What happens when you get a chance to make your dreams come true? That one big thing that you have been daydreaming about, saving pennies for, counting the days, murmuring – It will be so nice when . . . ?
We are on the cusp of our dream. I can hear it playing in the back of my head like a Van Morrison song in the far off distance, half-remembered. It’s at my fingertips . . . a reached-for word on the tip of my tongue.
Our dream farm is as close as it has ever been.
And yet . . . the funny thing about dreams is they’re slippery like soap. You can’t clutch at them too hard. The universe will sense your desperateness, your unreadiness. You have to let your dream come to you. Slow. Easy.
Like anything good in the world . . . children, good bread, wild things . . . dreams can’t be rushed or pushed too hard.
We are learning the hard way. Sometimes you have to surrender yourself to the universe, accept your impotence and just have faith.
I have been repeating that line from Desiderata over and over again as a salve for my worry:
. . . No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should . . .
It has been the summer of Murphy’s Law.
Way back in April, we stumbled upon our dream farm.
We have been looking for years, nearly every Saturday morning spent with coffee and conversation as we drove through the fields of the Fraser Valley, waiting for it to find us.
Boy, did it find us. We spent the entire weekend with terrible butterflies, that special kind of anxiety that only comes when you find yourself presented with the opportunity to make your dreams a reality.
We hadn’t really planned on moving right then. We have a little boy, and my hubby was just about to launch a second business. But after seeing the 120 year old home, walking the fields, exploring the barn . . . we knew it was time to make the leap.
We made an offer on the farm – and got it! There was celebration all round. All we had to do was sell our house.
We have spent the last four years renovating it top to bottom and we enjoy spectacular views of the North Shore Mountains and downtown Vancouver. We’ve had numerous unsolicited knocks on our door looking to purchase our home since we moved in. This time last year, the house across the street from us sold for tens of thousands of dollars over asking – in ONE day. The weekend before we listed, a house up the street got 11 offers and another got 2.
We listed our house for sale, and a week later the bottom fell out of the market. The worst sales in 10 years.
And so it began.
Complication on top of complication with the sale came one after the other. One of my cats got hit by a car in front of my house, and it wasn’t the one who pees on everything. My sanity-protecting espresso machine exploded after less than a year. I miss my chickens.
Big things, little things, stupid things. Things that wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t consumed by worry about the house. Showing after showing with a wee one are wearing me down.
I feel like I did during the last month of my pregnancy – completely convinced, believing with every drop of my being, that this child would never come out. The pregnancy would never end. It just wasn’t possible. The heart-burn, nausea, nights spent sleeping in a hot bath for the pain – that was going to by my life. I would celebrate his 18th birthday with him in my belly. I believed it. It was true.
Selling the house has been the same. The sane and rational part of my brain (what little is left of it) tells me it has to end sometime. I hear my father’s voice like a mantra – This too shall pass.
I don’t believe him. And yet . . . And yet . . . . . . .
We are getting there . . . bit by bit and step by step . . .