Dear Farm Journal,
The farm pace slackens on Sundays, and Rufus and I both find our own pulse of self care. He likes to “putz around” on sidelined projects, while I lounge in the hammock and read. We’re slowly refining the farm-to-life equilibrium as we grow, and we both attest to the alleviation a day of rest can bring to the lower back muscles. As the sun sets, Rufus lights a Swedish log fire and I pull up 2 lawn chairs. It’s an idyllic end to a restful day, and I run upstairs to grab my phone to capture the twinkle of the moment. I’m clipping right along when I kick the chimney with my right pinky toe. I gasp as I look down at an extremely unnatural angle. I know it’s broken. A rush of adrenaline kicks off and I instinctively reach down and snap the toe back into alignment and hobble to the bed. I scream for Rufus, who comes running like a mad man. I tell him to get me downstairs because I’m going to puke. We manage a few stiff steps, and the last thing I remember is saying, “I’m going to faint”. Rufus does his best to catch me and heroically carries me back to bed. I openly shed a record amount of tears in front of Rufus, less from the physical pain in my obtuse toe, than the mental and emotional angst of not being able to help him this week. So much for a day of self care.