We have an apple tree on the farm. It’s big and fertile right now busting at the seams with well over one hundred Organic Granny Smith Apples just waiting to be picked.

Every few days I open the gate leading to the tree and grab enough to fill my medium-sized mixing bowl. This act alone makes me feel a connection to myself and the land that got lost several years ago after my divorce. All of the sudden, I’m transported back to my days living on the vineyard in Oregon when I nominated myself to be in charge of trimming the three apple trees on the property. I loved the methodical way in which I’d cut back each branch preparing the crop for the cooler, dark winters month.

In the spring the buds would pop out and I would be filled with deep satisfaction at knowing I did a good job. I was successful at trimming the apple trees.

So when I saw we had an apple tree here on the goat farm I smiled at the distant memory that reminded me that I am a good apple tree trimmer.

Every few days I handpick more apples, making sure they are free of any significant dings or holes that let me know some critter has yet to take up space inside dining on the sweet nectar I too hope to enjoy.

The tree is on a slope and I sometimes lose my footing as I reach for the perfectly round apple just out of my reach but the one just right to make apple butter or dehydrate into a sweet snack of dried apple rings. But it’s okay because this act of picking apples from a tree makes me happy and I don’t mind slipping if it means I get the apple eventually as I mentally add one more reason I love the fall so much to my already long list.

It’s these very things that remind me I made the right choice to follow my gut and move here. I left that life on the beach with sand between my toes to fall back into one that feels so much more like me. The one with the fertile apple tree and making apple sauce and apple butter and anything I can with apples.