I woke up to the sun slowly appearing over the big hill that faces our tall windows.
"One ribbon at a time" is a quote I read somewhere describing the sunrise, and I recite it in my head as the pinks, purples and golds appear in the sky just long enough to transform and fade into blue.
Some mornings I don't take the time to notice it the way I used to before the babies arrived, but when I do, it always reminds me of the reasons we moved back home to the ranch seven years ago.
Has it been seven years already? That number sounds so permanent to me, as if the house and the kids and the cattle aren't enough solidification of the decision we made when we were so young to plant our lives here for good.
When I say it that way it means forever, but I look at it here, written down, and I feel compelled to define it.
When we're planning out our hope for the future, the "good" is what we tally up to help finalize our decisions. We chose our people based on the laughs, the calm and the well-timed casseroles or phone calls they bring into our lives. It's the good that brings us closer to the imperfect parts of them - the scars, the mess, the mistakes that make up their not-as-pretty storyline. I think the same can be said for the places we chose.
Last summer I participated in a series of interviews for a project that will showcase the unique lives of women in all 50 states. This included a series of long phone conversations with a few female journalists in big cities on the East Coast, answering questions about what life was like out here on a landscape they've never seen before.
While we talked, I imagined them in trendy haircuts sitting in a high rise behind a desk in a web of cubicles, photos of boyfriends or children pinned to the fabric of their makeshift walls. Walls inside walls inside walls.
I wonder if they imagined me on the phone during my toddler's nap time, my belly swelling with a new baby on the way, sweeping the dirt and little pieces of scoria off the floor as a line of black cows trudged by our fence line on their way to the dam for water.
"I suppose it is a lot to take on," I remember remarking after one interviewer asked why we chose what she called "a hard life." I just described how we are responsible for the fences and the water, the buildings, the animals and the land. And we have so much to learn as we attempt to fill the big shoes that left this here for us.
But a hard life?
No one out here has ever declared it to be so, not even as it's all done on second shift, when the sun is going down, or while it's coming up, a ribbon at a time.
But a good one?
That I've heard. And that's why we're here.