I’m not a farmer. So what am I? And what am I doing out here on these seven acres a mere forty five minutes from our city house in DC? Those that have known me a while get it, because I have talked about it, searched for it, pictured it, planned it. For years, I’ve been buying things for it–a pitcher, a mirror, a chair. It’s been a part of me for so long– even before it was. I know this sounds a little bit new age-y, but I visualized this–a place to come and be out in nature, to take long walks, to have an apple tree, to be quiet, hear the birds and crickets and the breeze in the trees and in the middle of the night, the howling of a whole coyote pack. It’s a place for long writing days, gardening and cooking, family weekends and holidays. I always knew it was somewhere, but where? Honestly, I’d been looking for this place so long, in Tennessee, Virginia, Georgia-all the places we’ve lived before–that I’d begun to believe it was only in my head and would never materialize. My vision had such a strong feeling about it that I wondered, what actual place could ever be it? Then one day while out here berry picking with my son and daughter, we saw it. Their reaction was similar to mine. Something resonated, something spoke–like it had been sitting there waiting for us all this time, for most of my life and all of theirs. The name Three Graces Farm is a family reference. More on that later. Meanwhile, others in the family come and go but I’m out here most days. There are no chickens, cows and goats as such. That may come down the road, but for now it’s enough to have the long hours of quiet, long walks through fields and meadows, rosey sunsets, cool nights and open window sleeping. Maybe I’m not a farmer, but whatever I am, I’d say this is the life. Whatever it is you want, I hope you’re picturing it.
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