At just about a mile in, a giant willow holds dominion over a quiet brook and long abandoned field. We began a conversation, my part of it loud and raging, hers stoic and strident. I didn’t know how much I needed that exact response until I found her. 

It is hard not to swing wildly from feverish optimism to sheer panic, and back again, during May. That we miscalculate this every cycle is a beautiful reflection of our deep longing for outstretched days and heat on our skin.

She longs for sun, for real space to just get on with things. She longed for this even as a seed, four weeks ago, rattling around in a paper packet with instructions on how to offer life.

The act of building a farm beginning in your late 40’s, turns out, is not wildly popular. And for clear reasons.