our new heaven

I find myself feeling the shy customer at the coffeehouse, like I'm not supposed to be among the super-cool. I'm just visiting, that's clear. I've got my toddler in tow. Really, she doesn't want to be here. Her fidgeting gives expression to my own inward wiggling. I order coffee arabica: black, thanks. I feel a little proud at my plain-seeming preference. I feel like, "Yeah, I know I could have a mocha latte, but I really DO just want a regular cup of joe. Don't hold the caffeine." I only feel a little foolish that I'm paying $2.00 for it.

I don't live in this town anymore: The Live Music Capital of the World. How I miss it, live music on a Tuesday night over ribs. After dinners of ginger pancakes, my love and I shared ice cream made with beer. Sunday mornings meant three miles 'round Town Lake with my best friend. My nostalgia makes my eyes burn. I love Austin, Texas. She was my savior. How could I love her AND leave her?

Olive trees. That's why we left. And goats. Property taxes are too high in Austin to make either dream possible for us. We bought the farm in '05 and hill-billied it to our new heaven as soon as I graduated, a Master of Oriental Medicine in '06. I was awarded my acupuncture license in '07 and we opened Beeville Acupuncture & Herbs in a converted one-room schoolhouse in the autumn of '08. Mike finally bought our olive trees this year. An economy like this one can kill dreamers, or their dreams. We and ours remain.

I wanted to name the clinic, "Prickly Pear Acupuncture." That name still tickles my heart. I felt though that it reminded one too much of the possibility that MY needles, thinner than a cat's whisker, might hurt. Instead I chose to pledge my allegiance to Beeville. I made this choice on faith, before I knew our new home. It was not a mistake. We are comfortable here. If I wave, folks wave back, even if we've never spoken. I often forget and wave to folks in Austin, when I visit. I am reminded then that friendly is sometimes misinterpreted as crazy.

At home, the coastal breeze in the afternoon rushes through the anaqua trees on the south side of the house. The soft perfume of their blossoms often intoxicates me past caring about the finances, or the nearly incessant tending to the animals, landscaping, kiddos, clinic, and all of the maintenance-related quirks of a centenarian farm house. I think we should name the olive farm after the anaqua somehow. They preserve me. Twice a year their scent can stop me and anchor me in meditative splendor. It is enough. Sometimes I tell people, "We are money-poor, but we are wild-flower rich." The anaqua are part of this wealth: the wealth of wild-flowers. It is such a blessing that in those moments we have enough.