Wet grass

    

                This morning, I woke up and saw the apple tree branches bobbing up and down outside my window. I looked at my rows of beets, and peas, my containers of tomatoes and peppers and my strawberry blossoms pink in the sun. I walked out in my Birkenstocks and the wet grass soaked the leather under my feet and my bare toes. I let the chickens out and filled up their water and inhaled the smell of pine shavings and chicken, for which there are no suitable words.

     We eat peach butter, applesauce and pickles as my mason jars from last year are emptied, ready for a new crop. My gardening books get more and more wear as I pore over the perfect way to grow asparagus, how to tame strawberry runners and which weeds are perennial. I slow down by every farm, every person who is growing something, hoping to glean something of value, something I can take with me on my journey.

      All this time, I’ve been waiting for a farm and I never realized that I will have one wherever I go. I will grow things, I will nurture them and I will delight in their successes and sigh when the pea plants fall over and the carrots fail to germinate. I will haul bags of soil with my hands until, finally, on the third trip I decide to find the wheelbarrow. I will, inevitably, try to attach the hose sprayer while the hose is already going, thinking that this time, I might not get soaked. I will plan and I will dream of the day when I have space to let the chickens wander all over, space to plant my dreams, space to watch them come up from my kitchen window.  But while I am waiting, how glorious it is to know that these dreams lie within me as well, they come from my hands and so, cannot be separate. How wondrous to realize the life I’ve been waiting for is the one I am already living.