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I remember those days when I would be at my desk at work, looking out the window wondering what it would be like to not have to work under someone's schedule and agenda. Well, I achieved that. I don't have a schedule now; I go to the farm whenever I feel like it, then do some planting, refresh myself with coconut water and lay under the palm trees and listen to the rustling of the leaves. And some days I would drive to a beach resort where the wait staff knows me well enough not to even ask what I want to drink but automatically just bring me a coconut smoothie. I'd eat lunch, lounge around and fall asleep lulled by the sound of the waves. I would stay a few days until I miss the luxuries of the city, like the grocery store and the coffee shop, and then I just get on the ferry and come back here in my apartment and shop for books for my Kindle.

And what could be better? The charges goes to Chat....because she gave me my Kindle and arranged for book purchases to be charged to her card.  So this week I picked "Committed" by Elizabeth Gilbert. Below is a conversation she had with her then boyfriend who is now her husband, Felipe. He lived in Bali and she was there visiting him and they're talking about moving back to the US.

I will never forget one of the last enchanting evenings that he and I spent together at his cottage there - sitting outside, barefoot and dewy-skinned from the warm November air, drinking wine and watching a sea of constellations flicker above the rice fields. As the perfumed winds rustled the palm trees and as faint music from a distant temple ceremony floated on the breeze, Felipe looked at me, sighed, and said flatly, "I'm so sick of this shit. I can't wait to go back to Philly."

If there's anyone who can relate to what Felipe is saying, it would be me. Sometimes my friends would ask:  "So, how long are you going to stay in Dallas, or how long are you going to stay in the Philippines?" Chat knows not to ask me at all. Whenever I tell her something about what I plan to do in a week or a year later, she'd reply: "Ok, that's fine. Whatever." She knows not to waste saliva trying to extract dates or timeline from me, because the only thing you can be sure of about my "plan" is when it's already executed. 

I love my farm because there's something so organic and so refreshing about choosing and picking fruits or vegetables from my own land and not from the grocery store shelves,  but there's also that revitalizing, restorative surge of energy that comes over me when I think of going home to Dallas. I always get giddy--- and this time I'm saying:  I'm so sick of this shit. I can't wait to go back to Dallas.