Missing the farm

We stopped by Seabold farm this week. The farm where we lived for 3.5 years.

 

It is a special place to me and I have been thinking about it a lot lately. We lived in a tiny apartment and spent most of our evenings and weekends outside, admiring the view while we repaired fences, weeded the garden, and collected eggs. We learned how to press cider. Make honey. Prune apple trees.

It is also the place where we lived when Truman was born.

When we moved to our current house—the house surrounded by giant cedar and fir trees—we were thankful for the respite from the farm. We were tired of all the additional work.

This year, as winter moves into spring, I am really missing the farm. I miss getting my hands dirty and making farm-to-table meals. I miss the sunshine. And I really miss the lambs. Their promise of spring. The taste of meat that you know was treated humanely and killed with great respect.

I heard the current caretaker of the farm is moving on and I admit that I spent several days scheming. We could rent out our house and move back! We could live in 500 feet again! Spending every Saturday in the garden and orchard is not a bad way to live! I could talk Jason into it!

 Ah. The grass is always greener. It is so easy to forget the gifts of the present moment. So once again, I am reminding myself of today’s gifts: Giant cedar trees. Dozens of Thrushes in the yard. An owl and a coyote. Salamanders mating in the pond. A mossy, muddy yard that requires very little attention. A gravel driveway, filled with potholes that we can’t or won’t repair, but that make perfect puddles for Truman. Saturdays that allow for relaxing and traveling.

And beautiful memories of our farming adventure. Stories to tell my grandchildren when I am old and gray. A chapter of a live well lived.