(yesterday’s ring of fire eclipse, as seen through my welding helmet)

(and there’s Bob, watching the eclipse from in front of our house)

So she settles into the mundane after a journey of 1500 miles.

About 1000 of those miles were horseback. And all of it was a lot. At least it was for me.

Am I glad to be done? Yes. And no. I miss being with them day in, day out, sleeping beside them, listening to their nickers and snorts; brushing, saddling, sitting upon them with the cadence of their stride below.

Yet I am glad to have that behind, and glad to be here. And I see they are glad too, thriving in their space, their place, this sanctuary of a ranch where we are now, ever present outside my kitchen window, the garden gate, around the house, staying close because maybe, just maybe they miss it too. At least a part of it. And part of it, no doubt, they’re glad to leave behind.

Otherwise, there is a return to obscurity.

What do I have to share with you now? My life is simple. I do not need nor want some new grande adventure to capture your attention. Captivate, fascinate, impress. No flashing lights and song and dance. No selfies or self promotion. No moving on to the next latest greatest to try to prove myself to you. For now, I just want to be me, soaking it all in, softly settling into a quiet space of silence, stillness, spaciousness. Tending to the land, my man, my animals, my creativity, which flourishes from the pause. That is all I have to humbly share with you now. And for now, I trust that is enough.

The land holds me. Here, the same land that has killed. Canela. Tresjur. Other dreams I have had.

All I can tell you is how I feel now, and for now, I am nourished, contained as if in a safe vessel, allowed to rest, to heal, simply to be, gently, softly, with the season as the leaves turn and the rains begin and the air cools and quiets and stills.

Silence, stillness, spaciousness.

Out there, in here. Heart, hearth and home. Putting wood up for winter, cooking on a wood stove, baking bread, chicken soup with homemade noodles and broth from the bones of that one hen that wouldn’t stop pecking eggs. Getting in the winter garden and cleaning up from a summer away. Keeping the young dog at our heels as we run around our land, always fixing, building, making, attending to this land that serves us back in kind. Helping the old dog get up to go out, and watching Crow and Bayjura contentedly roam their unfenced land, grateful and gracious to be here, home, at least it is for now.

In a way, I miss having more to share. Trust this is enough. Because that connection I learned about, for the first time in my life… what, I wonder, matters more?

Jack Kornfield writes: “As surely as there is a voyage away, there is a journey home.”

What now, you ask?

And what can I say?

When nothing is different. And nothing is the same.

Back home, not backwards.

You cannot go backwards in time, in age, in experiences, good and bad. Lessons learned from all the people you met: generosity, hospitality, openness, curiosity, sharing, connecting, common ground.

How can I ever forget, or go back, or be the same?

So you get up each morning, open your eyes, recognize where you are, the sound of your beloved still sleeping beside you and the weight of the cat curled up between your legs… and you smile.

Now most days when I wake, I know what to expect, what I’m going to do, and definitely, where I’m going to sleep that night. The grounding of routine. Of being home. I do not take these things for granted. I don’t believe I ever have.

Get the old wood cook stove going and put the kettle on. Let the chickens and ducks out. Feed the horses. Kick off my muddy boots and wake my beloved with coffee in bed…

The horses are well, quite well, roaming our ranch without fencing, fattened by our dear neighbor’s apples delivered by five gallon bucket, and the early seasons rains which green up the meadows where they let themselves lay down and sleep mid morning when their bellies are full and they see me working in the garden nearby.

Otherwise, it’s time to write. Slowly starting with thank you letters. Each one stirring a memory, a story, a connection, gratitude.

Yes, there will be a book.

It’s a quiet process – not much I can share. That’s how writing is. A lonely profession.

And its value lies only in the fact that it can, at least one day, be shared. In the meanwhile, it’s silent discipline. Remembering and writing down stories. Simply, quietly, humbly, dearly and deeply.

With gratitude.

And love, always love.