I've always been a woman of passionate, and often disparate hobbies. Medicinal plants and dollhouses, for example. Embroidery and long-distance biking. Clogging and canning. When the time is right, a new interest can swell from the status of erstwhile fascination to all-consuming obsession over the span of just a few months. And then, sometimes, as inexplicably as it came, it will fade gently away. I'm no longer a dollhouse owner, for example. My beautiful Trek road bike hangs inverted in the garage, waiting like a patient bat for the day I'll drag it out again.
Underneath all the hobbies, however, there are some common threads. I love feeling self-sufficient. I love thrift, and ingenuity, and creativity. In the warmer months, I like to feel the sunlight, and the pull of the muscles under my skin. I've always enjoyed the weight of a well-proportioned tool in my hand, be it a seam ripper or a pickaxe. (These days, it's been more along the lines of seam rippers.) What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I'm not as flighty as I seem. And also, that there are some things I'm into that I'll always be into.
Farming is one of those.
Photo by Patrick.
For the past two weeks, Patrick and I have been logging time behind the rototiller, churning back and forth over a 4 x 20 strip of ground. I'm pleased to say, it no longer resembles the dense, weedy sod it once was. Nor is it exactly plantable yet, but we're working on that. This year is all about baby steps.
How good it feels to be moving, finally, forward into a life I've dreamed since childhood.
And how good it felt to kick my boots off on the porch and watch it gloriously pour.