My self-assigned project this month was to write a preview for Season 8. Even with so much to share, I couldn’t find the motivation. I think, perhaps, it’s because I needed to write this post first, and square up about the past year.
From memes to movies, there’s a tendency to romanticize farm life. There are those who believe a homestead in the country solves all your problems. While there may be slivers of truth in the idea, I don’t want to perpetuate the notion that a farm life equals a perfect life.
While I usually bear no ill will toward the year about to pass, come the 31st of December, I will look over my shoulder and give an insolent sniff at the preceding months.
For much of 2021, I was trapped in a grind; burned out. Given how others have suffered through the pandemic, I’m hesitant to admit as much, even embarrassed. Unfortunately, perspective on what I was feeling didn’t help me jump the negative track I was on, in fact, it made me feel worse.
The last time I felt this way was senior year of college. At that time, I worked full time for a local newspaper and part time for my college paper (although that job felt more like full time). A full course load felt like an afterthought every day. The nonstop combination of work and school led to sleep deprivation and a period of depression.
What I remember from that time was living in an emotionally-flatlined state. I was so overwhelmed I didn’t care about anything. My wedding was coming up that summer, and I couldn’t even find the energy to pick out a color for the bridesmaids’ dresses. Since I needed to choose something, I settled on black. Elegant for an evening wedding, perhaps, but not an afternoon ceremony in a sunny, summer garden. I remember asking my mother to take on all wedding-related decisions and she did so, happy to help, but probably perplexed at my willingness to turn over all control of the special day. The color had drained out of life, and joy washed away with it.
For awhile, I was in such a rut I couldn’t see a way out of it. I needed to finish school. I took pride in my campus job and walking out on it seemed irresponsible. And I was on the cusp of graduating, on the eve of the Great Recession. Quitting my full-time employment seemed foolish. In all of this, ego factored in, too, I’ll sheepishly admit. When a coworker at the full-time job inadvertently revealed that I was being paid half of what he was to do the same job, anger made the decision for me, and I left.
On the morning after my last night, I woke up to the sun beaming in. I remember stepping to the window and thinking, “What a beautiful morning.” It was the first grateful, happy thought I’d had in months. And I had an urgent wedding message for my mother. “Pink! Pink dresses! Pink flowers!”
The world was in color again.
Back then, I was fortunate to have the social safety net of my family. I could quit the full-time job and not end up in a financial nightmare. I had the choice of lessening my load. Hope and good health were statuses I could restore.
Years passed, and the experience drifted from my memory. Until this past year, when I slipped once more into that colorless world.
While I’m normally a happy bystander to awe in forms big and small, from the beauty of white clouds over green Pennsylvania hills, to the aroma of an apple in my hand, I ceased having these regular infusions of wonder and delight in the world. Just like in college, overload was the culprit, not the nature of the different forms of work (chiefly, motherhood and farming). While the grindstone sharpens metal, it dulls the sheen of an ordinary day.
Even though I knew we were in the final stretch before our new life, with Jason preparing to join the farm full time, I couldn’t change how I felt as the hard, often lonely work unfolded in real-time this year. (I recently read, “Can’t Even: How Millennials Became the Burnout Generation,” by Anne Helen Peterson, and connected with the personal accounts of burnout.)
Finally, late autumn brought with it time for rest, and with rest came time and energy to think and feel like a human being again. As I write this, we’re nine days out from Jason leaving his off-farm job. There is so much excitement in our house, and we’ve jumped into the holidays joyfully with both feet.
Again, I am struck by how my turn on the grindstone came to an abrupt end. This time with the close of the farm season. And how my partner in life will be joining me next year, and we’re basically hitting a re-boot button on the farm and for our family. My privilege is twofold here: I have an opportunity to rest, and I see a hopeful future in front of me.
The other night, the three of us enjoyed some fun. We went to our small town’s tree-lighting ceremony. Wary of the large crowd gathered around the gazebo, we hung back in our masks (our Covid hospitalizations are high in this area). From where we stood, it was a bit hard to hear the ceremony.
When Silas asked to be lifted up for a better view, Jason was happy for a rare chance to hold his always-moving son. The emcee announced that before Santa did the honors of lighting the tree, local pageant winners would join him on stage. This was partially inaudible from our position, and basically meaningless to Silas, who doesn’t even know pageants exist. What he saw, was a gaggle of tiny people in crowns and fancy clothes, gathered in preparation to introduce Old St. Nick. He whispered, breathlessly, “Elves.”
I almost chuckled, thinking he was joking, but then I saw his blue eyes wide with wonder. “Elves, honey, yes, well sure, they’d be here.”
When the Christmas lights clicked on, they reflected in his eyes, and the apples of his cheeks peeked over his mask as he smiled. To see his awe, and to feel it in myself again, what a gift this Christmas.
~ Stella
