A few days ago, I checked the chickens' water fount on my way back to the house from the toolshed office. It was empty, needed filling, and some days there simply isn't time to switch gears between the work of writing grants or course proposals and tending the growing things. And that's how I found myself suddenly picking my way carefully across the ice-rink the yard has become, balancing a 3-gallon chicken waterer in my left hand and a messenger bag containing books and a macbook over my right shoulder.
I knew it would be an image that stuck with me--late afternoon light sliding through the treacherous footing, me with my strange load hurrying just a little, and working hard for the balance. It feels like that a lot, lately. No one doubts we have too many projects in the works, but stubborn as we are, we try to keep hold of the whole load anyway, and stay upright on the tricky footing.
It's a balancing act. Carrying in each hand the aprehension and excitement, hope and terror, the work of thoughts and learning and the work of endless details that are needed to make them happen. The poetry and compost, we hold all together in one awkward load, just trying to stay upright and move forward.
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