nice, nice, very nice

"to arrive where we started/ And know the place for the first time"
--T. S. Eliot

"It's always sunny in Hope"

It is always sunny in Hope. Hope, Alaska, that is. Where we got married. So goes the saying because of the town's being located in an auspicious valley, whose surrounding mountains seem to dissipate the cloud cover often hovering over Turnagain Arm. As I mentioned, we left Alaska a little over one year ago. It is a majestic place. Not simply the Last Frontier or the Great North, but a land built on reinvention and ancient wisdom, on old growth forests and new industry. A vast expanse of contraries impossible to disentangle, impossible to shed. So it is with this land in mind that our phenomenology of the farm has taken root and taken to the road.

But it is also true that hope, as concept, as idea, as notion, cannot help but be "sunny." Hope holds out beyond all other measure. I hope, for example, that I will gain a good, restful, uninterrupted night's sleep sometime before the next century! I said I'd get to the issue of my sleeping... so here it is: I haven't slept through the night for over ten years now. If I'm not getting up to pee, then I'm getting up because I can't keep myself calm enough to lay still. I get the jimmy legs with a vengeance, or I get what my husband calls 'busy brain.' I can't stop thinking, about everything and nothing. As a result, I'm the lightest sleeper I know. I "wake up" if one of my dog's breathing suddenly changes, or if one of them simply opens an eye to look at me with the you-will-get-up-so-i-can-get-a-drink-of-water gaze. Incredible! As a result, I don't think I've actually slept truly for the last ten years. Oh wait. Scratch that. I am a pro at the power nap. While prepping for class or reading for research/pleasure, I'll suddenly feel sleepy. So I close my eyes... and exactly 12 minutes later, I'm awake and back to work. So for those who know me, and I say I don't sleep, I really mean it beyond the "oh, I'm just tired today" gig. I REALLY don't sleep. At least not well and not long. I'm so tired I've simply emerged into a constant state of eyes open.

So the fact that it is always sunny in Hope is an important part not only of the day of my marriage, but of my marriage and my life in total. For over ten years I have yet to succumb to the "I'll sleep when I'm dead" motto. In fact, each night I climb into bed with at least 6-8 hours of potential sleep time awaiting me. And while each night I climb out of bed once the one hour mark has passed, and thus start the nighttime bed and dread scenario, every night is a new night. I approach every night with the hope of a silent one.

To be fair, I'm aware that it is life's stresses that chase away my sleep. (Hence, I started this blog to voice my busy thoughts and possible fixes.) And I'm further aware that I allow such stresses to be stressful! I'm thinking meditation might be in my future, but at present I'm not calm enough. How's that for irony? Nevertheless, today saw healthy production. And while it's going on to the 8 o'clock hour, with the appointed time for sleep quickly colliding with that for dinner, I'm moving my thoughts towards what I've accomplished this single day.

I've certainly done a lot of reading (I always do), and I've definitely begun to prep for my classes this week and make to-do lists for the larger projects, I've also had a satisfying day of dog time. Walking in the park, up and down the neighborhood blocks, inviting another pup for playtime in the backyard, and finally sitting in the setting sun (reading and being eaten by mosquitoes) while smiling at my dogs' last romp of the evening. How they run... boisterous circles in my sleep.

"I killed the farm. I love you!"

Like many sudden epiphanies, the practical implementation comes much slower than the ideal insight. So goes it with our phenomenology of the farm. Last week we had big plans for each of our days: rise with the sun, walk the dogs, feed the dogs, go for a run, clean the dishes, vacuum the house, fold the laundry, THEN go to school/work, teach my courses, return home to walk the dogs, return to school to teach my courses, attend meetings, eat lunch (probably too late and too close to dinner), meet with students, check email, squeeze in random tasks, return home to walk the dogs, feed the dogs dinner, greet my husband as he returns from a day of school and work, eat a late late late dinner, collapse into bed, read a page or two of a novel, pretend to sleep. There, that'd be a productive day... all except the no sleep. But we'll get to that.

But the days last week really only accomplished everything after the "THEN" above. Of course we walked the dogs in the morning, but not as the sun rose, and more in a hurry hurry pee poo kind of a way. Not sure it was fun for human or dog, but the deeds were done. Needless to say, and to clear up any would-be confusion, we are not farmers in the strict sense. In fact, neither myself nor my husband even own our own land. We're renters. In a city. And our land is, apparently, considered communal property by our neighbors. It's an unofficial (and unwelcomed) meeting point, at which we must relinquish our privacy and our maturity to the whims of those with greater financial resources.

Farming, then, is truly a state of mind, a state squeezed into the cracks left to us alone. A way to approach each day with less frustration, more production, and just the right pinch of exhalation. But, remember, we're not farmers... so the learning curve is pretty steep. One day at a time? Nah. Our learning curve also lacks patience. So we had attempted (last week) to begin full tilt, 100% in! And the week ended with me finding a tiny little post-it note stuck to the inside of my cell phone. It was from my husband, following the final morning when we did NOT wake up with the sun, walk the dogs, feed the dogs, go for a run, clean the dishes, vacuum the house, fold the laundry, etc. etc. And this tiny note said: "I'm sorry I killed the farm. I love you!"

Well, I love you too, said I to my husband. And the farm isn't dead, it's simply starting from seed. So we're still 100% in; but if we don't rise with the sun just yet, that's ok. And if we don't finish our chores before the work day truly begins, that's ok too. We're thinking along what we feel to be the 'right' lines. And we're working what we can into our phenomenology, into our introspective study of the things that make up our lives together. Last week: work week. Today: another insight, another curve. Tomorrow: we'll see.



Right now I'm content to sit with my feet up, a book in my hands, and two dogs' heads in my lap. I'd say that's the way to end a day, even if that day didn't start the way I'd planned...

waking up to the phenomenology of farming

i awoke today with a new thought in my head (new to me, old to the world): farmers are an enlightened bunch. neither mystic nor philosophic; rather, phenomenologic. farmers are irrepressibly attached to the land. to experience. to the tangible objects of the natural world. and it is this land that both molds and is molded by them. so they wake before the sun, set on comforting their charges as the sun unveils another productive day. and they work with the day, sunrise to sunset. but within this bracket are brakes for food, for loving, for repair. and as the sun sets these Farmers close another day with broad and minute accomplishments--personal, familial, local, global.

of course, as thoughts go in the wee hours of dawn, on screen this all sounds rather naive, idealistic, perhaps a lot like caramel-coated optimism. but when i put this so called phenomenology of the farmer into practice, living today with clear purpose, moving from task to task (while braking to eat, walk the dogs, love my husband), i was struck by how slowly and enjoyably the day moved. the television could no longer steal hours at the press of a button. the neighbors could no longer frustrate the view from my front window. so i decided to start this blog as a reminder and a catalog of how my family and i will attempt to recalibrate our lives.

we left the icy wilds of alaska just over one year ago. and while we miss the solitude and quiet adventure of home, we have discovered that city life--particularly life in the reemerging locale of new orleans--eagerly serves to remind us of how living depends on individuals. and individuals depend on the land. and the land depends irrevocably on the thoughtfulness of its 'farmers.' we strive to be such farmers. this will be our story. the cycle of coming back to ourselves.

we hope our individuality will inspire yours... and that your comments will add depth and candor to what we think of as the phenomenal logic of our 'farm' experiment.