The farmer's story

It's hard to say what came first... there was the church, the garbage. But then there was the coast long before that...and Davenport. There was Ben. There was needing someone because I was so alone in this new place. There was the ocean. The mountains. Colorado. Virginia. Eighth grade.

The truth is...it was just the other week. I was sitting on a tree when it came to me. I was curled up sort of, about four feet off the ground, reading this book about fairies and how they're nature's angels. That is a detail that stands alone. It was a healing time for me...this was my little retreat...this tree, behind the tiny yellow coastal church, whose doors were always locked.

Wait, wait...I need to back up. Several days before it came to me, I quit my job. I'd been working for a violent father who does not recycle because he doesn't like the look of the extra bins in his kitchen. After two month's putting up with this man's wastefulness and general disregard, I needed fresh air to detoxify my entire being. For some reason, I came to Davenport and for some reason, I decided to clean up all of the garbage on the ground around this tree behind the church. This compulsion had come over me recently...to literally, by hand, clean up garbage in all of nature's spaces that I cross.

I have heard of people picking up pennies compulsively. I've heard of a woman who has to pick up a pen everytime she sees one on the ground and whenever she does it, something good happens to her. It seems that my job is to pick up garbage. Inevitably, the spaces reward me. The Davenport tree is located next to a resource center that assists migrant farmers and others in poverty on the Northern Central Coast of California. I found my way there, and now volunteer in exchange for food and internet access.

Keep asking...keep giving...and you shall receive. That is my recent lesson.

I lay back on this great branch and closed my eyes, and they turned to shadowy oak leaves on my peaceful face. One cold stone corridor led the way to my innermost heart and I found this hut there, this tiny living hut inside my heart with a warm stove burning and candlelight inside. I had always before that thought it was solid. But I asked my heart on this day-after reading and meditating at length- what it wanted. And despite that all of this seemed strange to me, the hut's door opened a crack in response to my gentle knock. The tiny window illuminated and I could see a couple in there, like little gnomes, living a quiet rural life. I knew at that moment that I had to become a farmer...

When you find yourself in a moment like this...a ripe, raw moment...you put yourself on alert, and observe the syncronicities abounding around you...

I have become aware that my Soul is a great deal more than what this present Self experiences. I have existed for ages and more. One glimpse of my Soul is a flowing green field. Perhaps that's Ireland in me, I am not sure...but I have seen it.

Miracles happen....