And yet here I am

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In this blog, I stay away from writing about the farm I live on because I want my writing life to be my writing life. I want my blog to be about education, writing, news, culture…things that interest me.

Yes, the farm interests me, but not in the same way these other things do. Until tonight I hadn’t really put much thought into why I want the farm to be and occupy a separate space. But as I overheard my husband talking with a former hemp colleague, I understood why I want this distance.

The farm is a shared place for us, and a shared interest. I like my multiple gardens, the space we have and the joy our son experiences when he’s outside. But the isolation of farm life, the struggle and uncertainty…these things I don’t like. And although things didn’t feel uncertain on the farm I grew up on, the isolation is one thing I wanted to leave when I left the farm of my childhood at 18. And yet here I am again, living on a farm. 

For those of you finding this blog for the first time, as strangers, the farm I live on is spectacular. Huge 3-story turn-of-the-century house (as pictured above)a Quartz foundation, with frogs and rats and water in the spring.  Eleven acres of fruit trees. A greenhouse. Strawberry, raspberry, rhubarb, currant and asparagus patches. A history that goes back to my husband’s grandfather, making our son the fourth generation to live here. It’s a lovely place to live, and when we moved here, we had huge ambitions.

But last year we grew industrial hemp, and we encountered many issues that prevented us from making any money on it. In fact, we lost money. We lost investor money. We lost partner money. And worse yet, we’re now in litigation over the crop. I’ll write more about that as I’m able; with a court case in the works I’m censoring myself.

That bit of backstory brings me to tonight
A hemp partner on the East Coast told my husband that he’s selling his farm. He went all in on hemp in 2019, and like so many other hemp farmers, it broke him. He has a family to support, and bills to pay, and he has his land.  So he’s going to sell it. I was heartbroken for him for a split second, and angry, too. Angry at hemp, and ag and my own situation. And as I dealt with the twin pains of anger and sorrow, I thought about this farm and how much it takes to just LIVE HERE. I thought about dreams and aspirations and what it means to sacrifice for your dreams. And then I remembered that it was never my dream to return to a farm after I left the one in Nebraska, where I grew up. And yet here I am.

My husband wants me to sell the house I own in town, but I haven’t been willing to do that in the three years we’ve been here, and lately, there’s nothing even remotely inspiring about that idea. What if we too, must sell this farm? Or, what if I simply want off of it, away from the stress and the expense and the isolation? We pushed through two challenging years of getting the land around here cleaned up after years  of neglect, and each winter I feel the bite of wind cut through non-insulated walls, windows and doorjambs. I feel thefarmer depression that some news organizations report on from time to time. And I wonder, is there a better way o do this? What if we just returned this land to land. I don’t mean move off of it; I mean, what if we just lived here, in this house, on this yard, with these trees? What if we didn’t farm at all?

The idea comforts me and gives me something to look forward to. I don’t want to take my husband’s dream away from him, so for now I don’t need to drag him off the farm. But holding on to my dreams of writing and experiencing the culture of a city need to be part of what it means to be out here. I knew this when we moved, but I didn’t think it would be THIS hard.

And so, here I am, writing about the farm.

Yikes!

Oh, dear, reader! Today I updated my list of publications, and I realized it’s been months since I last updated my blog. Surely you don’t care (clearly I don’t either), but oh, my! What a crazy few months it has been since May, when I last made an effort to write. The submission I wrote about then, to Yoko Ono’s project, got accepted, and as far as I know, it is traveling around with the rest of the installation. I had hoped to make it to Chicago to see it at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, but that just didn’t happen.

My son turned one in May, which means he’s 20 months now, and all atoms and molecules whizzing around at uncontrollable rates! He’s a jabberbox as well, and I expect nothing short of a complete collection of written insights and fragments by age 5.

My partner and I grew hemp, joined the Minnesota Department of Ag. for a task force on hemp in the state, learned a lot and have been planning for next year’s crop already. Will it be hemp, or won’t it? I make no promises regarding the crop, nor that I’ll be back soon with an update.

I digress, but it’s been so long since I took a moment to update this dusty old space that it seems only proper to catch one up fully with this note!

Back to writerly news, I attended the 33rd annual Summer Writing Festival at the University of Iowa in July. I submitted my stroke manuscript to be considered for a two-week revisions workshop, and I got in! Along with 9 other writers, I spent two weeks workshopping and revising with Sandra Scofield. It was fantastic, but I’ve only just now started working in earnest on my revisions.

When I came back from Iowa, I put in order a class on “The Literature of Revolution” for my alma mater, Augustana University. We touched on literature from/about Russia, Iran, South Africa, Greece, Mexico, the US and Colombia. I enjoyed being back among my former professors, but teaching face-to-face was a lot of work! Perhaps it’s because at the same time that the fall semester started, a freelance gig I had interest in came through. More on that when I can share!

In the nine months I’ve been away from this blog, I certainly feel like I birthed a child, and perhaps I’ll do no better at writing regularly now than in the year (years) past. What is different now, however, is that I don’t really feel all that bad about neglecting my blog. I’d love to have the free time to write, daily, but if I am too busy to do so, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s simply because I’ve got other writing calling my name.