I told her everything. I explained that I didn't have the greatest credit and I wasn't married, but I wanted to see if I could buy a little land with a barn and a small farmhouse. I sweetened the deal by announcing in a few weeks every credit card I have will be paid off and I'll have enough set aside for a modest down payment too. I told her I'm employed at a good job and have been there nearly two years. I told her I wanted something in or close to Sandgate. I told her I wanted to raise sheep. And I told her how very very very much I want to see if this was at all possible?
She listened with polite nods and not once did she look around the office for something heavy in which to smite me dead. (The fact she didn't laugh me out of the bank was a big confidence boost in itself.) She said she'd set up a meeting with a professional mortgage officer that specialized in what I'm looking for. I had officially told the world of home-owning magicians I wanted my own land. It's out there. Everything that is me is out there like a carrot on the end of a stick. I left with a business card, a handshake, and a little hope. A little hope is all I'll ever need to be happy.
I drove back to work feeling untouchable. It was such a small incident: a question really. But the meeting wasn't the thing that had me so elated—it was the fact that I tried. That I went into that office and said out loud to the right people what I so desperately wanted. I don't know if this will take months or years but I am in the process of finding out. And just deciding to engage in such a process will have me falling asleep with a big stupid smile. Drunk on a dream.
Tonight at the laundromat I looked at farms in a real estate magazine someone had left behind. Just looking, mind you, but in a stronger proof. Things are different now.