Piglets on the Farm
I feel like an old curmudgeon this morning. I’d woken up early to finish my various morning practices, before heading to the farm with the kids. Given that Kenya is still on the red list, we weren’t going to make it to London this summer. The farm was my way of being fun.
I’m not that fun though. I would rather be at home: working, reading, writing, singing – anything that wasn’t outside my comfort zone.
But the drive to the farm was far shorter than I had remembered. Maybe it was because I was driving. Something about being behind the steering wheel makes things easier.
On arrival, the green expanse was lush and colourful. I could hear the cows mooing loudly, as the kids disappeared off to greet their farmyard friends. A donkey appeared next to me. And then two horses with comical, oval haircuts. Large bees began darting around the tea-and-cookie table where I sat.
Rather than being with what was and breathing in the clean, farm air, I wondered if this was better than being at home. Was it really worth me spending a whole day here? For the kids, I had no doubt: harvesting fresh vegetables, getting their wellies thoroughly muddy, weaving baskets: this was the ideal place. Was it good for me, though? A change. A rest. A new perspective, perhaps.
What would it take for me to enjoy myself? Get my hands dirty? Take a Valium? (Clearly fasting yesterday had brought up a bunch of emotions.) In that moment, I wanted to cry. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just be like “normal” people? Why was I so bloody aware?
Hee-haw. Cluck-cluck. Baa-baa.
The sounds broke my reverie.
“Human beings have an intense fear of the present moment.”* This is exactly where I was at. And in that awareness, a deep sigh and a surrender followed.
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”** It was time to choose to be conscious.
And then, I suddenly became very present to a strange smoke in the air, and squawking sounds of the nearby guinea fowl, the loud, bleating goat, and a bucket being filled in the distance.
I could sit here, or not. I could read my book, or not. I could write, or not. I could watch my breathing, or not. This was a holiday. This is what people do on holiday. This is how people be on holiday. I realised that, like anything, I could learn to be. I could be. Yes, even I could be.
I liked the farm.
My comfort zone had grown. I was OK. I was happy.
And I was sane again.
And just like that, it was already time to go to and scale the terraces and pick super-sized, organic veggies with my three little piglets.
* Eckhart Tolle
** Carl Jung