The Land Speaks - Take the Time to Listen
I sit here on the grassy bank of an old farm road, which runs by the barn and gently hugs the shoreline of this birch-fringed lake.
The lake and I bask in pensive celebration as the sun makes its muted presence known. On this cloudy day, with its light breeze and purple spring leaves in the cold-kissed hedgerows.
Whomever sited this barn back in the farm’s hayday awakenings did a fine job from my vantage point. Trees block the West-borne winds and sun is allowed to hit all sides in hopes of a daily melt as ice traces its way toward the barn door through frigid months when the cows draw store.
My eyes grow misty, head tingling with the palpable memories of this majestic working land. The farmhouse is long gone, but the footprints of this family and their deep attachment to this place of timeless peace send my imagination out to pasture.
I find it easy to capture these feelings on the page, as my mind slows down and I embrace this bygone age. I have a friend down in the valley with a nursery of plants, who lives in a house even older than this barn.
He told me yesterday how deeply he’s entranced by those younger folks who wish to hold the torch and carry on - these hands-on trades which in their way may all but soon be gone.
