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greenstormTwo years, seven months and a scattering of days ago my house became mine. My journaling was so sparse then I didn't record the day. Work had ground down the part of me that writes, and the part of me that observes myself and self-regulates.
Now, well. My home. Threshold. I wrote on someone's post that my farm is the partner I live with. Then I looked out the window and smiled and felt how I imagine someone who's been married for years and made an exceptionally good partner choice must feel: happy, pleased, lucky, and with the deep warmth that lingers when beginning-excitement fades. The statement was almost true. Threshold is the partner I live with.
So many humans identify themselves as half of a partnership, incomplete without a loving relationship. Others say they're whole on their own, as an individual. Yet others consider themselves part of a human network, one piece in a complete social context.
My land is my other half. In it I am complete. Its body and my body are interwoven, shared over the years. My thoughts are never far from it; my mind shapes it and it shapes my thoughts and my understanding of the world. It gives me such varied and beautiful challenges and I live up to potential I never thought I'd have. I give it my sweat, my time, my love, my thought, my occasional spilled blood, and the work I am able to do with my body as it slowly ages.
This is why I speak of being nonhuman sometimes. I am so deeply partnered in a way that no human speaks of, and my other half isn't even a describable object but is instead a set of processes that will exist long after my ashes are scattered on it. There are mythological worlds in which dryads are half-tree half-person and those don't feel mythological to me: they are the only narrative I know that acknowledges my reality.
My farm is on my land, it is part of Threshold but it isn't the land itself. It's a system I use to interact with the land. It's a game we play with each other and a way we support each other: Threshold feeds me with plants and animals and something to plan, I feed it with organic matter and biodiversity and a little bit of fossil fuel-driven machinery. The farm could move with me should I leave this marriage and seek another parcel of land: it would change to reflect the nuances of that new space. The land can never move with me, nor would I want it to.
Threshold will remain here, as itself, until the sun swallows the earth. I can't tell you how reassuring it is that my beloved is nigh-immortal.
And I can't tell you how happy I am to be part of it.
Now, well. My home. Threshold. I wrote on someone's post that my farm is the partner I live with. Then I looked out the window and smiled and felt how I imagine someone who's been married for years and made an exceptionally good partner choice must feel: happy, pleased, lucky, and with the deep warmth that lingers when beginning-excitement fades. The statement was almost true. Threshold is the partner I live with.
So many humans identify themselves as half of a partnership, incomplete without a loving relationship. Others say they're whole on their own, as an individual. Yet others consider themselves part of a human network, one piece in a complete social context.
My land is my other half. In it I am complete. Its body and my body are interwoven, shared over the years. My thoughts are never far from it; my mind shapes it and it shapes my thoughts and my understanding of the world. It gives me such varied and beautiful challenges and I live up to potential I never thought I'd have. I give it my sweat, my time, my love, my thought, my occasional spilled blood, and the work I am able to do with my body as it slowly ages.
This is why I speak of being nonhuman sometimes. I am so deeply partnered in a way that no human speaks of, and my other half isn't even a describable object but is instead a set of processes that will exist long after my ashes are scattered on it. There are mythological worlds in which dryads are half-tree half-person and those don't feel mythological to me: they are the only narrative I know that acknowledges my reality.
My farm is on my land, it is part of Threshold but it isn't the land itself. It's a system I use to interact with the land. It's a game we play with each other and a way we support each other: Threshold feeds me with plants and animals and something to plan, I feed it with organic matter and biodiversity and a little bit of fossil fuel-driven machinery. The farm could move with me should I leave this marriage and seek another parcel of land: it would change to reflect the nuances of that new space. The land can never move with me, nor would I want it to.
Threshold will remain here, as itself, until the sun swallows the earth. I can't tell you how reassuring it is that my beloved is nigh-immortal.
And I can't tell you how happy I am to be part of it.
