Dear Farm Journal,
The flare of the early afternoon light stung my sun-roughened shoulders. Beads of sweat rolled over the curve of my brow bone, delivering a blurry burn to my line of sight. Spinal sinews screamed for cellular hydration and repose. I was reaching the limits of my physical energy and heat tolerance while shoveling old soil out of a repurposed feed bunker (soon to be the perennial herb garden). It was the first time this season I seriously considered quitting before completing the job. If it weren’t for the aggregation of communal energy, I would have thrown in the towel. Later, I told Rufus this. He said, “ I wanted to quit so bad but I knew you would take it all the way to the end”. I smirk at the idea of these silent urgings, all the unspoken incentives of people (and plants) which carry us through.