Mentally, I have moved into the farm house.
I am sipping cold white wine on the deck, looking over at my two horses nibbling strands of hay from a hay bag. There is a marmalade cat purring on my lap.
I am thinking that for Christmas we will put a ping pong table in the basement.
I am living in a suspended state of hopeful and desperate desire, on the line between optimism and dread of disappointment.
I like to have a Plan B.
I have no Plan B.
I have learned from hard experience (reference previous post), that imposing my will on the universe is the path to misery.
I am very fortunate, and I don't think that the universe owes me anything. To the contrary.
I don't know when we will know. I have absolutely no control over the situation.
I have a life which doesn't exist yet. The old life is a distant spot on the horizon in the rear-view mirror.
It's going to be a big adjustment, not getting the farm.
Gracie will go to auction, probably. Maybe they'll weigh her and pay for her by the pound.
I'll continue to visit Belle, like a visitor during visiting hours. I love that barn, sure, but I can't see her from my porch.
I don't want to consult the I Ching or the Tarot cards or throw coins. I would rather live in limbo than know that I won't get the farm.
I am elsewhere. I am never coming back. Don't send mail to me in town, I won't open it.
I am at the farm. You can write to me there.
If your letter is returned, then you will know. I am not home.