Speaking of staycations.
There are days when I will see a post by one friend or another, someone who gave up an corporate type career and moved to an island and has a farm and sheep and chickens and I get this wave of envy and I think man if my husband suddenly got a high paying job at the University of Awesome Small PNW Island I’d totally give up the life here I’ve busybodied myself into and I’d get up in the morning and maybe homeschool the kids or send them off to the local digs while I milked the eggs and tended to the goat’s nests and wheedled some promises out of basil and cukes.
I’d wear long skirts and scarves and no makeup and not shave my legs, and I’d drink tea and write in my journal and I’d be quiet and live a life where I didn’t feel compelled to post posts on Facebook, or write blogposts about vigils or shows or figure out my “brand” or think about much more than what kind of lovely meal and wine to serve to friends at my long large table outside underneath the wisteria.
I used to kill plants, though I’m getting to be better friends with them. I imagine lancing a boil on a sheep’s leg or cleaning the remains of a hawk ravaged goose would be quite challenging and should I be faced with the challenge I figure I’d rise as best as I can. I suppose I write enough as it is and I wonder just what kind of a homeschooling parent I’d be.
So what does it mean when we fantasize? That we want something in the fantasy? That we value something about that quiet life (vs being onstage) or the animals (vs people) or the isolation (vs the bustle of a big city)?
Possibly. It’s also possible that it’s just a grass is greener situation, made romantic through the lens of technology. That’s one of the detriments of social media in my mind, that we are using it to display our best selves, like a PR machine. What I know though, is that the fantasy often tells you about a part of yourself that you might be ignoring. It might be that you just need a little rest. Or it might be that there is a whole new phase of yourself germinating deep inside.
And of course by “you” I mean “me.”
Goats don’t milk themselves, nor plants harvest. Blackberries have brambles and foxes get into the henhouses. Life is always filled with romance and beauty, but yeah, mundanity and the daily drudge.
Still, every now and then the goats appeal to me with their stink and their stubborness. As does the big long table, draped with scented vines, covered in food and surrounded by friends and it’s always community, isn’t it?
And perhaps I’m finding new ways into the space that is community, that is ritual, and that is a more satisfying song then the one of last year, frenetic and disjointed, always busy, always me being the one singing, never listening to the actual melody.
There is much to say about food and pleasure and sexuality and pleasure, relationships and connection and how radical those things actually are, and perhaps that’s where I’ve been headed. Both personally, to accept such things, but also as a call.
In the meantime, here is a video of Buttermilk the bouncy goat.
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