Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The Present

My future has been very present in my mind, lately. Business planning class, next fall's hoped for cross-country trip, next season and where I will live, what farm I'll call home, if I'll be able to find an acre of my own. For the first time in my life, at the end of this year, I feel like I'll be ready to walk out into the world into some kind of semi-settled life, with a plan for future years. I'm done with moving around for a while, jumping from job to job, apprenticeship to apprenticeship, adventure to adventure. I'm ready for something a little more solidified, and I'm stating to have a pretty clear idea of what that might look like.

It's hard not to spend all my free time and energy devoted to the cause of next year. The perfect job, the perfect little piece of leased land, countless ideas for growing basil and sungolds, raising sheep, getting a dairy cow. Fitting all the things I want into my long-term plans for my future. And while planning and dreaming is good, in balance, lately I've become overwhelmed by the endless possibilities and uncertainties that lie ahead of me.

So back to the present. Yesterday it rained hard nearly all afternoon. We were in the greenhouse, seeding our first squash and cukes of the year, and pricking out tomatoes. The rain was so loud banging on the sides of the greenhouse we couldn't hear each other talk. Our brassicas and onions are in the ground, our scallions and leeks and first lettuce planting in the cold frames, and our greenhouse is now full of tomatoes, squash, peppers, eggplants, and seed potatoes. The rain was hard and sweet, drenching our new transplants with much-needed water. It was good for me, too. A heavy spring rain, loud and soaking. The peepers were out singing strong last night, and while I don't presume to know what makes them sing so joyfully and beautifully, I can only imagine they were offering up their thanks for rain. I made a simple dinner of couscous, onions, garlic, potatoes, vegetable broth, pine nuts, cheddar. While the grey rain streaked down the windows, I ate a bowl of steaming couscous stew with Motor curled up on my lap.

Another lamb was born yesterday, after another difficult birth. Her mama, Wendy, was not interested in her, and it took a while for her to let the lamb suckle, but now they are both doing great, though the lamb, little Phoenix, is still tiny. Last night I went out to sit with them before bed. The lambs are growing fast; it is amazing how much they've changed in the month they've been alive. It was cold and raw yesterday, but the evening was warm, and the barn smelled of rain and hay, and the darkness was calming, and the peepers were singing, and I know all the lambs by name, by the markings on their faces, the color of their coats, the way they jump and bounce, the length of their legs.

I'm calling a moratorium on plans for the future. There are too many details in the present that need my attention: the scent of wool in the rain, little Athena nibbling my pants, the silence of the house at 5:30 in the morning, the fog hanging thick in the pastures, the array of well-sharpened hoes we oiled yesterday, the muscles in the backs of legs strengthening as I shovel dark, rich compost onto the garden.

1 comment:

KateS said...

So no Folk School?