in defense of impermanence
They're right. I don't care.
I suppose the risk of this farm imploding is always there. My landlord could cancel my lease. I could lose my job, be forced to leave this all behind... I'm okay with that. I'd rather live exactly how I want to while renting someone else's land than putting it off till the day I can afford my own. It just seems like happiness suicide to postpone something as simple as salad greens because I don't own the dirt it grows in. If I did this gig by the book, I'd still be in an apartment in Tennessee. That life would be fine too, but personal velocity takes some grit. I'll take my chances and farm now.
I know that may come across as selfish. I don't mean for it to be. I just don't want to waste my time here. Even if I live another sixty years—it's all going to flash by in an instant. And while I'm still among the living I would prefer it be spent in the fine company of hooves and paws, gardens and hives, hammocks and guitars... Cold Antler Farm is nothing, if it isn't a personal manifestation of hope. You are witnessing the dirty seedlings of a possibility, people. Stayed tuned and watch it grow.
I keep learning that sometimes you need to ration happiness. Sometimes the things you want aren't yours, can't be yours, and you can either take that lying down or fighting. I learned this with so many signed leases, with a failed border collie, with tear-filled eyes as I left Knoxville and Sandpoint...
You can take things in this world as they come, or wait until the winds are perfect to act. I decided long ago that I would rather set sail in choppy waters than stay docked till things were safe. Waiting for safety is a luxury for people more in love with the future than the present. I understand the foolishness of this, but also understand poor sailors have better bar stories.
No, this land isn't mine. But the experiences I have created are. The taste of that first garden grown salad is mine. The feeling of a three-week-old goat kid drinking from a bottle in my lap is mine. The music I play on that rickety porch is mine. The memories, conversations, prayers, hopes, tears, births and deaths are mine as well.
I can't afford many things. But I feel wealthy here everyday. That is more than most people can say. I am grateful as hell. And if all this means I need to borrow happiness to get by, it's a concession I'll happily make.
This is what I am certain of: when you love what you are doing it belongs to you. You can pull the rug out from under this farm but it already happened, and if it falls apart in my sweaty hands, it will surely happen again. That is a promise.