Tuesday, September 11:
Some days are just like that; they roll over you like a fog, leaving you with the conviction that nothing good will ever happen, could ever happen, again. Why is that?
Farming means there are a great many things over which you have little control. When you drive a car, or operate a computer, or bake a cake, for the most part things go where you send them, stay where you put them, time out the way you expect them to. Not so the farming. A dozen, twenty, balls in the air. Feet set on a tight rope which sways this way and that. The particular is always before you, in all its vagaries, and without the years of experience which would teach you that for all the fluctuation of the small things the big picture is more or less stable, you react with every change, flinch at every air pocket on the route.
Some days you end up air sick.
Only the love you have of the act itself; only that you cannot tear your eyes from the clump of gentians pushing sideways from under a damp rock, that the plodding down the hill with a bucket in one hand, eyes counting the boards in the fence that still need to be mended, still after a year, two years, fulfills some need we have for continuity, stability, connection; only these and things like these tie you firmly to the thing you are afraid of and cannot do without.
Most days are better, though. There are red apples in the top of the barnyard tree, and if someone climbs up there and shakes the branches the apples will come raining down and send the chickens squawking, Bridget, the sorrel mini, running to steal what she can before the children fill their buckets.