terrible shots. If I knew it was target practice, if I could actually see them shooting at something fixed, I’d be fine. But this unknown gunfire has a different energy. It makes me uneasy.
Earlier, I took three plastic egg cartons, a Tupperware, and a small to-go helping of breakfast casserole by golf cart down the road—just far enough to hit max speed (15 mph?) before slowing to turn into the driveway. Did I need to drop in on a Sunday evening—peak family chaos hour? Probably not. But I wanted a mini break.
Like a clueless fly, I placed the return items in their proper spots and hovered, listening to the back-and-forth. I scanned for an opening, a place to insert myself. If I’d had less social awareness—or more energy—maybe I would’ve leaned in. But I didn’t. So I left.
Now I’m home, looking out over the lush oaks and tall grasses at the back of our land, grateful I’d turned the chair to face this way earlier—as if extending an invite to my future self. The stillness—interrupted only by a mockingbird, a cardinal, and my niece Annaleigh’s laugh echoing across the pasture—is its own meditation.
Thoughts pass through like sand through a sieve, grounding me from mind to body to the slow rhythm of nature. Birds flit across the field, oval-shaped bodies scooping low, lifting, dipping again. The cardinal’s flight is a ribbon of red against infinite shades of green.
I have so many dreams. A shed for a pool table and ping pong table. A poolside BBQ deck with a primitive outdoor shower. A tree swing. And maybe one day, a wrought-iron fence like the ones in old English towns—overgrown with ivy and dripping with wisteria. A little oasis to walk through. A dream to call mine.
And more still! As I focused on editing this, an open tab with paint samples reminded me—I want to paint our bathroom. I’m over all the white. A charcoal or green could shift the whole mood. Or whatever the interior designers say these days.
That does it for me tonight. I hope your weekend was the best it could be.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 