Day: January 8, 2011

Maria, touching base with Lulu.

In my lifetime, I have lived in these places: Providence, Atlantic City, New York City, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Boston, Dallas, Baltimore, Montclair, N.J., Jackson, N.Y., and West Hebron, N.Y., shown above at the end of today’s storm. I have spent time in many other places, some overseas. Providence is my birthplace, thus my hometown. I left there when I was 16, and have not returned since.

I moved to this farm in 2003, and more than any other place I have lived, this seems like home to me. I have memories here, connections. I found my real work here, learned to love a farm here, fell in love here, been productive here, became a photographer here, made great friends here. Yet at the same time I never fool myself into thinking I really belong here, not in some ways. When you move to a place like this in your 50’s, you are becoming something of a refugee, at home nowhere in the classic sense. You will ever be accepted as long, always outside the circles that form life anywhere.  I  That is okay with me. I love it here, and I accept my outsiderness as a comfortable reality for me, a choice in so many ways. I could have stayed put in one of those interesting places.But I couldn’t, not then.

I can now. We briefly flirted with selling the farm, but it is off the market. Inso far as any place is home for me, this is it. I am at peace here. I love the people here, and the beauty of it. I love the struggling agricultural core, and the many artists and creatives who came her to do their work and buy cheap houses and be left in peace. It is a gentle place in so many ways. It is a poor place. It is a beautiful place, the hills and light fuel to the many artists in these hills.

Finally, I think, I have rooted. I am home. It feels good. Freud wrote that human beings must balance their lives in order to find some measure of peace and happiness. I think that is so. Love. Work. Beauty. The Natural World. Friends. Passion.

The barn cats roam the farm, killing and eating freely. After afternoon regardless of the weather, we put out some dry food for them. This works well. The cats are strong and healthy. Precisely at 3 p.m., Minnie and sometimes Mother appear in the kitchen window and look in patiently. Feed me, they seem to be whispering. And we do.

I love the moment when the storm breaks, and the sky opens on the gleaming white snow, and the roads are quiet still, before the plows have really come, and the world just seems to glow. That is the good thing about storms, I think. Whey they end, the world takes a breath and seems reborn. Tomorrow, I hope for a restful day, with meditation, walks, reading, talking with Maria. Walks with the dogs, visits with the donkeys.  Taking photos. Each day like that is precious, savored, sacred. Next week, I resume work on the Frieda book. Lots to do.

I wish I could write the way Chris maneuvers this truck and plow. He did a great job, as usual, and will probably be back on Tuesday, when the next storm is coming. I used to want a Ram 1500, but what would a writer do with one? It’s odd having a plow guy you miss when he leaves.