I am not who I thought I was

I have always thought of myself as an earth mother type, someone who wants to and could live an elemental sort of life.  After all, I read and reread all the Laura Ingalls Wilder "Little House" books and imagined a prairie life for myself.  When I was ten-ish, I used to go around our home collecting the things I was sure I would need when I became shipwrecked.  (As I recall, those things consisted of a small box of raisins, some safety pins and paper clips, some twine, and a deck of cards.)  When the TV show "Survivor" began its run decades ago, I thought "This is a show created with me in mind" and applied to be on it several times.  I thought an experience like that would be as close as I could come to living in the most elemental, stripped down way possible in this modern world.  (At least, for a middle-class American in this modern world.  I'm aware that many people do live in ways which put mere survival at the forefront of their existence.)

Because I lived in a small apartment in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles for so long, I never had a chance to put my hands into dirt, to grow things, grow my own food, own a cow and a goat and some chickens.   Never had the chance to live out that fantasy version of my life, the simple life lived in relationship to the earth.

Well, the joke's on me.  For the thirteen years Sweet Hubby and I have been living in our current home, with our great big backyard, I have had the chance to dig and grow and be who I've always said I wanted to be.  And have I so much as put one seed in the ground?  No I have not.

Every year, when winter begins to thaw and spring starts to creep toward me, I continue to fantasize about all the wonderful vegetables and flowers I'm going to grow in the planter boxes SH built.  And every year, I just don't get around to it.  Too busy with very un-elemental, un-earthy pursuits, such as having lunch in a restaurant with friends, and writing, and reading, and seeing movies, and answering emails, and playing online games with family and friends, and going to live theater performances.  I'll pull a weed or two every so often.  But that's about the extent of my prairie life.

SH is the farmer.  In the past, he has planted onions and lettuce and carrots and radishes.  The blueberry and raspberry bushes he planted early on continue to thrive and give us the most wonderful berries.  On the deck he built with his own hands, he puts up pots of herbs, strawberries, tomatoes, and peppers, and lots of flowers.  And I?  I'll pick what I need to cook with.  That's how involved I am.

It's a strange feeling to bump up so unmistakably against a long-cherished image of myself.   An image I continue to nurture, but secretly, in a way I don't even want to admit to myself.  The earth still calls to me.  One of these days, I'm going to farm our land and gather fresh eggs from our chickens.  One of these days.  It's going to be so lovely and satisfying.