Last Friday, I spent all morning on the farm planting butternut, spaghetti, and cha cha squashes. For five hours I sat in the dirt, dug a small hole, and plopped in two seeds alongside Jake. We planted and scooted. Planted and scooted.
After a while, he looked up and told me, “You know, I could do this forever.”
I knew what he meant. I looked up, saw the bright green trees towering over us.
“What do you dream of doing?” he asked.
This. And I imagine a desk facing a window. The room itself is part of a renovated barn or schoolhouse or something. Outside are trees and water. A pond. No, a creek. I have a cup of tea next to my computer and I’ve spent the morning writing. In the afternoons, I work in my vegetable garden. Then, I come inside, shower, and cook dinner with fresh basil and leeks.
Jake and I ended up talking for most of our shift that day about dreams. About traveling and about farming and about small lives.
I remember visiting the Montague Bookmill for the first time and thinking – yes, there’s something here I need. Perhaps it was the creaky wood plank floors or the waterfall outside the old, cracked windows. Maybe it was the friends I came with. Or the dirt roads we left on.
I’m not quite sure, but I’m going to hold tight to both places – the farm and the mill.
What places do you dream of? What do you need from them?