You know those pockets of time in your life that come and go with such speed and color, you end up with only a few threads caught in your fingers to remember it by?
Sometimes all my life feels a blur, with happinesses and melancholy whizzing through until the in-between breaths when I remember to stop and recall and be. And there are the pause-button eras that can stretch minutes, weeks or even months into an interminable waiting for one second to tick into the next.
Time and its passing for our tiny human lives has been meditation for minds waaay more suited to it than I. Old guys with marbled eyes and ample beards, drunken Irish poets and stoned fratboys all over America.
That said, I'm gonna go ahead and get deep into this rap on time.
The past several days at Moon Dog Farms had a timeline chockablock with story-worthy events. We hosted a friend's bachelor party (highlights including Die Harder and copious cigars, bacon and beer-snoring); my sister, brother-in-law and nephew came down for a Spring Break Farmcation and generously lent their muscles towards anything and everything we asked (I assume tearing down 20ft high rusty sheets of metal had been second to a beachday);
and the freshwater well we've been rubbing palms in anticipation for was finally dug.
Turns out, watching the digging of a well is a pensive process.
I had imagined that, basically, watching said well being dug would equate to watching several dudes stand around a hole.
I wasn't wrong.
True, there were intervals of dudes bending down, dudes touching the ground, and dudes moving metal things around. But all in all, it was dudes making a hole, deep into the earth.
However, what I didn't anticipate was the deep thinking that accompanies the digging of a well. Honestly, the coolness factor of big machines and watching liquid that so closely resembled chocolate milk flow from the ground was enough to snag my attention more than I had presumed.
But here's the thing. Digging a well is serious business.
A hole, made by steel and pressure and brute force, is bored 200 feet into the earth's crust through layers of soil, clay, rock, and, finally, sand. This is followed by a pipe shimmied down to suck that grainy soup back up to the surface and filter out all the water which otherwise would have sat untouched, in its pocket in time, swimming above the mantle of the earth and underneath the feet of boobs like us who, instead, decided we should use that water for our own boobly devices.
And thus the philosophy. As I was gaping at this hole in the ground and feeling excited, I couldn't help but think,
"Man. We better do this well justice."
A staggering philosophical insight.
But, after feeling a bit dizzy from the myriad to-dos and experiences of the past few days--let alone the past 3 months--I was thinking about how fast everything moves, how most of the time we end up with just threads in hand. So much of what we do in our lives is important for that moment, and then the moment has changed into the next. Our individual experiences have a small bearing on the earth, even though it's all so very big as we're living it.
But when we consciously decide to physically change the earth, put a 200ft hole in it and use her water, then it should serve more than just our whims.
Hopefully, the earth will find our tiny farm enterprise worth the trouble. I know we'll try our darndest. And really, I suppose what was getting to me through this stony line of thought was the hope that the enterprise of me is worth the earth's trouble.
As humans, we all want to feel like we contributed something, right? We mattered, and made a difference?
This past week was so very sweet--nearly every minute was a moment I wanted to keep tucked right under my memory's surface.
The time spent putting new plants in the ground alongside my sister and talking sistertalk while we pruned the pear trees. Cheering for my brother-in-law when he devised an ingenious way to remove deadly hanging shingles from the barn and the careful way my nephew fastidiously apply compost to cucumber beds(" I need precise measurements, Casey." ) Joking with old friends on our porch while feeling the sunset and watching my family work together to help build our farm dream--there were far too many pearls to count.
For me, life goes by so fast and often leaves me with just those threads snatched from moments I wish would stay wrapped around me, blanketing me from shoulders to feet. But, that's life. We better do it justice.
And all this crackpot existential pondering came from a drill rig with the name 'HoleMaster'. Doesn't carry quite the grandness of Plato, but I mean, it IS a master.