farm cart is back

finally, something awesome to do between the hours of eleven thirty and two thirty.

the guest house

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond. 

rumi

feeding time

spring is indeed here.  today, at eighty degrees, every cell in my body was trying to trick me into not taking the day off.  but there's this to do, and of course that.  as the temperature rises, the pace will only grow faster.  today, two weeks before the first farmer's market, what feels like a hectic pace is still only the slow click-click ascent of the rollercoaster.  soon, out goes the bottom. 

the cows know it's spring as well, and they are itching for fresh pasture.  the winter was long and wet, and everyone is glad to see the grass greening up--both one stomachers as well as the multis.  in the video i am pitchforking out some of the last hay we will feed for the season, which for sure is a good thing.  pushing around a thousand pounds of hay by yourself is no joke.  at least my former trainer from nyc would be proud. 

next week:  the green, green life of grazing returns to fowler farm.

the chickens at backyard moon

photos by olivia

well, that didn't fucking work

nothing like a good ol' fashion debacle to cap off a thirteen hour work day.  yes, there's always fresh lemonade to whip up out of a pile of twisted wood and metal such as i have here--but fuck, rough ending.

the way i like it

the brown, cloudy water swirls clockwise down the drain, and I get a chance to look at my hands.  stained.  different shades of black and brown are cracked and scratched across my skin.  blisters, some purple with blood, others puffy with water, and scabs, dominate the landscape.  each nail is filled with dried, tan soil. 

tiny, paper-cut-like scratches sting in the hot water.  working with metal wire always draws blood, although never enough to run.  a bright red, bee sting of a scratch at the moment is already a fading, pink whisper of its original self. 

everything aches, checking in with the rest of me now.  from my shoulders, sore from maneuvering fifty pound sacks, to my knees, bruised from knee-walking around the farm at a plant’s eye view, to my hips and groin, burdened by thousands of squats, to my neck, a bit wrenched, to the balls and arches I stand on—everything—aches. 

my brain is fatigued from macro and micro planning.  I feel my synapses forced to action-star-leap from building top to building top, just to reach the next cell.  entire area codes of my mind that spent the whole day spinning, thinking, and prioritizing countless decisions, are now empty, quiet oases, hushed by a sweeping dullness.  the final few thoughts which cling to the ceiling of my dome lose their shaky grips, and now they too swirl clockwise, and wash down the drain.

i love having physical reminders of what I do at work.  I hurt because I did, and for that I am happy.