Wednesday, March 11, 2020

Shovel and hoe

I forgot to turn off the comments yesterday when I posted that. I check the "awaiting moderation" tab this morning expecting the worst. What I found was nothing but kindness. Thank you. I read them and I thank you. I did turn the comments back off because they are a dangerous thing an earlier version of me needed for validation. Now I know the price of that validation is people using it as a free punching bag, and having to feel that sinking feeling every day to moderate comments isn't a fair trade. No one should be able to punch you in the stomach on your way to get a bowl of ice cream, but that's the internet.

The pullets are three times the size of their baby selves. I am repotting the first lettuce and pea starts I planted way to early just to enjoy the bits of green they offer. Today I will start cleaning out the raised beds and moving some of the defrosted compost into them. Maybe I can start moving seedlings in there early if I create a dome of plastic poly around them? Mini green houses to bring the first beautiful fresh salads to this farm? Just thinking about it makes me want to refresh my coffee and get outside with my shovel and hoe.

A lot of friends online are posting kidding and lambing pictures. I love to see them, but it still fills me with a bittersweet envy. There was a time that every piece of me belonged to this farm. I was fine with waking up in the dark to milk goats, wash pails and filter milk, make bread and cheese, carry buckets and move chicken tractors and then maybe squeeze in a ride or hunt with just enough time to do it again. I needed that. I devoured up that life. But now I want small parts of myself for others. To be more helpful and available for friends. For off-farm work and freelance so I can stay here. For dating and romance. And for myself, too. Time to walk in the woods and explore and run and move my body and swim in rivers, not for a 20 minute dip but for hours.

Today I will continue my daily groundwork with the horses. I'll start prepping that first raised bed. I'll walk the dogs. I'll work on art for clients and I'll write and do the normal chores. But I hope to take time to also remember your kindness. And to appreciate the kids and lambs out there others are raising. And to do the best by my own little sounder of pigs, flock of chickens, horses, hawk and fluffy baby chicks inside.