Starting again. Seems like a relentless theme in life sometimes. Here I am, two years after my farm apprenticeship, in the second year of farming a scrap of land in a magnificent wilderness. Here I am, learning every day how to start over again. How to kill the wrong weeds, how to plant a row of carrots where radishes were meant to go, how to burn my skin on the first hot day of summer for the 26th year of my life. How to take all my doubt, all my not-knowing and get up and do it again. How to look for the successes, the perfect leaves of arugula. How to look deeper, to notice the dog circling the chicken coop with blood in its eye. How to take this blank page, this precipice of vulnerability, and dive anyway. How to commit.
So let's begin. Let's start again. Let's dive, mess-make, plant, hoe, kill, burn, create, dig, dig, dig. Last night, I woke up from a deep al fresco slumber to a star streaking across a sky already filled with starlight. The night before, a small movement on the trail as I ran by caused me to stop, to turn, to look. Two tiny baby bunnies, smaller than my hands, smaller than pinecones, crouched together, trembling in plain sight. If I've learned anything in the past three years, it's how little I've learned, how little I know. I know that if you don't start again, if you don't dive, you never see the starlight, you run past the bunnies. So I'll start again. And I'll share with all you dewds. Because that is how the earth works.
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