Having grown up in the Midwest, the daughter of a kid from a farm and now married to one, you'd think I'd know better. I do, in fact, know better. Farming is impossibly demanding, unpredictable, arduous work. It ties you to mother nature in a way few other livelihoods do, and you are thus choosing to cast your lot with a force over which you have zero control. There is no real rest. There is no real money; our seasonal Buy Local newspaper insert just printed data on Virginia farms, noting that the average farm in this state turned a profit of $10,000 last year. Um, yeah. If that is true, I am absolutely INSANE for constantly flirting with this idea.
And yet, I do. I cannot seem to help it. I know I'm romanticizing it. I know that I haven't even mastered my scrappy third-of-an-acre urban plot, so how could I be even fathoming of this idea? I want to travel, especially in retirement. One doesn't do a lot of traveling with ye ol' farm life. I detest commuting, and I like being able to go for walks in town, run errands quickly and indulge in ice cream and Thai food on a whim.
But lately, a sort of weariness has begun to grow in my chest. Although I like the convenience of living in town for running errands, the point of those errands -- the act of consuming -- has started to really weigh on me. The clutter of items at the drug store makes my head feel heavy. Target, which I used to love with abandon, now makes me feel edgy and anxious. Where does all this stuff to buy come from? China, yes, but think of all the molecules comprising it. Think of all the atoms of plastic and packaging and metal and paint. Molded into things we suddenly need, suddenly cannot live without. And then use up. And then discard.
Why I feel the need to live in the country in order to stop consuming is another question. One could dash one's consumption habit while living in town. So what if it is easy to run out and get things instead of making them or doing without? Combating Easy is a test in and of itself.
There is something of the rhythm of the land that is endlessly appealing to me. Growing up in Iowa, I loved watching the seasons on their endless parade. The way one fades into the next, imperceptively at first, but with gaining momentum. I liked how the sea of corn or soybeans around our house marked time with its growth and harvest. And it is this element of country life that is most enchanting to me. The very reliance of the uncontrollable force of mother nature is exactly what I like about it. It often seems to me that is a human's nature habitat and this -- this air-conditioned, electrified, refrigerated, automatic, preprogrammed existence -- is not.
Ever since Jonas' birth, my desire to run a homestead has grown ten-fold. It started with baking, an activity I've always enjoyed but lately find myself craving. It has moved to gardening and canning and I don't know where it is headed next. My only saving grace right now is that my house is so tiny. Any larger, and I'd have purchased a sewing machine already, I'm sure of it. I dream of a room full of fabrics and ribbons and beads and glue and all sorts of crafty things. I dream of a pantry full of jars of fruits and vegetables I grew and processed myself. I dream of a chest freezer overflowing with sweet breads and pies. I have clearly lost all sense of reasoning.
It is obvious to me that this back-to-the-land calling is borne out of some other longing or desire or lack of fulfillment. It is clear to me that I am being completely irrational and emotional when I ponder all of this. My mind has it straight on this. But my heart is still somewhere in the fields of Iowa, watching the seedlings emerging.
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