The earth is packed so hard it feels like pavement. But it isn’t. It has responded to the pressures of horse drawn carriages and tractors, skipping school children and sheep crossing. There was the time that I had to work together with freckles the llama to help the flock cross the street. They bleated and kept a semblance of order. I tried not to get spit on and wished I had my camera. Just by being there I was part of it. The farm: Shelburne, Vermont.
There is the turn where the wind whips even on the stillest day, the spot where I cant talk for the hill, and the payoff of the fields and mountains and lake. The true meaning of breathtaking where diaphragm and lungs pause so all of your energy can go into your eyes.
For so long I tried to capture it on film, timing my walk for the light. Finally I realized it was not to take with me. It about being there. Seeing there.
There are other pieces too. Wagon rides and chickens stealing turkey sandwiches, concerts and wedding, cocktails on the lawn of the inn, late nights in the game room shooting pool. A year of school. Camp and milking and calf day. Sampling cheese and baking bread. Birds of prey and water flowing over roads. Sugaring and reading pages attached to trees. Making music on wooden masks and inspecting lightening marks on trees.
So many many memories.
It is the walks that have become part of me. Footsteps on the hard packed earth, paced below my heart rate, feeling and seeing more than thinking. Out of me in this magical place.