Someone recently pointed out that we are never quite done becoming. That we are not just one “thing”. For so long I’ve clung to the identity of “farmer”, it never really occurred to me that I have already been other things, and that I still have yet to become another “thing” or two. That it can be “also” rather than “and then”.
It is in this knowledge that I find myself longing for the bourgeois tableau. For the mingling of writers and artists and absinth and low hanging smoke. For the Café Deux Magot and the Stray Dog Café and the inspiration and illusions that smolder there. To eat and drink and dance unimpaired by the mundane, to let go the tangible if just for a moment.
And then return to hands in the soil, the humility of growing food, the practicality of the peasant. To come back to the solidity of “farmer”. Nothing like a free fall to make you appreciate roots.