... to Alabama (a sanctuary of sorts)

In my journal, I wrote, "Time passes slowly here," but now, in retrospect, I'm wondering if I didn't abandon the concept of time altogether for the week and some change I spent on a farm in southern Alabama.

Highly organized and community-driven, there was always much to do. Weeding, transplanting crops, digging holes, raising fences, herding chickens, watering the greenhouse, tending to the animals (seventy chickens, two piglets, three dogs, and a cat), preparing food, cleaning up after meals, etc.

There was time for adventure, too - there was a wonderful meditation center, an expedition to Mississippi for the De Soto National Forest, a trip on kayaks down a cold and crowded stream, a jaunt to Mobile for a Mardi Gras parade (where I had a thorough but quiet environmental panic attack). There was a lake behind the house - with two kayaks and a canoe. There were hammocks and campfires.

There was space for the stillness; there were these perfect days where I could tilt my face forward to the sun and bask, moments I'd chuckle to think I was doing better things for my tan in Alabama than I ever did in Florida (though I was, in fact, diligent about sunscreen). When you are in the dirt, surrounded by plants and animals and QUIET, the monkey in the mind is still present, but it sitting still, for once. There was space for that quiet, for the expanse.

And the community, the closeness shared by my host family and those surrounding them... Perhaps my lifelong isolation has been self-imposed, but my lone wolf status felt shaken, as I was welcomed into a community overflowing in goodness. If I must be like a sponge and absorb the energy of those nearby, it would be wise to henceforth surround myself by this quality of people.

I watched my muscles grow. I felt my mind become dearer to me. I ate onions directly from the ground and got dirtier than I’ve ever been in my life. I collected chicken eggs and made exceptions for my vegan-like sensibilities to allow me to eat eggs I'd gathered myself.

ABUNDANCE, that was my mantra: shed the rubbish, so you will have room for so. much. more. Since my time in Alabama, I've been clinging to things that no longer serve me, and I could really take a bit of my own advice. I could certainly use another dose of that farm's medicine. But I cherish that time and that place, for what it was then and for what it stands for now.