Notes from Windward: #69


A Former Intern Returns
to Settle Down

or something like that


     Farm life goes like this: we wake up, put on yesterday's clothes, open a jar of our own jam. We walk the forest in small groups, then feed the animals in turns, or cook. We check incubators and email, we limb trees or add things to the recipe book.

     As we gather for lunch, someone runs down to fetch the mail at the road.

Sarah picking cherries

     When the sun is highest in the sky, we nap or read, we revisit a project in the workshop or sit in the low space between the asparagus and kale, chewing melon rinds with the dog. We meet again to split firewood, chip branches, or cart compost around hill. We dream of the rains coming again to wash the summer dust from our lungs, and we mourn the end of river swimming as the nights grow cold.

Oana and Sarah jump into the swimming hole

     When the day's work is done, we return to the kitchen one by one. We fry eggs for supper and tell bad jokes and chop whatever fruit is waiting to be dried or canned. Later we might venture back out to lie on the trampoline under the stars, or pile on the couch for a film, but often we pass the night in the kitchen, where the local oldies station is always turned on.

Sarah and Cleo enjoying the trampoline

     Me, I wander among a thousand projects: sewing handbags from unwanted clothes, drilling holes into hardware, painting eggs, and throwing cherry tomatoes to the dog. I returned to Windward so I could call my life my own, a task easier said than done. And as the days turn into seasons, I can see more and more clearly the shape of what I want: a small, bright studio where I can write and sew, a forest, a dog, fresh food, hard work, and good friends. I think I am making a home.

Notes From Windward - Index - Vol. 69