They.  Are.  Everywhere.   

And I don’t necessarily mind.  It’s just all so new to me.   There is something genuinely spiritual about being in the presence of so much life.  

Takes my breath away.  

Sipping morning coffee on the side deck, watching the cats wrestle (and sincerely hoping they don’t kill each other).

Savoring afternoon coffee on a well-loved quilt, lying in the grass, and listening to the tree frogs croak above me.

Delighting in an evening coffee around the campfire in the trees, while watching thousands of fireflies perform for me.

I love being in the center of God’s handiwork. 


So much discovery.


My girls were beside themselves when they discovered a nest of baby birds in the lilac bushes.  We watched them for days until… one morning last week when we returned to see their nest destroyed and ummm… pieces on the ground.  To put it delicately.  This was only a couple weeks after finding the remains of baby robins and their eggs scattered about the yard.  Sad, but an important lesson for those sweet girlies on the circle of life (Elton John, anyone?).


The girls captured a tree frog the other day and were mesmerized for nearly an hour.  He climbed up their arms, tangled his sticky feet in their hair, and jumped back and forth amongst the three of them.  Pure joy.  


We have a skunk who prowls the yard late in the evening.  Hoping against all hope nothing gets him too riled or we will have a serious problem on our hands.  The woodchucks still duke it out in front of the chicken coop every afternoon around 3:00 pm.  Serious comedy. 

There are fresh deer tracks nearly every morning, however, we have yet to actually glimpse one on our property.  (Only a matter of time, I hope.)  I hear coyotes singing most evenings and lately, the crickets have been chiming in, too.

And then there are the cats.

Everyone told us we would have to get cats when we moved to the country, utterly ironic since hubby is ferociously allergic to them.  But they are already here.  Everywhere.

We have seen at least ten different cats that come around, migrating from Lord-only-knows-where, and they all have names, thanks to my little darlings.  Two of these creatures seem to be making themselves quite at home, sitting on the front step at precisely 6:30 am expecting breakfast, napping on the deck in the afternoons, and fending off the evening skunk.

And they fight.  They hate each other.  We call the timid white and gray one Sandy, although I’m pretty sure she is a “he.”  The big orange cat which bears a striking resemblance to Garfield is affectionately “Boss Kitty.”  Because he’s clearly the boss.   Of everything.   When Boss is around, the other cats bow down.  I have seen them smack each other across the face with a powerful paw over the leftover chicken I set out and I once saw Boss intentionally push Sandy down the deck stairs.  Boss is always picking a fight.  And Sandy has the wounds to prove it.  And oh, the stare-downs.  Ultimately, I like Boss.  He’s tenacious and gutsy.  And I fancy that.  

Fine country entertainment.  

My coffee cup is empty and the laundry is about to blow into a nearby field on this breezy Monday.  I have grand visions of finally unpacking every last box by Friday.  

Until tomorrow…


Love & Coffee.