Last night, on a whim, I re-read dozens of the blog entries I have posted here over the past two years. Some were funny and made me laugh---re-living, for example, my deep self-consciousness over being perpetually mistaken for someone six years my junior. Others were obscure and heavy, written, it seemed, from the inside of a fog. At times, I felt as though I were reading the blog of another person. Who is this girl, I wondered, writing about her anxiety-ridden days in a FedEx truck? Her loneliness and pessimism? She couldn’t possibly be me.
It appears I have already forgotten the turmoil of that first year after my college graduation. It faded so gradually that I never paused to notice how much happier I was. I suppose this is good news. I can now say with confidence to those college seniors days away from graduation: it does get better. At least in my experience. Although I pray you have a more successful launch than I did.
Ironically, I find myself now in much the same position I was in two year ago: facing a long list of unknowns. This time around, however, I’m not nearly as worried about it. I have accepted admission at Seattle Pacific’s MFA program for creative writing which begins the end of July, but beyond that, my future is open. My lease ends in June, as does my guarantee of a job, and I don’t know where I’m going to live yet. Because the MFA program is low-residency, I can stay in Grand Rapids---or not. I got a scholarship, but I’ll still need to fork over money for tuition. It is also likely my boyfriend will move across the country in the next few months. Will I go too?
I probably have a few less questions than I did two years ago, but not many. What makes the difference is having a direction, goals. I don’t feel like I’m aimlessly wandering anymore. In 2012, I had too little idea of what I wanted. That much is abundantly clear from some of my posts that fall.
That too, is probably why I wrote so frequently on this blog back then. I had so much more to process. Mostly, I feel over this theme now. It’s no longer the dominant question of my life.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Saturday, April 5, 2014
The Tale of the Young Farmer
Once upon a time, in a land of oak trees and gurgling brooks, there lived a young farmer. The land was a happy place in which everyone had enough to eat—although maybe more potatoes and less pie than they might hope for—and no one complained for lack of a bed—although some thought the mattresses too thin. The young farmer, following the general trend of the people, was happy too.
There was just one problem. He was a farmer, but he had no farm.
This did not bother the young farmer at first. He lived with his new wife in a little cabin near the brook, and because the two had few wants, they did not need much money. The farmer worked odd jobs for people, hiring himself out to neighbors during the harvest, chopping wood for the widow next door, carving toys for children. His wife made wicker baskets and soap. It was enough.
Still, the young farmer always felt he was missing something. After all, he was a farmer. He wanted to dig his hands into earth that he could call his own. He wanted to pull up barrels of sweet potatoes and onions and carry them to the market to sell at a stand marked with his name. To make himself feel better and keep his skills sharp, the young farmer planted vegetables in his wife’s wicker baskets.
One day the ruler of the land called a census. “Farmer,” the young farmer wrote after his name in the blank marked Occupation.
But the people in the village laughed at him. “You are not a farmer,” they said. “You have no fields or pastures. You have only a little cabin by the brook.”
“Yes, but look here,” he showed them. “I have a tomato plant.”
“That is not a farm,” the people scoffed. “That is a basket.”
The young farmer hung his head. That night, over a dinner of potatoes and cucumbers, he said to his wife, “I think we should move.”
“But why?” his wife asked. “We are so happy here. Every night we fall asleep listening to the laughter of the brook. We never want for anything.”
“I know,” said the young farmer. “But I am a farmer. I am supposed to live on a farm. I can’t stay here under the oak trees listening to the brook for the rest of my life. I need fields and pastures and oxen.”
The farmer’s wife looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “Let’s look for a farm.”
This turned out to be more difficult than the young farmer expected. The next day he went out into the country and walked north for many miles. As he walked, he looked for empty land, and he asked people, “Is there a place nearby where I might grow crops? Are there any farms for sale?” But the answer was always the same. “No, not here. This land is all full. Try further up the road.” When he had gone as far as he could, and the shadows began to lengthen, the young farmer turned around and walked back to his cabin by the brook. It was very dark by the time he returned, but his wife had left him a dinner of strawberries and squash.
“Any luck?” she asked.
The young farmer shook his head. “But I will try again tomorrow.”
The next day, carrying a basket of food from his wife, the farmer traveled west. He passed many pastures and fields as he walked, but none were available. “No land here,” the shepherds and the hired hands told him. “The Earl of Lancaster owns it all.” Mile after mile, he got the same answer. It appeared that all the western land belonged to the Earl. As his shadows lengthened behind him, the young farmer threw up his hands. “How can one man own so much?” A woman herding geese overheard him. “The Earl is a very rich man,” she said. “And he is always looking for fruit pickers. If you worked for him, you would earn a good wage.” But the farmer shook his head. He did not want to work for another man. He wanted to dirty his hands in his own soil.
When the farmer returned to his cabin that night, his wife kissed his cheek and asked, “Well?”
“West is not the best direction,” the young farmer said. “We would not be happy there.” Then he sat down to his bell peppers and rhubarb. His wife watched him silently as he ate.
The next day the farmer went out as soon as it was light. This time, he walked south. “Surely there will be open land to the south,” the farmer said to himself. “Nobody that I know travels this way.” And the farmer was right. Before the sun had reached its zenith, the farmer found open land in spades, but it was full of boulders and cliffs. The only plants that grew from the rocks were twisted juniper bushes and gnarled pines. “I can’t raise vegetables here,” the young farmer said. He walked a little further just to be sure, but then the shadows of the pines began to lengthen, and he turned around and went home.
“What did you find today?” his wife asked him, setting a plate of blackberries and eggplant on the table.
The young farmer put his head in hands. “Nothing,” he said. “Only rocks and stones.”
On the fourth day, the farmer started walking before dawn. As he traveled east, he watched the sun rise on the road in front of him. “East is a good direction,” he thought. “It is where the sun lives. Surely I will find something today.” But as he walked under the oak branches and leapt over the gurgling brooks, he realized that the trees were not getting any thinner. In fact, the longer he walked, the thicker the forest seemed to become. “Just a little further,” the young farmer said to himself. “Just a little further and I’m sure the woods will end. There will be great clearings, and I will plant fields of corn and barley and watermelon.” But it was not so. The young farmer walked under oak trees all day. Even as the shadows lengthened and the woods grew dark, he continued on, unwilling to turn back empty-handed for the fourth day in a row. “This is my last chance,” he thought. “There are no other roads to take.”
Finally, when the stars twinkled overhead and he could no longer see his feet, the young farmer turned around. He walked all night, and returned to his wife and his little cabin just as the sun was rising in the east.
“You are safe,” his wife said, running to his arms.
“I found no land,” the young farmer replied.
“I love you,” she said.
The farmer and his wife slept all day. In the evening, they made a meal of sweet potatoes and sweet peas and goat cheese. The young farmer was silent. Then he said, “I am not a farmer.”
“Why not?” said his wife.
“I have no farm.”
His wife pointed to the wicker baskets all around the cabin and outside the door, filled with soil and vegetables. “Yes, you do,” she said.
The young farmer shook his head. “That is not a farm. Those are baskets.”
“It looks like a farm to me,” she said. Then she leaned forward on her elbows. “You know what this means.”
“It means I am not meant to be a farmer.”
“No, it means you haven’t walked far enough.”
“But I have walked so far. And I don’t like leaving you.”
“You really want to be a farmer?”
“Yes.”
“Then we will pack up a cart with your baskets of plants, we will pick a direction, and we will walk. We will leave behind this cabin and this brook. We will eat the food that you have grown—the blackberries and the cherry tomatoes and the summer squash—just as we have always done. At night we will sleep under the stars. We will walk until we have found the perfect piece of land.”
“I don’t think it exists,” said the young farmer.
“You’re right,” said his wife. “It doesn’t.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because you are a farmer.”
“What does that mean?” he said, but he knew. The young farmer paused. “It would be easier just to stay. Like you said before, we are happy here in this cabin by the brook.”
“Pack up the carrots,” she said. “Pack the cucumber plant and the raspberry bush. I’ll gather the onions and the potatoes, the jalapenos and the sweet corn. We will bring everything we can carry.”
The young farmer watched as his wife cleared the table and put a kettle on the fire. “But which way will we walk?”
“Which way do you want?” she asked.
The farmer looked out the window. He thought about the land in every direction: the crowded pastures in the north, the Earl’s estates to the west. He remembered the southern boulders and cliffs. Then he thought about the oak trees, the wilderness, and the lonely road he had traveled under the stars the previous night. He wondered how long one would have to walk before the woods finally ended. He wondered if they ever did, or if they simply stretched on forever, growing right up to the end of the world and tipping off the edge.
“Well?” said his wife.
“East,” he said.
This did not bother the young farmer at first. He lived with his new wife in a little cabin near the brook, and because the two had few wants, they did not need much money. The farmer worked odd jobs for people, hiring himself out to neighbors during the harvest, chopping wood for the widow next door, carving toys for children. His wife made wicker baskets and soap. It was enough.
Still, the young farmer always felt he was missing something. After all, he was a farmer. He wanted to dig his hands into earth that he could call his own. He wanted to pull up barrels of sweet potatoes and onions and carry them to the market to sell at a stand marked with his name. To make himself feel better and keep his skills sharp, the young farmer planted vegetables in his wife’s wicker baskets.
One day the ruler of the land called a census. “Farmer,” the young farmer wrote after his name in the blank marked Occupation.
But the people in the village laughed at him. “You are not a farmer,” they said. “You have no fields or pastures. You have only a little cabin by the brook.”
“Yes, but look here,” he showed them. “I have a tomato plant.”
“That is not a farm,” the people scoffed. “That is a basket.”
The young farmer hung his head. That night, over a dinner of potatoes and cucumbers, he said to his wife, “I think we should move.”
“But why?” his wife asked. “We are so happy here. Every night we fall asleep listening to the laughter of the brook. We never want for anything.”
“I know,” said the young farmer. “But I am a farmer. I am supposed to live on a farm. I can’t stay here under the oak trees listening to the brook for the rest of my life. I need fields and pastures and oxen.”
The farmer’s wife looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “Let’s look for a farm.”
This turned out to be more difficult than the young farmer expected. The next day he went out into the country and walked north for many miles. As he walked, he looked for empty land, and he asked people, “Is there a place nearby where I might grow crops? Are there any farms for sale?” But the answer was always the same. “No, not here. This land is all full. Try further up the road.” When he had gone as far as he could, and the shadows began to lengthen, the young farmer turned around and walked back to his cabin by the brook. It was very dark by the time he returned, but his wife had left him a dinner of strawberries and squash.
“Any luck?” she asked.
The young farmer shook his head. “But I will try again tomorrow.”
The next day, carrying a basket of food from his wife, the farmer traveled west. He passed many pastures and fields as he walked, but none were available. “No land here,” the shepherds and the hired hands told him. “The Earl of Lancaster owns it all.” Mile after mile, he got the same answer. It appeared that all the western land belonged to the Earl. As his shadows lengthened behind him, the young farmer threw up his hands. “How can one man own so much?” A woman herding geese overheard him. “The Earl is a very rich man,” she said. “And he is always looking for fruit pickers. If you worked for him, you would earn a good wage.” But the farmer shook his head. He did not want to work for another man. He wanted to dirty his hands in his own soil.
“West is not the best direction,” the young farmer said. “We would not be happy there.” Then he sat down to his bell peppers and rhubarb. His wife watched him silently as he ate.
The next day the farmer went out as soon as it was light. This time, he walked south. “Surely there will be open land to the south,” the farmer said to himself. “Nobody that I know travels this way.” And the farmer was right. Before the sun had reached its zenith, the farmer found open land in spades, but it was full of boulders and cliffs. The only plants that grew from the rocks were twisted juniper bushes and gnarled pines. “I can’t raise vegetables here,” the young farmer said. He walked a little further just to be sure, but then the shadows of the pines began to lengthen, and he turned around and went home.
“What did you find today?” his wife asked him, setting a plate of blackberries and eggplant on the table.
The young farmer put his head in hands. “Nothing,” he said. “Only rocks and stones.”
On the fourth day, the farmer started walking before dawn. As he traveled east, he watched the sun rise on the road in front of him. “East is a good direction,” he thought. “It is where the sun lives. Surely I will find something today.” But as he walked under the oak branches and leapt over the gurgling brooks, he realized that the trees were not getting any thinner. In fact, the longer he walked, the thicker the forest seemed to become. “Just a little further,” the young farmer said to himself. “Just a little further and I’m sure the woods will end. There will be great clearings, and I will plant fields of corn and barley and watermelon.” But it was not so. The young farmer walked under oak trees all day. Even as the shadows lengthened and the woods grew dark, he continued on, unwilling to turn back empty-handed for the fourth day in a row. “This is my last chance,” he thought. “There are no other roads to take.”
Finally, when the stars twinkled overhead and he could no longer see his feet, the young farmer turned around. He walked all night, and returned to his wife and his little cabin just as the sun was rising in the east.
“You are safe,” his wife said, running to his arms.
“I found no land,” the young farmer replied.
“I love you,” she said.
The farmer and his wife slept all day. In the evening, they made a meal of sweet potatoes and sweet peas and goat cheese. The young farmer was silent. Then he said, “I am not a farmer.”
“Why not?” said his wife.
“I have no farm.”
His wife pointed to the wicker baskets all around the cabin and outside the door, filled with soil and vegetables. “Yes, you do,” she said.
The young farmer shook his head. “That is not a farm. Those are baskets.”
“It looks like a farm to me,” she said. Then she leaned forward on her elbows. “You know what this means.”
“It means I am not meant to be a farmer.”
“No, it means you haven’t walked far enough.”
“But I have walked so far. And I don’t like leaving you.”
“You really want to be a farmer?”
“Yes.”
“Then we will pack up a cart with your baskets of plants, we will pick a direction, and we will walk. We will leave behind this cabin and this brook. We will eat the food that you have grown—the blackberries and the cherry tomatoes and the summer squash—just as we have always done. At night we will sleep under the stars. We will walk until we have found the perfect piece of land.”
“I don’t think it exists,” said the young farmer.
“You’re right,” said his wife. “It doesn’t.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because you are a farmer.”
“What does that mean?” he said, but he knew. The young farmer paused. “It would be easier just to stay. Like you said before, we are happy here in this cabin by the brook.”
“Pack up the carrots,” she said. “Pack the cucumber plant and the raspberry bush. I’ll gather the onions and the potatoes, the jalapenos and the sweet corn. We will bring everything we can carry.”
The young farmer watched as his wife cleared the table and put a kettle on the fire. “But which way will we walk?”
“Which way do you want?” she asked.
The farmer looked out the window. He thought about the land in every direction: the crowded pastures in the north, the Earl’s estates to the west. He remembered the southern boulders and cliffs. Then he thought about the oak trees, the wilderness, and the lonely road he had traveled under the stars the previous night. He wondered how long one would have to walk before the woods finally ended. He wondered if they ever did, or if they simply stretched on forever, growing right up to the end of the world and tipping off the edge.
“Well?” said his wife.
“East,” he said.
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