I appreciate long Holiday Weekends. I like it when the e-mail slows,  no mail comes, the phone rarely rings and few people come by. I love the farm, but I don’t like owning a place that I really can’t manage by myself. I can’t plow all the snow, clean all the carcasses out of the woods, can’t move and brushhog all the fields, weedwhack all the fences, clean the big old farmhouse by myself, can’t trim all the damaged trees or clear the trunks from the paths. Lately, people have been tossing garbage and animal carcasses off of the road and into the woods by the house.

Sometimes I think people should not own more than they can care for. Yet the farm gives so much more than it takes, I suspect it’s a balancing act I will never quite figure out. I have ordered good books for the weekend, my Ipod is loaded with new songs and we have few plans. I’ve had trouble sleeping all week, disturbed by old ghosts, old dreams, old fears. Simon’s arrival has understandably thrown the place off, even as it has been been powerful and rewarding. This weekend I will read, meditate, blog, think, settle down. Get more deeply into the Frieda book, into myself, savor every sweet minute with my former girlfriend. The holiday has not begun yet, but I can feel it approaching. I hope to get to Argyle Monday to photograph the Fourth of July Parade there. I hope to dream sweet dreams.

It’s quiet down. We are a frenetic culture and holidays are our only breathers sometimes. This will not be a simple year. One book out, another looming in just two months. I welcome the holiday turn.