So how does one “reroute” one’s life after a new diagnosis of Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency? No dogs inside. No goats or horses or mowing the lawn or even getting too close to chemicals to clean my home. Yes, yes, writing. But it feels like so much was taken away again. Lemon for a body.
Bitterness, though, is a clipped wing.
I throw myself into this acreage. Have Ian bring me an old ladder up from the barn to make some vertical interest on the porch. Consider what chickens to raise, how to make their hen house so I don’t have to go in very often and only then wearing a mask. Sketch out keyhole gardens—and how to order a trailer load of straw bales to make them. Yes, they will age and fall apart. But not before tomatoes and strawberries and green beans and peas and dozens of different kinds of flowers grace the place. Gazebo out of an old huge satellite dish from my father’s back yard and some of the cedar we cut down as we liberated cramped old apple trees. Labryrinth in the corner of the back yard, outlined with native stone. Such are the things on my mind these days.
We started cutting a path back to the north edge of the property, using a huge machine that munches down the little cedars and spit out mulch. Transformation. Some trees fall in the path a short time later, because the rock has little give for such things as deep, supportive root structures. In the woods, cedar grows on deadfall, everything with fairy hills and little ponds and moss. We find deer tracks the next day—they are already using their new superhighway. I dream of cross country skiing in the winter. Snow sounds good as I struggle with yet another high 80’s 100 percent humidity day.
Apples into the dehydrator. Laundry, sorted out, some to keep, some to Goodwill. Jerusalem salad for dinner. Adult coloring book for a few moments, purples and blues, some wild idea of a hummingbird.
How do I define worth anymore? Breath by breath, but more than that. Dream into life. Create. This is the only way to wander into the timeless.