My brother-in-law Chris used to be somewhat envious of my eminent retireability. An energetic and ambitious chap himself, he had a hard time imagining how he’d fill his days without the demands of work consuming their better part. I, on the other hand, seemed born for repose, requiring only a steady supply of books, movies, and music to be completely happy.
Yet, somehow, I find myself in possession of this farm that shatters this happy vision of idleness by A) requiring me to stay at my town job in order to meet the financial burden I’ve created for myself with said farm, and B) presenting insatiable demand for labor. There is always something – or a dozen somethings – that need to be done there.
And, surprisingly, I like that. Who knew I needed to be productive? But I’ve finally recognized that it’s the busyness that makes the downtime sweet. And the farm always presents occupation that feels worthwhile.
So, my happiness with the place extends even so far as accepting its crushing of my boyhood dream of doing nothing at all. It has much the same effect on other leisurely concepts, such as vacationing. And that’s more than okay. I relish the idea of the farm as our permanent staycation – a place that offers beauty and interest and activity, without ever having to go anywhere to find them.
Of course, this is a pretty easy sacrifice for me to make, as I’ve grown to see vacation as the self-infliction of virtually unfulfillable hopes and expectations. To me it offers the perfect formula for disappointment: invest emotional energy and considerable resources in planning and looking forward to an escape, with wishful expectations of life-changing events or, at least, conspicuous pleasure; almost invariably undercut by the grim realities of body scans, luggage claims, lines for everything, yahoos everywhere, mounting expense, the pressure to have fun despite these undertows, and the thousand other cuts that bleed the vacation experience dry; all of which requires extra work before, after and, probably, during the time off in order to earn it.
Now, I probably wouldn’t feel this way had I not been fortunate enough to have done a good deal of traveling. And, gripes aside, I have enjoyed it, learned from it, grown from it. I’m interested in everywhere and generally game – if you asked me to go somewhere, I’d probably agree to. I’d look forward to it until it actually drew close -- at which point I’d find myself wishing I could stay home, instead. Then I’d go and enjoy it – but be glad to get back home again.
The thing is, I never feel like being somewhere other than where I am. And now I feel this strong impulse to be in this particular place -- to know every inch of it, invest myself in it, see life through it.
I certainly don’t suggest that I haven’t much new to see and do; that it wouldn’t be profitable, eye-opening, expansive to continue traveling to new parts of the world. But I do feel somewhat like Breaker Morant, protagonist of the great Australian film of the same name, who, when offered a means of escape from his unjust imprisonment, and the opportunity to go on the run and “see the world,” replies simply, “I’ve seen it.” He longs for a home, for the place he belongs. That I get. And I feel I’ve found it. So that’s where I want to be.
Now, once I tie myself to this blessed plot I will, undoubtedly, catch the travel bug and think only of the far-off lands I can no longer reach. Such is being human. At least being this human.
But, for now, I think I’ll just set a spell.
I would have a better understanding if you had a pool and for that matter a pool boy.
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