My blood and breath rely heavily on a lifeline vein connected to a source of polluted air, noise, and movement from the city. When I feel lifeless, I look its fumes for resuscitation. When I am overwhelmed, I take refuge in the comfort of its womb and the chaotic commotion lulls me. No matter how dirty or worn out, like a security blanket, just having it there makes everything OK.

I am an urban junkie. So how did I ever become a farmer’s wife?

I am naturally drawn to metropolitan cities. I thrive on new places and faces; I revel in unfamiliar tongues and cultures. While most people avoid moving, preferring a constant familiar environment, I have always appreciated jumping from one spot to another. Frankly, over the last twenty years of my life, I have developed a codependent relationship with moving. I have always maintained that I could live anywhere. Yet I have never clearly qualified where and what anywhere would be. I have learned that making sweeping statements, like boomerangs, will not only come back to me but sometimes knock me straight over.

This case is not an exception. After years of effortless movement, I stumbled onto a move that was not only highly taxing but took me somewhere beyond my comfort zone. With a husband and some children in tow, we moved to a farm.

It’s been five years since we first rolled up the long driveway leading up to Honey Hollow Farm, not knowing ultimately where that road would lead. In that time, not only did we dig in our heels and roll up our sleeves, but we have undoubtedly if not unintentionally settled into the land.

Since the day we showed up, I’ve experienced every color of the rainbow in the process of acceptance. I’ve learned to capture the beauty of what is and what can possibly be. And it’s among the fields of budding apple trees that I have discovered my own nascent visions.