This is the story of two farmers stuck in city-dwellers' bodies. To us, it is inevitable that our days will one day begin with the sun's rising and the teapot's whistling, and a day's work will fall under that beautiful heading of 'chores'.
It's a seemingly romantic aspiration, but one we are dead straight serious about. It feels out of reach most of the time when months melt under the pressure of work and dog walks and busy LA life - there's always a yoga class to rush off to, a quick dinner to prepare, a spur of the moment happy hour with friends, a few extra demands at work that squeeze out those precious evening hours... and then it's the next day and the next. Life is wonderful and vibrant, there is the flawless weather and the jaw-dropping sea - they make it easy to set aside this inevitable farming outcome. After all, it's hard to cultivate a dream that is not anchored in discontentment.
But under the surface is this gnawing desire, a simple fact - we're going to farm. We want to be farmers and someday we're going to do it. Not in a hard-headed, bucking God's will and forcing our square desires through a round hole kind of way. It's not a necessarily existential, freewheeling, reckless dream-chasing (the thought of which stops us dead in our practical mid-thirties tracks).
This knowing is more of a calm confidence:
Yeah, you know what? That's going to happen sooner or later. We'll be farmers. We shall farm the land and steward the animals and feel the pride of raising them, the pain of killing them. As God may will, amen.
Finally admitting this and writing down the words for probably no one to see is important to me. Even if we fail and there is this blog post proof of our pipe dream silliness overshadowing any future claims like an asterisk, it's important. It's finally okay to just own that no matter what happens, we're farmers who happen to be restlessly living in the city right now. Yeah.
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