Back to the Land

About eleven months ago, our mortgage bank informed us they’d be foreclosing on our house. It hurt, but we made arrangements to rent a small house on a bit of land less than three miles away, and we moved.

And with that, the adventure began.

You see, our new home sits on about an acre of land dotted with mature fruit trees and grapevines overgrowing about fifty feet of fence. From the way things are laid out, I’d say it was once a nice place that has since been let go.

So, quite a bit of my spare time has been spent coaxing it back into shape.

I’ve built new fences and rebuilt old ones. I’ve put in new gates, rebuilt old gates, and even partially rebuilt a shed. I’ve pruned ten year’s neglect out of pomegranate, fig, and olive trees. I’ve cut back rampaging grape vines and dug up a foot or more of rotting plant matter from around their roots. I’ve raked up Volkswagen-sized piles of leaves. And I’ve discovered something.

I love it.

I’m generations removed from the land. My father is a University professor. His father was a high school teacher and entrepreneur. And his father was a professor as well. But I’ve learned there’s something wonderfully right about digging in the earth and helping things to grow. It puts one in touch with the rhythms of the earth, with the seasons, with the pulse of life itself.

And there’s something extraordinary about picking pomegranates for lunch, clipping a bit of rosemary to season the chicken for Sunday dinner, or just grabbing a handful of grapes off the vine for a snack.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t even know what I’ll be doing for employment. But I do know I want land — enough land to grow a garden, some herbs, and a few fruit trees.