Waking up at Cloudfall Pines

It has rained–at least a bit, sometimes a lot–just about every day since we started moving in. Today splinted sunlight washes in through the morning windows. I’m waking up with Snowball (the cat) at my feet. His ears prick at the call of a lively bird outside, and I am called to life by the Aspen leaves rattling through the trees. Like a giant rain stick. Like a box of rain.

Some noises are conspicuously missing and I am giddy by what I don’t hear. 
I don’t hear the sounds of I-70, or a garbage truck, or a construction site, or a neighbor’s choice of music. Only the melodies of Nature. …and my husband in the yard, down below, muttering something encouraging to the tangled flowers we have inherited in the wild gardens of this unkempt mountain home.

I didn’t sleep very well, again. It could be the increased elevation of my bed (from 8200 to 10,200 ft.) It’s been hard to turn off the ideas, excitement, and “to-dos” as I lay in the creative potential. “This is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago.” …and just about every day since as we argued and envisioned, planned, saved, lost hope, and imagined again. And now (with big thanks to family and friends and all the timing of the cosmos), I am here. …feeling the morning vibes of my daughter’s room; gazing out old, but open, windows trimmed in the color she chose for them: “Blue Moon Bay.”

For the past several nights we’ve been camping in the backyard. Or we have thrown down mattresses among un-opened boxes and yet-to-be-hung artwork on the raw, sanded wood floor of the den. Inside this box of rain. The rooms of this house continue to progress through various stages of live-able “completion.” There is no end in sight. It will be a labor of love and DIY problem-solving for the foreseeable future as we build our forever (for now) home at Cloudfall Pines.