I don’t believe that I fostered in myself the near infinite patience and affection that I feel for Roby, it appears to be something I found along the way. I picked it up, fully formed, or it was shone across me the moment she was born, some catalyzation brought on by the sound of her. I feel quite lucky to have had it work out that way, and I hope it sticks with me as she learns how to say no and walk around.

Having not come across similar feelings of awe regarding homeownership, I must cultivate the feeling, and I’m not sure how. It is an incredible opportunity I enjoy, living out here in the woods in a big beautiful house painted blue: the grass is green the trees are many. I can listen to music loud and watch movies. Even when the power goes out I’ve got a generator and satellite internet, I can watch movies any time I want, rain or shine or snow.

To call my snowblowing and roofing and drywall patching obligations or chores is an affront to anyone unable to do such things. Either because they lack the skill, the health, or the home to explore the responsbility of making the place they live better, they’d likely be happier if they could. 

I know that I’m blessed in this way, yet I still grumble when I have to dig a hole or organize a shop or dust. It’s almost as though I imagine the dust settling to be some sort of an affront, I feel insulte by it, and that’s stupid. 

The amount of work feels daunting, especially in the spring and summer time. There’s more to do than I could possibly finish this summer, or across the next forty summers. And doesn’t that imply that I ought to just be happy labouring? I’ll never get it done, no matter how hard I work, so I ought not rush. It’d be best to just enjoy it, otherwise what the hell have I got going for me? 

Yeah that sounds best.
Let’s hope it’s as easy to do as it is to write about.