I sit on the porch, rain lightly falling around me. The roof over my head, the eaves hanging down, protect me–allow me to sit in the midst of nature, without the threat of bee stings, mosquito bites, or rain. I sit at the table facing one corner–the corner that looks out at the yard next door. The white picket bridge over the creek, a red leafed tree behind it, and beyond that a cherry blossom covered in white blooms.
The rain means outdoor work has stopped, so this afternoon I will not be bothered by the yard workers revving their motors to maintain a lush green lawn that no one ever uses. The renovation on the house across the alley has also stopped, the sounds of their machines replaced by the sound of rain falling into puddles.
I remember when my landlords first showed me this cabin. We entered the living room where a round wooden table dominated one corner. “That’s where you’ll eat during the winter,” my landlady said. I was a bit confused until we got to the porch.
I recall last summer spending mornings in the chaise lounge out here, eating a bowl of yogurt and muesli, my glass of water on the green shelf next to me. I didn’t sit at the table mindlessly eating while reading a book. Breakfast was the meal I ate mindfully–or at least tried to.
I recall packing lunches to bring to work, so I could eat quickly in the office, and thereby leave earlier in exchange for taking so little time for lunch. As spring blossomed I realized I needed a break at midday and drove home (a mere two miles) for lunch each day. I had time to cook if I wanted, or I simply took leftovers out to the porch. At the table birds provided my soundtrack, a book my entertainment, with commercial breaks provided by the squirrels.
I recall those work days when my lunch hour just wasn’t enough, when I wished I could spend the whole afternoon out here. Indeed I did on weekends, when I spent entire days moving between the chaise lounge, book in hand, and the kitchen: eating and reading the only tasks on my agenda.
There were entire months I ate every meal on this porch.
“So you’re going to lose the cabin . . .” my mother said when I told her of my plan to head to France for three months.
“Well, yeah. They’re thinking of selling the property in the spring,” which meant I could possibly be given one month’s notice to move anyway.
I was thinking how sad it is to leave this place. Of all the homes I’ve had since leaving my parent’s house, this, by far, has been my favorite. When I first moved in I would often stop what I was doing to reach out and lay my hand on a log. I loved that I could see so clearly what my house was made of. No insulation or sheet rock hiding its bones.
I realized today marks thirty days until my departure from this place. And today I am trying to change my thinking from “I only have thirty days” to “I have thirty more days!”
7 Comments Add yours
Lovely, looks like a nice place to retreat.
I Enjoy your writing so much Rebecca. Wishing you good luck in your new adventures. You will love France I’m sure, especially in spring. Stay safe and stay in touch! You continue to be an inspiration.
Your ole friend
Makes me sad. I know you fell in love with that cabin and leaving it, even for another great adventure, brings up memories of good times. But, leaving also creates a deeper appreciation for this moment, this time, and you focus on what is so special about it. You will hold this time more tightly in your mind.
Go in wonder. Go in Love. Go in Peace. You will always hold this time in your heart. Go.
Amen to that!
What a lovely log cabin home and how well you have loved your time there. I’m glad you are going on a new adventure to France. I don’t remember how I discovered your blog but I’m glad I did. I look forward to hearing about your new adventure, too. Just curious: where is your log cabin and its lovely porch?
I live in Asheville, NC at the moment:)