For six or seven years, I lived in the small and pretty hamlet of West Hebron above, the intersection shown in the photograph shows the general store, called the Bedlam Corners General Store. It inspired the name of my farm, Bedlam Farm. The name Bedlam comes from the Bethlehem Hospital outside of London, on weekends Londoners went out to the asylum and threw tomatoes and rocks at the inmates.

The scene was often chaotic and the name of the asylum was given the slang name of “bedlem” which became “bedlam” and then was synonymous with chaos and dysfunction. A century ago, this hamlet was so crowded – there were inns, factories, hotels there – that it was difficult to cross there was much traffic and congestion.

It is hard to imagine now, but the corner was called “Bedlam Corner.” I named my farm “Bedlam Farm” because there was much traffic and congestion in my head, and it was to get much worse before getting better. I kept the name when we moved to our new farm, even though, in many ways, it is the opposite of bedlam. I live in a different head, in a different way.

Bedlam Farm overlooked the town, the farmhouse was built in 1861, I liked having the hamlet so close, it has a general store, a strong and grounding  church. When the movie was made of my book “A Dog Year”, the hamlet was sealed off, Jeff Bridges, the actor who played me, sat in a trailer in the church parking lot in between scenes. It was exciting, although strange.

West Hebron is a lovely place, but I never quite fit in there, it wasn’t the town’s fault, it was mine, I was too closed off and distracted. Bedlam was a good name for my head as well as my farm. When we moved two years ago, we didn’t say goodbye to anyone, and no one came to say goodbye to us. A sad statement about my life, I think. Cambridge, our new town, is different, mostly because I am different. I am not alone anymore, and I have healed to a great extent, although that work is never really done.

It was a chaotic time for me, a creative time and a powerful and very painful time. I knew some people, made some friends but always felt apart there. People could not have been nicer, I was never at ease. I was alone there for the better part of my years there, my wife at the time came up every month or so, we both convinced ourselves we were supporting one another in our lives, the truth is we were just growing apart. She was – is – a very good and admirable person, she loved New York as much as I loved the country. I regret we could not figure it out. Life is different when you share it. Duh.

Bedlam Farm was a nourishing and exciting place, I came there to write books and couldn’t stop. I became a photographer there and wrote children’s books, I was there when the recession hit and publishing as I knew it collapsed. There was an amazing cast of animals there – Brutus the ram, Winston the rooster, Elvis the Steer, Carol the grumpy donkey, Rose, Orson, Izzy, a long list. I had a ghost out in the woods, blizzards, coyotes in the hills, lightning strikes. I broke down there, gave all my money away, lost perspective, lived in terror and confusion. I met Maria there, began my return to the world, the hero journey.  A lot of life. Yesterday I spent some time at the farm and looked out over the hamlet, and gave a nod to my former home, a place I never really felt at home in because I was so broken inside.

So much feeling, so much memory, so much emotion. Another world, another life, a million miles away, I sometimes think.

What is it that makes for a home? Love of course, and connection. I think it something inside of us, something that opens to it, something that feels known, safe and recognized. A place that says, “oh yes, me too.” I think the new residents of Bedlam Farm, whenever they appear, will know they are home when they look at this sweet little hamlet.