The sight of field or meadow speaks to my youth.

There’s something comforting about a rustic life on a New Hampshire farm. Now, admittedly, I’m too controlling to keep things pristine & perfect, as that need would grow to such an internalized obsession that I’d never relax or enjoy myself. Like ever. But the cool thing about a rustic farmhouse is that dings & scratches look lived in, & scuffs & worn fabric appear loved. The worse things look, the prettier the patina.

Each imperfection conveys life, a truth statement, a realness that humans live here. Not simply reside, but but live. The home is not a museum or an ultra-modern aesthetic of clean lines & no clutter. Here, you can toss off your shoes & walk barefoot on the grooved pumpkin pine floors.

The Orchard, facing the pumpkin patch in the distance.

The idea of the strong & tough, durable & rugged appeals to me, I guess. There’s beauty in that strength & function & utility. This might be from watching my mother. I’ve seen my mother (child of the Great Depression, proud farm girl) take pride in her self-reliance. Her sheer power in will. Her tenacity & determination.

And I hope that I’m a lot like my mom. I admire my mother’s wisdom & intelligence, her caring heart of unconditional love, & her Herculean work ethic. She has so many talents. But she lacks a lot of self-esteem, which is something I battle, too. That’s where I try to take after my father, who could inspire confidence simply through his impressive belief in his own abilities.

The rustic appeal of a farmhouse.

But I confess I do have to struggle against unrealistic expectations for myself. When I reach a goal, it’s not like I sit back & fully appreciate the milestone. Savor & enjoy it. Nope. Not this gal. I just set another, even harder goal to attain. Yet, I’m working on this. No, really. I am. Promise.

Yet, this begs the question: Why is it so much easier to hear criticisms than it is to accept accolades? I focus on something hard to achieve, but when I reach it… All of a sudden, it’s as if it wasn’t difficult enough. Then it’s not as valuable a win. Sometimes, I worry that I take NH & even this farm life for granted.

Sunshine in the woods.

Perhaps, I need to validate life in all of its imperfection? Like I do with the interiors at the farm… If the aesthetic goal is a shabby chic, a charmingly chippy surface of painted furniture & rutted & scuffed flooring, then perhaps I can accept my own eccentricities & quirks? In the decorations of self interiorly? I’ve certainly needed to make concessions, altering my ambition to balance with being a career mother. So, why do I feel less successful now that I’m juggling two identities?

And moms with careers are set up to frequently feel like failures. We just are. If we are too ambitious, then we can be seen as too self-involved, neglecting home & family. Yet, if we devote time to being with children & caring for the home, then we don’t have enough drive or chutzpah to advance professionally. Our focus is split, divided. A classic Catch-22.

Even a birdhouse looks pretty with Nature’s imperfections.

Thus, this musing or introvert’s pondering springs from the parts of my mind & psyche trying to adjust to reaching a midpoint in my lifespan (as is foreseeable to me, currently). Of course, I’m still learning how to accept things about myself in my imperfection.

There will always be many people who remain cooler than me. Wealthier than me. Smarter. Prettier. Wiser. Kinder. And I have to be okay with that. That’s kind of the point in life. To find happiness in oneself. Not from external things.

Even the imperfect wood of an old window holds its own unique beauty.

Because what’s the alternative? Sadness & feeling denied. The crazy part is that I do know all of this. I do. Many of us do, at this point. And yet.

And yet. I feel like I’m the embodiment, the manifestation of the last lines of The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald in his perceptive, stunningly gorgeous prose so beautifully captured the paradox of life’s experience:

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”