Snow

When I was 5, I saw snow for the first time. I woke up and the neighbor’s roof was white, and I was startled. The realization soon sunk in, and my memory is full of that day. Even Texas snow builds massive snowmen when you’re 5 and seeing snow for the first time.

I wake up a few days ago and the same white dusts the landscape, sheeting our barn with an unfamiliar lack of color. I’m giddy with excitement.

Halfway through chores, hands cold chafed through thick gloves, I wonder if this will be the winter that breaks my love for snow. The crunch of snow compacting beneath my feet still satisfies. I enjoy smashing the ice in the animals’ water troughs. The cold on my cheek makes my blood quick. Life beats harder to fend off the cold; I think this is why I revel in the crisp, cold air.

The farm is quiet these days. Our pigs are at the slaughterhouse, our turkeys are in the freezer, the duck, I said, is gone. The hens prefer to stay in the coop rather than brave the frozen soil. The cattle lumber. The sun sets before the afternoon begins, and I milk with darkness just beyond the barn door. The last of the kale has wilted. Our vegetable garden is laid waste.

I’m tired. And I’ve been tired before. But I wake up and my body feels heavy on the hardwood floor. My steps feel plodding, my legs, leaden. Solitude and loneliness tango. The snowy forest captivates me. The stars are rapturous. I think how life is, roughly speaking, a series of decisions of whether to stay or go. I drift off to sleep like an abandoned raft into a whirlpool.

And people ask, why are you here? Why are you farming? What are you getting out of this?

I have my stock answers. I feel. I find singularity of focus here. I’m growing more present. I enjoy working with my hands. Farming is an inherently creative task. I’m not stressed. I don’t think about money. I like having responsibility. I think the work we do here is important. It’s gratifying to see the physical results of my labor. I’m learning. The pig tail baked bean veggie roast I made shows that. The quince jelly I made shows that. The sheep I’ve herded show that. The amount of time spent milking shows that. The massive number of things checked off the To Do lists show that. But there’s always more To Do, and three months into being the only person working here makes me question again. Why am I here?

We eat well. If I can say nothing else, I cannot deny that every meal is a barrage of flavor. Our nourishment gives us the strength to continue.

My friend Alexis once exclaimed over dinner with friends: “Guys! This… this is food!” And we knew what she meant. Not tautology, this is food. We need this; we grow from this; we share this; you are, they say, what you eat. And tasting the subtle difference in the flavor of milk as our cow transitions from grass to winter hay, I see more clearly how what you eat, you indeed are.

I go back and forth. This decision, to stay or to go. And the concomitant questions: how long would I stay? Where would I go? And I am sad both ways and happy both ways. I tell my friends that choice is good. But these days, it seems like choosing to do something smacks mightily of choosing not to do so many other things. And I think on how maybe that’s what being an adult is.

It is the time of year for making wreaths. For pulling out vines and weaving them into wreaths. Yesterday, we disentangled an ancient vine from our hoary hazelnut thicket. The long whips, still green like summer, wound themselves uncomplaining into a giant wreath. A prayer for the return of light.

Two weeks ago, I was in New York City for a grand total of 20 minutes in Grand Central. Snow wavered down, spotlighted in between the buildings. It snows here, as I write this. A forecast of 4 to 8 inches. Crystalline marvels. Here and there are not so different. Because I carry myself with me wherever I go. And I don’t ever want to lose the wonder I feel in a hushed snowfall.