All it takes is the innocent FB post about a toasty wood-burning stove.
Or the stray glance at real estate blotter.
Oh people. I want a farm.
I want the quiet space of the outdoors. The room to raise my own meat.
And the rustic charm of something built for function, not just fashion.
A month ago it felt like my heart was breaking, seeing that perfect piece of homestead and knowing that I was years away from affording it. Nothing short of a winning Powerball ticket will get me anywhere near acreage for a very.long.time—if ever.
I keep busy with the garden and flock that I do have. Six raised beds and a dozen or so chickens+ducks. It’s more than most, I know that. And I love it.
Just let my practical, logical, mind wander here for a bit.
And then if I hit the jackpot—I’ll have all my thoughts and notes and dreams in one space.