In as few words as possible: I struggle being by myself.
But. I keep showing up.
Oftentimes by myself. More often than not, with the Rat (that’s my dog, Jasper).
I’d like to say how helpful the Rat is, you know, with the farm tasks. That is, unfortunately, not the case. He’s often found chasing a garden bunny, chewing on his beloved rotten deer leg, rolling in something foul, or leaping enthusiastically through tall weeds and thick swamp juice. (Maybe you see why I call him the Rat.) With his lack of both impulse control and opposable thumbs, he is unfortunately not much help with the farm tasks.
Which, leaves me working alone.
I’ve really been struggling to be by myself here recently. Lots of trips to the land. I drive. Jasper rides, and the back seat is filled with snacks, supplies, and tools for the day. I get really overwhelmed. Like I said, it’s a lot for just me. I’ve got two hands (and I suppose four paws) to work with. It’s a lot.
It takes a conscious effort to stay grounded and grateful.
A little reminder for myself that I’m not alone, never have been alone, and never will be alone:
Before any and all of this talk of acres and talk of orchards, Dad bought the land. He sacrificed for it and saved for it. Mom brought me home from the hospital in the dead of winter to this land. Cousins and Uncles lived out here. Planted gardens and burned garbage. Repaired roofs and rebuilt structures. Installed fences and kept livestock. Pigs and goats, guineas and geese. The soil is rich from century-old cattle. My brother carved trails through the woods. John hauled logs and cut grass. Dad tinkered. Lauren planted an elderberry bush. John chopped it up with the weed eater. John planted a peony. Dad ran it over with the lawn mower. Family pets are buried here. Flowers and trees and shrubs have been planted with deep significance. Each time I see a wild fern, I see Diana. Jawnny’s rose is in full bloom. The wisps of Dad’s willow will give shade for decades to come. Dave, Kate, and Tiara will keep me warm in the winter because they helped construct the east and west walls of my tiny house. Tamara’s wisdom and company have kept me sane and driven when my body wants to wither under the weight of a thousand blankets, wallowing in overwhelm. Kyle and John have scooped and slung dirt and gravel, and sliced their hands on a rusty culvert. Lord knows why. Mom serves ice cream after hot days, or joins at the lake to cool off. Ticks come home with me, and God bless the horseflies. Their relentless nibbles are an ever-present reminder that I am not for a second alone. I wake up to fairy rings, dewy grass, tall dancing flowers, and the sweetest melody of bird chirps. Bouncing bunnies, curious bears, fawns and geese, a muskrat. Brenda and Ashly send care packages, messages, treats from California and Arkansas. I look up to see the milky way and a thousand stars in the crisp night sky. Fish swim in the creek and frogs sing at night.
On days when my body feels like a bag of wet sand, I remember this. That I’m not alone. I think this is Sunday School’s omnipresent God, irl. My own army of angels, ahead of me and around me.
On social media, I like to say “Come see ‘us’ at the farmers market,” rather than “come see me.” It’s a regular reminder of my community. That I couldn’t do this alone. I didn’t plant trees alone. It’s not my tractor that dug out the culvert. Not my lawn mower or my weedwhacker. It’s not my wisdom or my land. It’s my family. My community. My friends. My support system. My God. My angels. My rat.
And me.
But never Just Me.