The work never stops on a farm—especially an old farm, with ceaseless renovations and repairs to see to. Leaking roofs, aging doors, gardens and trees—firewood to cut and stack—chimneys to sweep and water pipes prone to spontaneous eruption. The elements are punishing, the labor exacting—but the satisfaction in finally completing a prolonged and arduous project is unrivaled. We build and repair and plant and harvest under the curious gaze of the horses and goats. The flies in good weather are a menace, as is the deep mud in the rainy season—but even with eyes full of gnats, or the wheelbarrow mired in muck, there is nothing that induces me to dream of another day working in an office. Even when my right elbow begs for mercy, the pain is more welcome than spending eight hours in the soul-crippling neon light of an air conditioned building, watching the clock and dreaming of the sound of wind whispering in the trees.
The Pressure of Dreams
The Pressure of Dreams
The Pressure of Dreams
The work never stops on a farm—especially an old farm, with ceaseless renovations and repairs to see to. Leaking roofs, aging doors, gardens and trees—firewood to cut and stack—chimneys to sweep and water pipes prone to spontaneous eruption. The elements are punishing, the labor exacting—but the satisfaction in finally completing a prolonged and arduous project is unrivaled. We build and repair and plant and harvest under the curious gaze of the horses and goats. The flies in good weather are a menace, as is the deep mud in the rainy season—but even with eyes full of gnats, or the wheelbarrow mired in muck, there is nothing that induces me to dream of another day working in an office. Even when my right elbow begs for mercy, the pain is more welcome than spending eight hours in the soul-crippling neon light of an air conditioned building, watching the clock and dreaming of the sound of wind whispering in the trees.