Friday, August 16, 2013

Mission Control to Sanity

Mission Control to Sanity . . .
Come in, Sanity.

“Sanity here”

Yes, Sanity, what is your location please?

“Um . . . let’s see, there’s a tree to my left . . . I hear frogs . . . Wait, did I just hear a train? No, that was just the sound of unstructured thoughts running around my brain. Huh, weird, sure sounded like a train for a moment there.  Sorry, I guess I’m lost.”

Houston, we have a problem.

Since we moved to the country I’ve been pacing the halls of mission control like an expectant father in a hospital, eagerly awaiting the delivery of my little bundle of Farm Zen.

You know, Farm Zen, that magical state of mind with rainbows and butterflies and fairy dust. Where background music softly plays as you greet each sunrise refreshed, a steaming cup of coffee in your hands. Where the horses nicker affectionately with gleaming coats and spotless fields. Where the breeze always flutters your hair in that ‘I look fabulous and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet’ movie-star-glamor kind of way.


Not only have I NOT received my lifetime supply of Farm Zen, but the sanity I traded in for it has not been returned. It has not been returned and I want it back. I’ll love it and hug it and pet it and squeeze it and it will be mine. 

I keep thinking about Private Benjamin, when she said there must be some mistake because she joined the Army with the condos and private rooms; I signed up for the farm life with perfect weather, well behaved horses, and dogs that don’t dig up everything you put into the ground. Good Heavens, my recruiter lied to me!

But then I see this:

And this:

And this:

And I realize that it’s okay not to be in control of every variable, it isn’t the end of the world if the horses have the day off because one more thing wasn’t going to fit, and I’m almost certain that the sun will not cease to rise in the East and set in the West if I have to burn a moldy round bale. Really, who cares if my coffee spills on my lap in the Gator, or the UPS guy pulls in while I’m feeding breakfast in flip-flops and bed-head? I have horses in my front yard and wine in the fridge, life is good.

An adjustment? Heck ya. Worth it? Absolutely. . . . 

Knock, knock.

Who is it?

“It’s Sanity. I’ve found my way home.”