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It’s been two and a half weeks, I know, and it’s only May.  The farm is not supposed to pull me away from the blog this soon.  But in truth, it’s not just the farm.  It’s my tired eyes asking for a sabbatical, a vacation away from screens.  It’s my hands and the pen and my journal, asking to loop ink across the page while I sit tucked in bed, or on the front stoop looking out across the field, or at the kitchen table where our only lamp sheds light at night.  And it’s my growing baby, pushing out at my stomach, stretching my skin as a little foot traces a half circle from within, making me pause and lay longer in each moment, my hands resting on my belly so I may feel the movement on both sides.

With all my intentions to blog each week, I find it hard sometimes.  The internet is such a distraction in my life.  When I sit down to write at an empty screen, I find myself checking email, facebook, any number of websites, until I realize how long it’s taken me to get down to the point, and then I think of Edge in the field prepping garden beds or moving sheep.  I think how I must check the chickens’ water bucket and the starts in the seed house.  I look up and tell myself that today I will finally wash the pile of dishes sitting on the floor–yes, the floor–of the yurt.  This is why writers need a different place to be.  To throw away the easy distractions.  To be honest, I’m writing this at work, where the phones are so slow that this blog itself has become a distraction from the slowness of the day.

Someday I will build myself a writing cabin on the edge of the field.  I won’t have internet access there, just windows looking out toward the Worcester range, bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling, scrap paper and post-it notes stuck to the wall filled with quotes and ideas that I jot down as inspiration, a small wood stove and a tea kettle.  Someday.

But this is today.  And this is what I have: time.  Time to fill with distractions or with creativity or with nothing at all.  I have fingers to type and to write with, hands to make tea and plant seeds and to carry my journal into the world wherever I may go.  I have this world, or this world has me, and I am here, and someday I will be sitting in a writing cabin feeling distracted and decide that I need to open the door and go out into the trees and to explore.