before the crazy outweighs the hot

 you could call it writers' bloc. or blogger bloc. or more aptly just foggy brained. but i cannot think of a word to write to you. i spoke several weeks ago of a feeling of surreality. of not fully grasping my present. and here it is again. on the eve --or the penultimate eve-- of our departure i am a shell of my former farmer self. i have been so preoccupied with the details of the move that i in turn become even more preoccupied with consuming every last moment on the farm. which creates this overly sensitized being where i am so dramatically in-tuned to my surroundings that i must look like i'm on psychedelics.

like yesterday afternoon when the lightening storm swept over the farm and i stood on the back patio, arms akimbo, breathing in the whooshes of rain along with the clouds. wondering how the sky knew that when i let go of a breath it should let the rain fall harder.

like this evening as we drove across the farm in elizabeth's '79 vw bus, the speakers blaring a 1920s era jazz tape, the stars already high in their position. i let nick talk and talk as i silently tried to count each star and turn the music up ever louder humming to myself a tune i had never heard before.

or just now as i walked through the dark pig pen to check on our sick sow mavis. the air was completely black. and i wasn't scared. i'm not scared of the dark on this farm. but i was attuned if you will. attuned to the indelible presence of bubba, the 800 pound boar, who was somewhere in that pen. lurking, the only way a boar of that caliber can exist at that hour, no matter their kindness in the daylight hours. i heard every ant that crossed a leaf. every mosquito that landed on mavis. every chicken's rustling feathers settling as i scooped feed to the sow and poured water on her hot head and back. listening for bubba. i looked like a jumping hot potato with every sound.

i will embraced the crazy that has overtaken me. i know that the farm still needs me, even if i have done farm chores in my underwear (it IS hot) for the past 3 days. even though i have been making a valiant effort to drink All Of Our Wine by myself. even though i only have 2 more days here.

i'm trying to reconcile leaving with being madly in love with a piece of land. with the ecosystem that this land has fostered. it's not pretty. so i thank you for having gotten as far as you have. 

with tuesday night now turning, dutifully to wednesday, i can safely say, that we are leaving tomorrow. the truck is two-thirds packed. i will try to reign in the crazy so that i can bid adieu to this place with some dignity and with some clothes on. 

orangie photos:
1. the sunnies finally bloomed.  i was so thrilled, they had been mocking me along for the past 2 weeks. i was sure i was going to miss their entrance. 
2. in a surprise turn nick collected honey sunday evening. loads of it. and he does it without any mask or suit or gloves or smoking. it is bad ass. i say it is dangerous and beg him not to do it and stand with an epi pen, paralyzed at the front door, as he beekeeps. but i must say, the boy has a way with his bees.
3. tequila sunrise peppers. hate the name. love the color.
4. the steam was so intense in the morning's mugginess that the camera lens kept fogging. 


  1. This is a beautiful post! I have had moments like that, where everything seems so surreal that it's almost like walking through a dream. Sending you good thoughts for a safe journey!

  2. note to self: buy a 20's era jazz record and listen to it on the deck, at night.
    I almost felt like I was spying on you guys in that moment - you described it quite beautifully. I hope all goes well and that Mavis is feeling better.

  3. What a beautiful ode to your farm. Can't wait to see your adventures continue in the northeast!!

    - Mel

  4. good luck with the move, and enjoy western MA for me as I head down your way.

  5. wow, i can relate to the ache of moving but i'm sure it's intensified x100 by the work/sweat/tears that you have put into your farm. i hope you transition well and thank you for sharing with us.

    p.s. that honey looks delicious.

  6. What a beautiful and descriptive post! Loved and hung on every word of it! Wishing you safe and happy travels on your move!

  7. I just went through you whole blog, and I fell in love with your life on the farm, and your animal friends. So sweet.

    Good luck on your upcoming move, and creating many more memories, that I hope you continue to share with us : )

  8. i wish you a huge amount of good luck, but i think you won't need it.

    waiting for pics of your new place!

  9. you will fall in love with another land. even though you might not want to.

    hope you soaked up every last second of your current love affair. and that you're safely traveling on to the new one.

    ps: that honeycomb is pure magic.

  10. i can so relate to this post. we are living on a 200 acre livestock farm, although we are not caring for it, just renting to live here, we are having to pack up and leave come september 1st. We are heading back to the city for a few months to save money for our trip to oregon..i am trying not to think about how much this farm will be missed. from waking up to the wildlife sounds, to not having to lock our cars at night, to NOT BEING SCARED OF THE DARK OUT HERE! haha.. i know what you mean :)

  11. May every adventure be sweeter than the last.



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