There’s a beautiful photo essay on Emergence Magazine this week, text by Erik Jacobs and photos by his wife, Dina Rudick. Erik has been battling cancer during the pandemic. He writes about that, and his struggle with “opposing notions of purpose: his long-held dream of tending a thriving farm and the persisting urban reality of his small, fenced-in yard” in Boston.
I couldn’t help but notice—the Someday Farm Jacobs describes is my actual life today:
Twenty-five acres of fertile fields and forest, with a pond and a stream. There’s a barn there, full of history and swallows, a Jersey cow for milk, chickens and goats, and endless space where my kids can run, barefoot and free. There, days are a Divine Office attuned to the rhythm of the seasons and demands of place. A patch of land where I can control the chaos of the world and insulate my family from its future. A home where I care for the earth and am fed in return, body and soul. And eventually, when my time comes, I will lie down, wrap the soil blankets around me, and finally rest.
How blessed am I.
The losses I’ve been grappling with during this pandemic pale in comparison to what Erik Jacobs and his family are going through. Like them, my losses did not result from the coronavirus, but as Jacobs so eloquently puts it, fear and death become a prism, “shattering my existence into a spectrum of truths previously unseen.”
I remember when our someday farm existed only in our imaginations, which gives me hope that Erik Jacobs and his family will find their farm one day. Even if they never do, they have found everything that matters.
As have I.