My son has gone to live on a small farm for a little while, which means he can’t attend the Horticulture Therapy group with me until he returns. It won’t be the same without him, but it’s temporary, he needed something more in his life, and he’s a grown man.
The farm is a place for healing. There are about eight or nine other men who also live there. I hope and pray that he’s enjoying his time. Last I heard, he had spent the day shoveling mulch, an activity I used to love because the labor was intense and took my mind off my problems. Pulling weeds is like that too.
Community service is part of the farm’s healing program. The guys go to the local church each week to serve food in their kitchen where people can get free meals. The most recent time I called, they said my son was helping unload a very large truck of furniture that someone donated to the farm. “He’s working hard and looks like he’s having a good time,” the director told me. There’s no telling what all he’s been up to since I last heard. I can’t wait to hear all about it!
My grandpa used to laugh when I said I couldn’t wait for something.
“What else can you do but wait?” he would ask in a lighthearted tone. I knew he was right, especially about Christmas or the summer holiday when my cousins came to visit.
My mother was telling me some family history the other day. My grandparents’ house, which is where I lived for a substantial part of my childhood, was the first house built in the town and is the oldest one still, “standing.” My memory isn’t serving me well and I can’t remember if my great-uncle or great-grandfather built the house.
I do remember that my great-grandfather was a preacher and started the town’s first, First Baptist Church. My grandma told me this story over and over. She wanted me to be the first, “woman preacher in the family.” I’m not sure why, but that isn’t how things worked out. Sometimes, I wish it had.
Many people in my grandparents’ family were born and raised in that house. Sadly, my uncle recently sold the place. The new owners painted the tin roof red. I can’t imagine. My grandma probably turned over in her grave when they did that. I’ve regressed. I do that.
Back to the farm, which is on land surrounded by low rolling green pastures and tall thickets of trees. You can sit outside under the great big sky, without city lights, revealing the bright moon and shimmering stars.
They don’t have noise on the farm. They have sounds. Wonderful sounds of nature. If there’s anywhere to have Green Healing days, this farm is surely one of those places.
They raise vegetables and take care of chickens, cows and goats. I haven’t seen the animals yet, and the men are going on a mountain camping trip in a few days, but I’ll see them (and my son) soon. I can’t wait! Well, maybe I can.
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