Some days, my brain is simply done.
Not dramatically collapsing onto the fainting couch done. More like... full.
Too many decisions. Too many conversations. Too many things requiring my attention all at once. Too many little pieces of information rattling around in my head.
And when I reach that point, I go home and go outside.
Now, I should probably point out that I spend plenty of time outside in my day job, too. In fact, that's one of the things I like about it. I get to be out on farms and in fields, talking with farmers, looking at land, and working on projects that matter.
But being outside for work isn't the same thing as being outside on my farm.
At the end of the day, Lucky Dog Farm is where I get my brain back.
There are sheep to check. Dogs to let out. Water to fill. Hay to throw. Fences to walk. Something always needs doing, and somehow, that is exactly the point. The consistency. Knowing that there is always something to do, and that it will move me closer to my goals (which are always a moving target, but still.)
The remarkable thing about farm chores is that they don't require me to remember a password.
The sheep don't care how many things are on my to-do list. The dogs don't care whether I answered all my emails. Nobody is waiting for a meeting to begin.
There is simply the next thing.
Go check the flock.
Fill the water.
Throw some hay.
Watch the sheep.
Listen to the dogs.
Take a breath.
And gradually, without really noticing when it happens, all those thoughts bouncing around in my head start to settle down.
Now, don't get me wrong. Farming isn't always peaceful. Sheep are perfectly capable of manufacturing their own particular brand of nonsense. Weather has opinions. Fences occasionally fail. And there is always something that could use fixing, moving, building, cleaning, or doing differently.
But even when there is plenty to do, the farm makes sense to me.
The work is tangible. If the sheep are hungry, you feed them. If they need fresh pasture, you move them. If the water trough is empty, you fill it.
At the end of the chore, you can see what you've accomplished.
There is something deeply satisfying about that.
And unlike the work I do during the day, there is no question about where I belong when I'm here.
This is my flock.
These are my dogs.
These are my pastures.
This is my little corner of Vermont that I have been building, one fence, one shelter, one lambing season, and one project at a time.
The sheep don't care about the rest of the world.
They are not worrying about next Tuesday.
They are not checking their calendars.
They are certainly not reading email. (Although it’s entirely possible that the dogs are. And now that I think of it, Doodle was huddled with Blitz and Lucy, and I’m pretty sure they were scrolling Amazon. Huh. )
They are eating, chewing their cud, arguing quietly about who gets the best spot at the feeder, and generally being sheep.
The dogs are even better at bringing me back to the present. They are ready. Always ready. Ready to go outside, ready to work, ready to see what the sheep are doing, and completely convinced that whatever happens next will be interesting.
Honestly, we should probably all be a little more like dogs.
Especially this time of year, when the days get shorter and everything seems to speed up, I'm grateful for the rhythm of the farm.
Morning and evening chores.
The changing light.
The sound of sheep chewing hay.
Dogs racing ahead of me.
Cold air in my lungs.
The wood cookstove waiting for me when the day is done.
There is nothing particularly complicated about it.
And maybe that's why it works.
Lucky Dog Farm isn't an escape from my life.
It is my life.
But it is also the place where everything else gets put back into perspective.
When my brain is fried, I don't necessarily need a vacation.
I need to go home, pull on my boots, and go outside.
I need fresh air. I need sheep. I need my dogs.
And by the time I've finished checking the flock, filling the water, and doing whatever needed doing that day, the chatter in my brain has slowed to a trickle.
The rest can wait.
The sheep, however, are waiting for supper, and the dogs need their afternoon walk.
And somehow, that's exactly what I need.
And I hope that you’re getting what you need to keep your lights on too.