We got our first big storm of the year this weekend. Over an inch of rain and some high winds this morning were a good test of the new tarp over the yurt. This morning, I stayed under the covers, grateful to have that new tarp in place. I listened to the rain and watched the ceiling, pulsing as though it was the top of a breathing, living drum. The storm, too, seemed to breathe, pausing for deep inhalations before hurling another bucket of water at us. I like living in this structure that flexes and breathes with the storms.

This week I’ll have been here for ten months, but already I feel the cycle of the year closing in. The storm brought with it a sense of familiarity…yes, I remember this now. Yesterday afternoon, Laika and Jasper burst in through the door, full of boisterous energy and once again patterned the floor with muddy paw prints. And already I have a collection of wet towels and clothing hanging around to dry. I must start tending to my wood pile.

This afternoon I built my first fire of the season. It wasn’t the coldest day we’ve had this fall, but since I was spending all afternoon and evening here (and had things to dry), I splurged. Having the fire is a little like having another pet, and I enjoyed being reunited with its cheery flames and cozy heat.

Most Sunday afternoons lately have been given to creative pursuits (another luxury!), and I intended the same for today. But I mostly frittered my time away until I realized that I may as well finish some work for a client and actually make some money. I tell myself that this invoice will pay for new super-duper rain pants and a camera, but the truth is that it will probably go to pay for a speeding ticket and traffic school. Now I know why the saying is to “cop” a resentment. I love my life and I don’t mind having little disposable income, but it is also familiar territory that little missteps like speeding have a bigger impact on my personal bottom line than they did in my higher-income days.

It was with amusement that I read Interview: man who owns only 15 things. Andrew Hyde only owns 15 things, and at the end of the interview seems to take issue with being called “elitist”. I got a little caught up in the excitement of the idea. Maybe I, too, could live a spartan lifestyle where I’d only own 15 things! Then I laughed when I realized that I simply couldn’t afford it. It would take too much money to pay someone with tools and stuff to do all the things I have to do for myself: cook, clean, shower, drive, keep track of bills and whatever else comes in the mail.

But I have no desire for Hyde’s elitist life; I much prefer my own elitist life, with or without the stuff. Recently I wrote here that I was happier than I’ve ever been, and I’ve thought about that phrase a lot. Some might interpret it to mean that I’m giddy with delight at every moment, but that’s not the case. It’s more like I suddenly woke up, noticed that the dictionary looked a little different, and opened it to find that the definition of happiness itself has changed. Most of my “problems” are still hanging around; the happiness lives side-by-side with sadness, anger, fear. But I’m finally facing all of that, in ways I didn’t expect. I’m becoming more flexible myself, weathering the storms, and maybe even learning how to breathe.

The rain stopped for a while late this afternoon. I went out to fill my water bottles and startled a Sharp-shinned Hawk, probably saving one of the Towhees who lives in the shrubs next my door. As the little hawk entered the airspace above the ranch, the Red-tailed Hawks screamed…four of them, circling over with Turkey Vultures and White-tailed Kites. Evidently everyone was getting lunch while they could. Even the goats were active, seeing me and trotting up to the pasture behind the yurt to say hello. I forgot my errand and wandered through the gate to greet Rozena and Audrey, then the others, and walked among them for a bit.

Tonight, there’s still a parking ticket to be paid, the messed up eating, the confusing feelings, the endless desires for MORE, the fears that the car will quit running or there won’t be enough ranch work to pay the rent this winter, or any number of other things. But there are also the coyotes singing to bring back the moon, the embers of a warm fire, hands that smell like goat, and a house like a rain drum. This is not a work in progress to be unveiled at a later date; this is my life, and I am already here.