August 26, 2008 – For several years now, I have ended most of my days by writing in this Farm Journal, a grounding experience for me, and a way of recording and marking my life, and my work. I did not expect it to be what it is, and am continuously surprised by it, and the impact it has on me and some others.  It has measured my joys and my sorrows, losses and expectations, and my experiences. It bears witness to the great experience of being here, good and bad.
  I am committed to it, and confused by how faithful I am to it.
  I got a message today from Kim, an e-mail correspondent, that touched me. She sent me a quote from Pearl Buck, the great writer:

  “The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this – a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create – so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”