Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workahoic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom’s Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego’s mind and body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor’s University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen to as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California’s Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.