The Blueprint of Life
Nesting, by my definition, is the readying of one’s arrival—perhaps even my own. My mother, whom I’ve always considered a professional home decorator, nested when she was just a child, buying things for a home she didn’t yet have. My brothers and sisters nested for their children, collecting clothes, painting the little one’s room—making everything picture perfect to make up for all the days it would never look like that again.
I never nested as a child. I wrote about my hopes and dreams, so I suppose that’s one in the same. I created and tidied a room in my mind where I could go and daydream the life I was in the middle of building.
My nesting had an official beginning when I was under contract with my first home. It consisted of some pillows, a couch, maybe some paint colors. But the real sticks and twigs were added when my fiancé printed out an aerial view of our property and turned it into a blue print—a shed here, maybe a garden here, a someday barn over there.
The first drawing with dimensions was a horse shelter, and the second was where fencing would go up. Later, several months after moving in, he came home with a drawing of a chicken coop featuring a Plexiglas skylight. And then there was the cat door that had to be built into our garage window and then a house for our first pair of goats. These drawings seemed to be permanent residents in the most inconvenient places—on the kitchen table, kitchen counter, bedroom dresser, and dashboard of the truck. Even when projects come and go, I still find these beginnings in our mail bin at home or tucked into the to-do list folder that obviously isn’t quite up-to-date.
I guess I never realized the love I have for this area of our lives, the love we both have for it. It’s in the hay we spread for a new animal that hasn’t yet arrived, or in the backbreaking trips to and from the feed store with bags of grain or salt blocks that I’ll never quite figure out how to carry. This love trails through the house and falls from our clothes. It readies a fire when we’re almost on empty. It’s the wagging tail that keeps hitting the wall beside the bed, the dark tinge under our bright eyes. I’ve never known happiness like the nesting we’ve done, but my definition of it has been edited. It should include the word repeat, over and over again.
The someday barn rises high above our heads. Its posts and beams are our own. This year it will be the place where we share our first dance—where our guests will eat and play and be present in love. It’s the blueprint of a life to come, one that we’ve drawn for ourselves.