My work as a teacher and a writer is a lot like the work of a farmer.
The hours I spend in front of my students and in front of my writing notebook is like the hours a farmer spends walking down newly plowed rows broadcasting seeds.
You teach and write and plant with great courage and deep hope.
You stand eye to eye with -
economic poverty
adverse childhood experiences
learning disabilities
self-doubt
a blank page
solitude
rewrites
weather
insects
blight
You live heart to heart with -
the ‘a-ha’ moment
kickball
trust
satisfaction
the finished story
the acceptance letter
acclamation
sunrise
sunset
harvest
I wrote the small story below.
Today, I’m the farmer.
Small story -
As I've already told you, my poppa is a farmer.
I’m looking carefully out the window.
I see him kneeling in the garden, planting the seedlings.
His skin is the color of the newly plowed rows.
Sweat is dripping off his forehead into the dirt, mixing with the sun and soil, nourishing the plants so they can grow.
When comes into the house at sunset, he'll smell of the humble smell of the land.
His heart is faithful and soft.
It's a beautiful Better Boy tomato swaying slowly in the whispering winds of southern summer skies.
His soul is bright and gentle.
It’s a yellow ear of sweet corn wrapping itself gently in tender husks, protecting itself from the searing sun and woolly worms.
His mind is persistent and broad.
It’s an engine running a plow, working through problems, fixing anything and everything, accepting me, and allowing me to grow as the land accepts the seed and allows it to grow.
His strength is helping and enduring.
It’s the Farmall tractor we borrow from a neighbor, a tractor that keeps him from struggling behind a mule and a plow.
Yep, he's a farmer.
He’s a person of the land.
He is.
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