Barns are not aging piles of rotting wood to me, pushed aside, blown away or bulldozed by time and circumstance. They are cathedrals to me, spiritual places. I was married in this barn, and sit there often to meditate, look up at the sacred cobwebs. There are all kinds of ghosts and spirits in this barn. The townspeople say a despondent Civil War Soldier hung himself in the silo here. Bats and mice live in this barn, and the barn cats dance their enchanted dance in the barn, chasing mice and spiders and rats in the moonlight.

There are marks, stains, memories everywhere – cows, pigs, sheep fed, housed, slaughtered, so much work, history, sweat, so much witnessed and experienced by so many fathers, mothers, daughters and sons. When I came to the farm, this barn was toppling over into the road, the fate of so many barns, and I spent all of my money setting it straight, and the other three barns too. I couldn’t afford to do that now, but now that I think about it, I couldn’t afford to do it then. I always knew that I couldn’t afford not to do it? My dream and wish is this: long after I have gone that barn will be standing, a cathedral, it’s silent bells pealing their beautiful sounds, far out over the pastures and into the woods.

This is a cathedral to me, a place of timeless dignity and meaning.