The Pace of Life at DRF
We have had a few delays with the new addition. We are learning to roll with it. It will get done when it gets done. (Having said that, before the first snowfall would be nice though. Just sayin’.) I am learning to slow myself down to match the tempo of the farm. Back in my running days, I used to tell myself that slow and steady wins the race. It is a good reminder for the farm.
The world is quiet here. The pace is different. It’s not demanding, despite the fact that there is always work waiting to be done. The pace somehow manages to make me feel reflective.
The pace requires a hell of a lot of patience. Emptying the cellar has taken persistence and still it is not anywhere near done. There are too many layers of mold. See that table leg underneath the carpet of mold? Oy. (More on that crusty cellar another day.)
The work is both backbreaking and cathartic. But to uncover what is already here feels like treasure buried in the ruin. Brian John dug a good bit of this newly discovered foundation out — which we now know was the chicken coop. We are thinking it would make for a good berry patch. Someday.
The pace requires policing ourselves to take rest days. That is hard sometimes — there is so much we want to do. But our bodies buck and slow us down whether we want to be reigned in or not. The physicality of it all challenges me daily — every project has a cost. So I sit at the computer while I hear BJR off in the distance, chipping away more layers.
Preservation comes during morning walks. BJR has actually started walking with me sometimes. I never thought I’d see that day.
John Muir said that nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. That the winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares drop off like autumn leaves.
As our black walnut trees are just starting to drop their leaves, I’m diggin’ you, Mr. Muir — the pace of this old must-bucket of a farm, somehow suits me so very well.