This morning, we had our first near frost, and the Great Pyr puppies were frisky – as if the cold dances in their blood. . . I completely understand. (Meander, however, is tucked under a blanket on the couch snoring.)
Moving Tools. (See the name on the bottle?)
In about an hour, dear friends will arrive to help us make the first of many trips from here to the new farm, and I am both eager and sad. It will be as hard to leave this place as it will be joyous to move to the new one.
I have poured myself into this land – with raised garden beds and a chicken coop and a shop, with trails cleared and land brought back from wilderness. I have healed here, and I have married here. Forever, this place will be sacred to me.
Yet, I go to the new farm with deep eagerness – for it will be the place both Philip and I build. Much of this farm was mine – my dreams, especially – but in this new place, we will dream together. And for that – more than anything – I am excited.
But I am also eager to take what we have learned here and use it there. I want to spread the goat feeders out more so there’s less butting and be sure to get shelter over their mineral feeder. I want to use wood chips from day one on our chicken poop boards, and be sure to get great straw for the laying boxes. I want to get cover crop on the garden asap to help keep weeds down and feed the soil . . . and so much more.
In very real ways, this new place is a continuation of this old place. Even as it is a new beginning . . . a new beginning that will have new adventures and maybe new animals. Mom’s dearest friend pointed out that we really need a pig since our town is called Radiant – you know so that the pig can bear witness as Wilbur did for Charlotte’s web. And I still dream of alpacas and learning to spin. (Maybe I’ll get a spinning wheel and start practicing.) Plus, we want to grow sweet corn, something we haven’t tried here and get our asparagus hill in the ground.
Plus, there are new stories there. When we arrive at the farm on Monday night to check out the house before coming back here to care for the animals, I will talk to the hill and pour out a libation of memory for the people enslaved there – a way of honoring and telling them that I will know as much as I can about their lives in time. It feels like a way to carry the sacred to this new place.
So today, I load wheelbarrows and post-hole diggers with a mix of joy and grief. And I remember that this is life – holy and hard and beautiful beyond measure.