It’s a merciless life. Awake before the sun, working the earth until long after the sun sets. Turning the hard packed soil where rocks are more plentiful than crops, a back- and spirit-breaking effort that never ends.
My field is my mind, my plough is my pen. I toil to cultivate a crop of words that will yield sustaining tales. Digging deep furrows, churning up memories, experiences and relationships, I plant kernels of thought, cull word weeds, and foster growth during dry spells.
It’s a relentless pursuit for an uncertain harvest, but I’m grateful for what fruit I reap.
Thin spiral notebook 
Well done! My soil is parched with drought. I need rain.
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I’m working on small garden plots right now. I’m hoping for a rainy season soon too.
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Woman, you have struck the proverbial nail on its proverbial head. This is exactly what it’s like. Well said. Well written. Well done.
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Your words please me very much. Thank you, Lou.
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Love, love, love this piece, every single word of it. Thanks for sharing,
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I hope a lot of my writing friends will relate to this, that feeling that we are cultivating our stories as a farmer would work their fields.
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My grandparents like to talk about their life before the 1950s when they had to work in the fields for their families. It sounds like they miss it, but I don’t think they do.
This is my favorite part:
“My field is my mind, my plough is my pen. I toil to cultivate a crop of words that will yield sustaining tales. ”
It is why we are friends and writing partners.
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My grandfather alway had a garden, always. I wish I had a tenth of his farming knowledge. I have such a brown thumb. I have to be satisfied with the words I can grow in my head… maybe it’s all that “manure” I have up there. HA!
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Love this
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Thank you!
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Oh, this resonates. Enjoyed.
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I’m glad you could relate to it. Thanks.
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