The Land and the Ache

Some mornings, the ache wakes before I do.

It’s quieter than grief but heavier than sleep—settling in my chest, in my bones, in the cool July air.

Out here, life keeps its own rhythm. The compost doesn’t care if I’m hurting. The buckets need dumping whether my heart is full or hollow. The ash still waits to cover the waste.

The felled logs call out in the heat. Gotta cut. Gotta haul. Winter is coming.

And yet… maybe there’s something holy in that.

The land and the ache live side by side. One breaks down what was. The other waits and prepares for what's coming. Both require tending.

I don’t always know what to do with the ache of missing my husband, my children, rejection.

But I do know how to care for this mountain, this off-grid life, this fragile moment.

I get up. I dump the buckets. I stir the fire down to ash. I tend. I pray for rain. I hope. I envision. I wonder. I forgive.

Sometimes that’s all I can do.

Sometimes that’s enough.