The weather finally pushed me out the door and I pedaled vigorously towards Ed’s farm where we were to do some land clearing in preparation for the Writer’s Shed. [Thank-you, sixty-five, for tip on “A Pattern Language.” Ed, who is a designer by trade, had a nice hefty copy and now I am convinced that anyone involved in a building project should leaf through this immensely wonderful piece of writing.]
There was a lot to clear.
Ed took down rotting trees and I cleared growth from seasons past. There is a certain wild randomness to Ed’s property and I know that if I am to spend time there, I will need to create some sense of order, at least in the spaces proximate to the Writer's Shed. Sure, yard work takes time. But, I am my grandfather’s child and making things grow ranks up there, with cooking (that comes from my grandmother; neither of my parents were drawn to growing things or cooking). And, for me, time is no longer madness. I move at a different pace and with different imperatives than I did, say, 55 years ago.
The Writer’s Shed space abuts the land farmed by Cha and his younger brother. I watched them work the soil all day – such tough work. Last year’s crop was a disappointment for them – 2000 strawberries completely ruined by bad weather. And this year? Whose fortunes will improve? Whose strawberries will bring rewards? Whose book will get chapters added? Which trips will be scrapped? Which will become important?
I did not stop to sit until now, in the early evening. Cha’s family is finishing their work for the day. Another family is circling the dilapidated shed to see if they want to take it off Ed’s property. Two boys are climbing through the weathered boards. Their grandpa makes things from old wood. An artist. How sweet the whole scene!
Me, I’m spent. No matter. It was a rock solid day, Gorgeous on the outside and within.
