This morning, like every other morning in recent memory, I awake to the sound of rain splattering on our camper and the chhhhhhhhh of wet leaves on branches that sway in the wind. Outside our 16-by-8 foot travel trailer, the world is wet and lush, a dark green ominous jungle, more "Heart of Darkness" than idyllic Vermont woods. I feel very small and foreign here today.
Upon waking, Tyler shares his first thought of the morning. He's been struck with the realization that by the time we've paid for all we're doing on the land this summer, it will likely be next summer, time for another intense round of things that cost a lot of money.
Despite our intentions of paying as we go, we're facing the unsavory proposition that moving forward at the pace we want may require getting ourselves into debt for several years. We both know better than to dwell on these things, but this damned dreary weather is getting the best of us.
Rain, when observed from a cozy spot with a fire crackling and tea to drink, is a wonderful thing. Rain, as experienced from a tiny camper on a muddy clearing for weeks on end is less inspiring. Every time we turn around, the floor is puddled and mud-streaked again. Rain, when it means facing a downpour to get water from a hand-pumped well, is wearisome after awhile.
Rain, when it means our surroundings are a mudpit that squelches and slurps and sucks our boots four inches underground with every step, is draining. Rain, when it means that progress is delayed on our projects, sending us into soul-questioning inquiries about why we're here and what the hell we're doing with our lives, is tiring. It's supposed to rain for the next ten days.
This weekend, we have a 14-hour drive ahead of us—we're heading to South Carolina to attend a friends' wedding. I'm hoping the time of fellowship and re-connecting will brighten our spirits as much as the sun.