Since I don't write often and I'm too lazy to write something currently, here's some musings from early summer that I really enjoyed writing when I did my first 'real' farming job.
Monday, May 9, 2005
I’m spending my first night at the
farm. As I sit here on my front porch (of my cabin - ~8 feet wide. Small, but enough for everything.), the first thing I notice are the sounds. Frogs croak in the pond, whirrrrrrt. A neighbor’s hounds are baying. Birds – many, I don’t know their calls. A crow flies by, near. I turn to look because I hear his wings . Crickets. Rustles. A little while ago, I heard a neighbor, across the pond I think, say, “I’ll be back in a little while,” and then slam a car door. A fish splashes. I can hear every little sound. The sun’s beginning to set, and I’m glad to no longer hear the buzzing of the daytime insects – the wood bees, wasps, black flies.
I really don’t know what to say. I’m happy here, just listening. My body is contentedly sore from the day’s work. I laid straw down for mulch, planted cucumbers, learned to scuffle hoe the beds, and set out stakes for tomato plants. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. I feel healed. It’s all so familiar, but also a new experience for me. The frogs. The sunflowers painted on the faded table.
Well, it's time to turn in. The frogs have become much more vocal and the light is gone.
Monday, May 16, 2005The crows are crowing relentlessly; I’ve never heard such a raucous. I went toward the noise to see what the commotion was about. I saw a couple of crows flying toward this one spot and a few flying away from it. It was just inside the woods on the western side of the property. I picked my way through the tall grasses hiding the least amount of poison ivy. When I looked inside the woods, the caws were very loud, but I couldn’t see the crows.
I think maybe they were roosting. I know nothing about crows, but that’s my guess. I’ve seen crows around here. They like to steal Daisy the hound’s dog food. Elise also mentioned that the crows ate a lot of the corn she sowed one year (she planted it deeper this year – about an inch). The crow has always been a dismal symbol in stories. I find it to be a fascinating bird that I realize, now, I’ve never noted before.
Ah, here we go.
Pederson’s Field Guide says that the American Crow “may form large night roosts” and that they are found in “woodlands, farm land, agricultural fields, river groves, shores.” It mentions that the bird is “often gregarious.” So, the crows are being completely characteristic. And I learned something new.
Thursday, May 26, 2005Today, I found myself spreading mud on my hands and arms to protect myself from the sun. Despite sunscreen, it is the only thing that’s stayed on and worked. I know some tribes in Africa (and maybe Australia too?) do that, and now I understand their ingenuity and resourcefulness. It’s the cheapest, coolest, most readily available sunscreen there is. The more I work with the earth, the more I come to these understandings, these small discoveries that have already been discovered by someone else. But not by me. The mud made my hands and forearms look like a toad’s. The clumps of sand caked in the loamy dirt gave this warty appearance that would’ve been perfect for the movies.
I’ve also come to appreciate my aging. Not physically, but in myself. I am aware that I’ve lived already a long time and that I have learned from my experiences how to know myself. For example, I have a favorite hat. It’s straw, so it’s cool. And it curves downward rather than upward for the most shade. It’s got a large circumference and has a tie under the chin so that the wind won’t blow it off. It’s perfect. The reason I know that this is the best hat I’ve ever had is because I’ve worn many in my lifetime; enough to make comparisons and say with satisfaction: “this is the hat for me.”
Wednesday, June 8, 2005The late afternoon light is reflecting pink on a cumulus cloud above the pond. It is adjacent to a fluffyish anvil-shaped cloud – looking much less threatening than it probably is. We’ve already had a thunderstorm – came right after I finished work, bringing coolness and calm. Damp calm. And so, mist is rising off the pond from the warm earth and water, condensation rising, forming the clouds that drift over the pond and reflect the dying sunlight.
I’ve been thinking about discomfort. Sometimes I enjoy it, or my body does. These hot, too bright, too humid days are uncomfortable to work in. I sweat. My skin burns, toughens, thickens. And why? I knew it would be this way. And I’m content with my choice. But, I could’ve chosen something more comfortable. I choose discomfort, I think, because no one else does. It is a sure shot to time to myself to think and dream. It allows me ample observation. It gives me the fantasy of a pioneering, adventuresome spirit. It allows me small discoveries of myself and my surroundings. Uncomfortable places: wastelands, junkyards, bogs, fields, and forests full of bugs, poison ivy, cold, storms, overwhelming heat. These are the places that are truly mine merely because no one else wants them. Well, they want to know they’re there, but they don’t want to
go there. I do.
But let’s snap back to reality, shall we? The weather’s still unpredictable. The anvil cloud’s getting wispy, but I hear distant thunder.
Labels: journaling and thoughts
