This is my space. A little grey-blue barn behind our 1911 house, built who knows when but some of the planks are circa 1920s crates and it smells of horses and old wood and the morning light twinkles through the knotholes that I just can't bring myself to cover up. I have been dreaming of a space like this for a very long time. It seems like the perfect gift for a long hard road traveled to where I needed to be when I am in here, alone at sunrise listening to the birds and arranging flowers. I was lucky to have my good friend Haley Nord in here to do that magical thing she does with pictures.
This whole place is special to me. It feels haunted in a good way, with the ghost of a little old lady who must have loved it a long time ago and needed someone else to come along and to love it just as much. I can feel her approval when I'm in the soil on hands and knees cultivating this wedding season's crop of cut flowers. Or when I glance up to see what must be a very old rambling yellow rose taking over the neighbor's yard just winking at me for the taking. Or in the evening with my daughter and my husband and our hound just being quiet next to each-other in a little living room that must have sheltered so many other families before us.
This place is home.