When Plans "Gang Awry"

Nature's Autumn Calico

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley

Robert Burns

To A Mouse

The plan

This morning I awoke to a cold drizzling rain.  Yesterday was a perfect day:  warm, abundant sunshine, gentle breeze, a few feathery clouds in a brilliant blue sky.  Of course, I spent yesterday inside:  cooking.  I was okay with it because I just knew I could play outside today.  I would finally till under the tabasco bed, then I would load leaves into a trailer and till them into next year's garden beds.  No Black Friday crowds for me; it would be a Tractor Friday.  Bliss.

I should have known.

From last year's "monsoons"

Instead of cheery gold, a soothing gray light is seeping past the curtains.  From the door, I can see water standing in the back yard, which means no tilling for at least a week.  The leaves are, no doubt, sodden and heavy--at least one sunny day before they're ready to move.  That's okay, too, because the ground will be too soft to drive on for several days.  I wonder if this is the beginning of the "monsoon season" when the sky is often as gray as the leafless trees, and the gluey buckshot earth sucks and gurgles.

I hope not; there's so much to do.  I have plans for the garden for next season, and I want to get started.  Then again, there's plenty to do inside, too.  The little library off the kitchen has become a junk room, and needs organizing.  My aunt's cookbook collection needs to be moved to the kitchen from upstairs.

Possibility

Then there's that pesky business plan I've been meaning to finish.  The Etsy shop desperately needs updating now that the fall craft fair season is over.  I have a stack of books to be read and reviewed.  I need to plan just how many raised beds I plan to construct next year.  The seed-starting shelf needs to be organized so I can start earlier next year.

STOP!  Just for a few minutes, in these precious first rays of dawn, stop, and listen.  Listen to the sounds of the house:  the air vents popping as the heater pushes air through them, the refrigerator cycling, the occasional splat of rain on the window.

Stop and enjoy this glorious, luxurious moment of silence and solitude.

Stop, and feel those empty places inside, drained by the whirlwind of activity, the effort of dealing with people, and the cacophony of the digital deluge.

Stop, and feel them filling, slowly, gently, from the wellspring of blessed solitude.

Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.

Philippians 4:11

So, while I may have thought that my plans had gone "agley," in truth, they've gone aright.  And for that I am truly thankful.

Nancy

Masquerade

Part of my armor

Every day that I leave the farm, I put on my armor.  It's a full suit of armor, too, including heels, "dress" clothes, styled hair, and make-up (ugh, the absolute bane of my existence).  While I put on my physical armor, I also put on my psychological armor.  You see, I am an introvert in an extrovert world.

I can look like an extrovert; I can act like an extrovert.  But the plain truth is that I can only maintain the facade for a limited amount of time before I must find a quiet place to recharge.

Sunset

So, I retreat into my office, or a empty bench outside, or into a book and pull my mind back together again.  Recently, I've been enjoying Quiet:  The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain.  I cannot turn a page without fighting the urge to shout-- metaphorically, of course-- "Somebody does understand!"

And that's important.

Phoebes on a foggy morning

If you're an introvert, you're often treated as, well, weird.  While other people may thrive on the noise and commotion, the introvert is distracted or even disturbed by the excessive stimuli and often withdraws from it.  I'm fortunate in that I've learned to tolerate it, after a fashion.  I can function in a fast-paced, dynamic environment for a period of time, but, at the end of the day, I require solitude to refocus myself.

Which brings me back to the farm.

Here is my refuge.  It's so quiet I can hear the sedge grass whispering in the breeze.  I can hear the call of the bobwhite, and the song of the meadowlark.  I can hear myself think.

A field of buttercup

And tomorrow, I return to the extrovert world--to the noise, to the constant motion, to the incessant distraction.  But in my mind, in my heart, like the sweet scent of black locust trees, the memory of a golden field of buttercup stills my soul.

What restores you?

Nancy