I’m living perpetually on the edge of being where I want to be. We almost have our housing situation figured out. My job is almost getting easier. We almost have our little homestead running smoothly.
Almost means things are messy. We have pressuring cookers and home brewing equipment teetering on top of kitchen cabinets because we have nowhere else to store it. We have a cubic yard of potting soil tarped on our back porch, waiting for amendments. We have more half read books than anyone I know. I kinda like it this way.
It’s difficult because this life doesn’t feel real yet. We cook, homebrew, ferment, bake, grow, dry, preserve, sew, mend, compost, and make. But we don’t have land, chickens, rabbits, goats, or a real garden and that’s unbelievably hard for me. Not an hour of a day goes by that I don’t daydream about quitting my job and finding a way to buy a farm and make it work. I need a playground that belongs to me to put all these practices and ideas into motion. Only then will it feel real. Until then, we’re almost there.