Being Verbose

It was a cold february morning.  The wind was whipping and deafening to the ear. I felt myself alone amidst a grand landscape.  So grand it requires herds and flocks, nothing in the singular. The universe has a use for these places, not for our purposes but for its own.  Just as oceans and mountains and deserts, places of wild are its soul, farms are its emotions.

I could feel its largess today. I was walking through pastures with rolling hills. I crossed one then the other and came to a flock of ewes with their two white guardians who came running over to receive all the affection I could pour on them.  It’s good to spend time with those dogs when one feels lonely, she said.  So I did.  The starkness of leave barren trees on pastures half covered with snow. That contrast between the solid ground and stoic trees and the wind whirling and whistling in a tumult.  It commands reverence.  And its character is ever changing underneath you.

There is reciprocity in this relationship with agriculture.  It requires you to give.  It requires you to give more of yourself, more than you thought you ever thought you could give. And in turn, it gives one the space to become someone she did not know before.


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