Sunday, June 9, 2019

Small Dirty Paradise

It finally felt like summer today. The thermostat hit the eighties, I went on a long lazy run, and I got to mow the lawn! It's been two whole days without rain and my town's annual Hot Air Balloon Festival which always gives this little gin joint a shot of activity. Between the tourists, the balloons, the heat, and the longer days this finally reminded me of what summer feels like. It made me want to jump in the river (I did not, it is freezing and high from a month of record rainfall and low temps) but I wanted to, and that is a welcome desire.

The farm is slowly getting on track with the season. Getting a hold of hay is hard, as we are all waiting on this year's cutting to start and everyone is out of last years. I am grateful I set up fences to allow the pasture to grow in sections and in the morning the horses get their cereal and fresh grass to graze. The lambs get their bottles (and also are starting to eat grain) and one of my pigs is very pregnant and the butcher gets here later in the week for the boars. It's a week of grazing management, bottle feeding, slaughter, and the occasional lawn mowing and all of it to move towards the goal of feeling safe at home.

And flushing the toilet... The amount of rain water has either flooded my septic system to the point of super slow drainage or it is blocked. I need to call a plumber but I'm not doing that until I mail in my health insurance bill for the month. In the meantime there's a lot of peeing in the woods.

Maybe I'll date a plumber? That would be a real jackpot. 

That's going to be a hell of day, guys. The day I feel really safe here. If you have that, savor it. If you know tonight your roof is tight, your bills are paid, you have money in the bank and there isn't a chance of losing your home, savor it. If you have someone that loves you sharing your life and work and trials and stories, savor it. I know for a lot of you that is just a humdrum life. It's a normal Sunday night to know there's a new week starting and work is at 9AM and your spouse has the day off to mow and go grocery shopping - and that kind of everyday security is what I crave. The caveat is I want it here. I want it on this farm, from this work, from my own skills as a writer, a farmer, a designer, and an illustrator.

But one day I am going to make it. One day when the farm isn't under threats from banks. When I have more than $20 in my bank account after the mortgage is paid. When I know for sure I have everything I need to make utilities, health insurance, grain and feed bills and someone to talk to before bed and plan out the week.... I feel that isn't too far away.

Or, if it is, then the years of learning to balance skills and costs and making it almost a decade here alone still feels like good work. Because while it's always been a struggle and recently, a horrific one, I am still here. Next May will mark ten years and eight of them working at home as a full-time creative freelancer and farmer. And you know what? I regret none of it. This place has changed me entirely, given me strength, resilience, self-assurance and esteem I could not have found anywhere else. And as of tonight I still own this lawn I mowed. I still have customers, and people to feed, and a place where I wake up every single day with this fire to keep trying to find that safe place in the same nervous corner of this mountain I have been trying at for a decade.

So it's another month of work. And another month with butcher bills and that precious monthly payment that is always late but always dependable so the bank so far lets me stay put. Their patience is impressive but so is this little farm that is still starting mornings with coffee and a promise and slowly carving this woman out of petrified wood so she can dream of kisses before bed and lazy rivers and a savings account in her small dirty paradise.

I don't know what this life seems like to you. Most of the time I don't know how it seems to me, but I am grateful I am still here and able to live a harder life alone doing what I love. And while it may seem sad or lonely, overwhelming or fruitless - most of the time it is simply mine. And a life a person can call theirs with their shoulders back and chin up is worth a week of peeing in the woods.