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| the farm |
Vacationing is hard for me to do.
Not striving to be productive is
difficult.
Work follows me.
And when I’m actually
not supposed to work, the silent nudging of my mental to-do list
swells to something well resembling a panic attack.
I am the product of two entrepreneurs.
The plague of work being on my phone, on my
computer has already consumed and created a slight, reoccurring twitch in my
right eye at seventeen.
So, I’m thankful.
That I can be here, in a place that hasn’t changed since I was
born.
I’m in a town where a newcomer
wouldn’t understand my love for a place that has had the same jacuzzi on the
side of the road for sale since I was four; and where Paddy’s Par Range (where,
yes, I have actually played at) is bordering a grocery store parking lot.
I ate at Buccilli’s Pizza tonight, where nothing has
changed besides its employed young adults.
The buffet (which has always been the reason for going there) has never
changed. 2 soups, salad bar (with the same toppings), pizza, cheese sticks, and
chocolate pudding (always the fave).
The
only change I know of was about 6 years ago when they added Oreo pudding and cinnamon
bread sticks. That was a little crazy for them.
To recover from the madness, there hasn’t been a variation since.
It was in the small, one room restaurant that I realized
how blessed I am to be home.
To have a
home, especially having lived all over the world, who has known me in all
stages of my life – not just the one I’m wrapped up in now.
She knew me before I skipped high school to
go to college, before I was a worship leader, before I had two businesses.
I can be me here.
I can be the same me I was at 2, or 4, or 12,
or whatever I want!
And that’s
freeing.
So freeing that I can forget
about the writing I “need” to do or the pictures I “need” to edit or the emails
I “need” to send.
Clare, Michigan has
been sweet to me; she deserves some sweet attention back.
I’ll leave with you with one of the first essays I wrote
for DSC, about my home, written in 2009.
Whether it’s read or not, I need to wipe the dust off of it and bring it
out – for no reason other than my sanity and for the sake of being free.
I could never see much while sitting in the back seat of that small car
at night. Only the outline of seasonal
Christmas lights shaping the town's houses was visible. Therefore, the feel of the dirt road passing
beneath the vehicle was only enhanced.
The sound of turning tires kicking up stones would begin to sooth me to
sleep as I would rest my head on the soft seat of the car. Just as my heavy eyelids would reluctantly
close, my body would be jolted by the transition of one dirt road to
another. That's when I knew, as Grandpa
would turn onto Crawford Road, that we were almost there. I eagerly searched out my window, my eyes
straining to see through the darkness, behind the festive lights, for the house
I had been to a hundred times before.
Multiple times I found myself in a wake of delight by believing that I
had spotted the correct house through the black canopy. Upon further inspection I would realize that
I had, unfortunately, misinterpreted the features. I wasn't disappointed, however. I had played that game many times, and I knew
we are approaching our destination.
When Grandpa would begin to
withdrawn his foot from the accelerator, I would finally see the correct house
come into view. The traditional
Christmas lights were illuminating the front porch, reflecting red and green
hues off the white snow. The scene was
like a picture on a postcard. Snow had
recently ceased to fall, laying in mounds, just begging to be stomped in
vigorously. The seasonal decorations
were perfect to the degree of every properly placed pine needle in the door's
wreath. Faithfully, the prodigious,
crimson barn stood statuesque in the background, as it has always been for
decades before my birth. The
uncontainable joy from the realization that we had indeed arrived would
erupt. We had arrived at my
grandparent's house, the Farm.
Growing up, my parents and I lived
in many places. I was born in the
Netherlands, and moved to Malaysia, New
York, and California. However, my
grandparents' house in Clare, Michigan – affectionately titled the Farm – was
always a consistent home in my life. No
matter where I had lived in the past, I could always walk into the beloved
house and know it would be a familiar dwelling.
The living room would always greet me with its inviting cream couch,
spacious windows revealing the descending, dancing snow, and fireplace, where
warmth has caressed me for years. I held
to knowledge every creak the the hard wood floor hallway could make, and every
way the door hinges would groan.
Loyally, there would always be a plate of cookies placed neatly on the
rose colored counters, forbidden to be consumed until morning.
After much urging on my mother's part, I would retreat to the bedroom, not
only to demolish the temptation to steal a sugary snack, but because I held a
sense of possession for that room since the beginning of my childhood, and I
had missed it exceedingly. A yellow,
floral comforter would still cloth the bed.
Baskets of old toys would continue to patiently wait for a child to play
with. The wind chime I made years ago at
Vacation Bible School could still be found hung on the bed's headboard. The room would always be remarkably identical
to how I had left it last.
To this day, the Farm is and always
will be a haven. It will forever be
there for me to run down the path through the bean fields, sled down the hills
blanketed in snow, and frolic through the trees. It's a place where I can always come to live
fully, eat abundantly, sleep peacefully, and be surrounded by family. I am not certain where my path will take me
in the future. I don't know where I'll
live or travel to, and I don't know what I will become. I do know, however, that no matter where I go
or do, the Farm will always be there, welcoming me with Christmas lights, snow,
and a home evermore.
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