It’s all so normal to me now, but it’s so radically different from where I was a year ago in the bustling suburbs. I sit sipping in my comfy chair in the predawn mornings, enjoying the silence before my family emerges from slumber. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock, the lull of the heater, and the faint crowing of the rooster from across the field. When the sun emerges from it’s place of rest, I breathe deep and admire the dawning of a new day. Today the sky behind the bare skyscraper trees illuminates cotton candy pink and blue. The family stirs and I scramble fresh eggs, and the farmer gives breakfast to the animals. We eat.
My baby is already a junior farmer. He begs to be outside with Daddy, or at least in his basement office with him. He finds his own coat, shoes and hat, and points longingly outside. He carries a bucket of corn to the rooster and hens and tosses it out for them to enjoy as a treat. It’s precious. I can’t believe he’s so grown up. He admires the truck while making engine sounds “brrrrrr”, and pretends to drive the riding mower. He examines pebbles and plays with Dad’s tools. He takes acorns to the enormous hogs and says hello to the 70 layer “chicks” that also are no longer babies, but maturing hens.
The normal shouldn’t be taken-for-granted. Every moment is sacred. May I live in the moment and be ever so thankful for the gift of now.