THE RAINY WEEKEND THAT FOUND US

Luna does NOT Care. Look at that look!

The rain didn’t just visit this weekend — it moved in, unpacked its bags, and made itself comfortable. It cooled everything down, which I was secretly grateful for.

These warm February days have been trying their hardest to turn the tunnel into a sauna, and the plants and I were both overdue for a break.

But after the first sweet novelty of “forced rest” wore off… well, we all got a little restless.

The dogs cracked first.

After hours of pacing and sighing and staring dramatically out the windows like two Victorian children denied outdoor play, Daisy and Luna finally found the one gift the rain was willing to offer: Mud.

Glorious, ankle‑deep, splash‑worthy mud.

They tore through it like kids let loose for summer vacation. Luna grinned so big her whole face folded into joy, and Daisy — ever the picture of calm confidence — kicked up arcs of brown water like she was training for the canine Olympics.

By the time they trotted back to the trailer, Luna was unrecognizable. Just a mud‑coated blur with a tail attached. Daisy wasn’t much better. And while neither of them cared one bit about the state of themselves or my sanity, their tune changed the instant they realized mud meant baths.

The look of betrayal on their faces? Nearly cinematic.

Inside, the rest of the weekend moved slower.

I chipped away at flower farm work that can only happen when the outside world presses pause. Paperwork. Planning. A little bookkeeping. And yes — the taxes we’d been avoiding long enough to feel guilty about. Not fun, not thrilling, but undeniably satisfying once you finally check the box.

Storms hit differently when you live in a trailer. There’s a thinness to everything — no buffers, no insulation from the sound or the sway. Every gust feels closer. Every rumble settles a little deeper in your chest. I’ve always loved storms, but now I listen to them in a new way, quietly aware of how small we are out here and how powerful the world can be.

And yet… there was something so comforting about being tucked in together while the rest of the world blurred into gray. The sound of rain on the roof. The soft glow of warm lights. Dogs sleeping in clean piles after their earlier escapades. A sense of stillness we didn’t choose but might have needed all the same.

A weekend washed in rain — muddy dogs, long to‑dos, warm meals, soft lamps glowing against a gray sky.

Maybe that’s its own kind of gift.

And you know what they say… “February showers…” Never mind. We’ll save that one.