On my farm in Wyoming…

On my farm in Wyoming there is a gentle breeze making friends with the tips of my tired fingers. The memories gone and the times not yet here whisk by in a rush through my fingers. I remember days when the sun was high, my hand hung low, tossed at the wind’s command out of a truck's window. I remember the travels I took to arrive at my farm in Wyoming. The roads that tricked me into thinking there was a direction in them. The signs that without malice or vice failed to show me where I asked them to lead. The cracks in the dirt road, which finally were my guides and took me to the hills and lakes of Wyoming. After all, I now know: I always take the long way home.

On my farm in Wyoming the ruthless sun tortures the floorboards on the porch. The paint’s peeling off and crumbles each time I step on it. The stairs leading to the path creak as I try to creep down to the edge of the water. My toes just touch the water. It’s fresh and honest. The water hides nothing from me. The reflection ripples as the pebbles enter the surface. Skip, hop, skip, hop, sink. The most soothing drown. The most peaceful letting go and becoming one with nature. Then there are the days I want to dive in and sink to the bottom of the lake and back again. I think I would find the hidden truth down there. I would not stop until I touched the bottom and opened the world beyond my reach. I hope the bubbles and the mermaids would eventually carry me back to the shore, but only because of you.

On my farm in Wyoming the fields run into the mountains. The ridges cover the sky, almost all of it. The clouds merge with the silhouette of the gentle giants. On their backs the goats and sheep find refuge. On their backs there are trails to the sun, the moon, the many stars, the universe. When the night descends I walk to my mountains and ask them to gently lift me high so I can put my face close to the stars and feel their warmth and feel their generous light. Then my mountains bask in the untouchable like me. We smile as we look at each other. My mountains see right through me. They whisper words of comfort each time I turn to them with tearful eyes and beg them to please lift me up and never, never let me down. They know that on their backs I take walks that bring me much much closer to me. They like this secret pact I’ve made with them. They are proud to shelter the fields from the scorching sun and open the waters to the source of eternal life. They like to protect and watch over. They protect the lakes and the fields, the woods and the meadows, the shadows, the dark, the living and the dying, everything that breathes: gentle or rough, evil or drained, everything that exists on my farm in Wyoming.

On my farm in Wyoming I am far from the choking love of others. I am far from others who see only lumps of rock, wells of water or stretches of soil. I am far from those who see empty. On my farm in Wyoming everything is full. The birds sing harmonies to wake the slumbering nature and prepare for the annual spring dance. Everyone is invited but they all hush at the sight of my farm in Wyoming. The cowboys tip their hats, the butterflies prepare to stand still and the leaves stop murmuring a subtonic monotone as they all look around my farm in Wyoming. Silence hangs in the air not as a forceful measure but as a graceful presence. The farm glows from the truth and the peace. My farm in Wyoming is the most beautiful place for me. Please come and stay at my farm in Wyoming. The wind will hurry up the porch to tell me you’re coming. I will sip my herbal tea, silently escape to the lake, stand tall on the mountains, run across the fields of gold and I will arrive at the gate with the wind, and I will let you in. Just come on in. Please come and see the secret garden of my soul’s haven. Please come and see my farm in Wyoming…