Reading back thru my journal, it’s amazing how often I run into the word “control.” A shrink once told me I had was a control freak, and I immediately & thoroughly dismissed the notion.
Control freaks are the Felixes of the world, right? Who always have a brand-new kleenex & an immaculately clean house. They iron their jeans and possibly their underwear, too. Count me out, right there.
But again and again, I’m confronted with my own words: I’ve got to get in control of the weeding. If I could just get the laundry under control… The kitchen is out of control…
And what I’m finding is that probably life, but most definitely farming, is completely uncontrollable.
Say I’ve decided I will weed the blasted strawberries. If it rains, I can have the best intentions in the world, but those strawberries will remain weed-ridden for another day (or two, since they have to dry out.) And since we use a clothes line here, the laundry will also remain “out of control.”
(My first wk here, I actually tried to weed in the rain. The VA clay stuck to my poor farm abuse shoes until I looked like a Clydesdale horse. And each weed I pulled brought up a soccer-ball sized lump of soil with it. It was not pretty, although I suppose it was pretty funny.)
All I can say is, I’m a quick learner.The best I can hope for is to develop good management skills. If it rains, I’ll clean the attic or shell peas or bake something. If it’s sunny, I’ll do all the laundry I can find & weed the strawberries.
But control? The goddess laughs.