As I wrote a few days ago, both my farming and non-farming lives hold harvest times — seasons in which one must push forward, plunge in, and pull through. (At Kathy’s Deli in Shippensburg, we knew the same phenomena by another name: “the lunch rush”). I find such times as exhilarating as they are exhausting, for there’s a special connection that binds communities united by similar tensions and a particular satisfaction of falling asleep at night after the tangible completion of a day. You might call me an adrenaline junkie. You may say that I seek out such harvest times on purpose.
But an equally powerful lesson is knowing when the harvest time is just an empty field. Even in grad school, deadlines — self-imposed or otherwise — are often relative. Does my self-worth decrease if my to-do list isn’t done? Can I sleep at night if the day didn’t go as I had planned?
On such days (today is one), my boyfriend Jon will listen to me complain about my shortcomings and help me describe how I will better tackle goals in the future, and then remind me that I have no cows to milk.
Unlike a life with cows, whatever I had wanted to do today can wait.