The Continuing Culmination of a Dream

                My mom had poured her heart into each bottle, bag, and tin, and I watched with pride as she lovingly placed the final product onto our modest store display. We were excited, of course, though keenly aware of how little our accomplishment really was in the grand scheme of things. Still, in that moment, I allowed myself to exhale and wade into the uneasy relief of success.

                We celebrated with lunch at Sundae’s, where we whispered conspiratorially about the next steps toward total world domination. We talked about possible new products and skincare lines. We talked about food processing and farmers markets and art projects. We even talked about the possibility of a brick-and-mortar store. This, we all agreed, was only the beginning.

                But what is a beginning? And who are we to decide when the story starts?

                In 2021, I was desperate for a new beginning. I’d spent years attempting to prove my value to unfeeling executives, with no success. And in March of 2020, I was laid off due to Covid. I tried working for Doordash, but the money I was making didn’t even cover the cost of gas. I felt like I had spent over thirty years on this planet with nothing to show for it.

                My dad came to me with an idea. The idea of a different life. Together we fanned that idea into the dream that became Serenity Farm. We talked endlessly about all things homestead. We watched the videos, we read the books. We learned to can and turn cream into butter. And in May of 2021, we found a lovely little brick house in the Chase City, Virginia, and we took a leap of faith.

                My first goal for my new life was simple: learn to grow food.

                I drafted a two-year plan, which included building garden boxes, planting herb gardens, tilling crop gardens, and raising egg chickens. I made monthly to-do lists. The compost needed heaping, the soil needed amending, the seeds needed planting. I was strict in my goals and expectations. Serenity Farm was, after all, no longer a fantasy. It was a reality.

                And yet, once I’d planned everything I could possibly plan, I wrote up one last list: Five Year Dreams. On that list, I included things I wasn’t ready to wish for out loud. Adopt a child. Start a community garden. Own my own business.

                Just 14 months after writing it down, far sooner than I was prepared for, the dream of a Serenity Farm Store became a reality. A little display in a local shop, and a host of new possibilities. For the first time in my life, I could see the road ahead of me, and funnily enough, when I looked back, I could see the road stretching out behind me too. It turns out I’d been walking that path far longer than I’d realized. I knew then that Serenity Farm wasn’t THE beginning, but simply A beginning.

                These days, I think about my grandma a lot. We were never particularly close, though we did find peace with each other before she passed last year. Throughout my childhood, she lived in a 3-bedroom ranch-style home in Pine Valley, a small, rural town nestled between Mount Laguna and Mount Cuyamaca.

                She was a single mother, a widow, who had built a modest but comfortable life for herself, fashioned out of broken pieces of empty promises. She had a home and a small patch of land to call her own. She loved nature and took a lot of pride in her pollinator garden, which flourished for years under her capable stewardship.

It was meant to be her retirement home. But in the end, financial hardship robbed her of her dream.

                As I get older, more and more, I feel the echo of her dreams in my own. And not just hers, but the dreams of all of those who came before me. A collective yearning for safety and freedom that transcends the self. The desire to create a legacy for those that will follow. The drive to create and innovate, to affect change. I am the desperate hope that has kept us scratching our way up through seemingly insurmountable poverty for generations. Their hope is my hope. Their dream is my dream.

                I look at what I’ve built with my mom, my dad, and my husband, and I can feel the wounds healing and the scars fading. I can see the ripples of our actions on future generations, who might yet have a chance to live in a just and kind world.

                We celebrate our successes, not just for ourselves, but for all who dream.