Through the work of many hands, hearts, hooves, and rootlets, this farm is looking pretty good. We have tall rows of raspberries, we have archery targets of golden straw. We have a kid-magnet maple tree complete with nets and ladders. We have a miniature horse, for crying out loud. Let's not even get into the baby bunnies. But we may be the victims of our own success.
I'm nervous about sounding rude here. Please, you people who visit the farm, keep coming. I am usually delighted to share the farm with visitors. I am also working my tail off to just keep it running, and I am slowly giving myself the respect I deserve by (as gracefully as possible) putting random unexpected visitors to work or excusing myself from babysitting them. Occasionally I get a visitor who seems to assume my time is theirs. Could you imagine walking into a lawyer's office and saying, "Hey, I just wanted to look around, tell you about the chickens I had as a kid, and by the way, do you have any free legal advice, or could you sell me something cheaper than what it takes you to produce it?"
Hawthorn Farm is a cell in the body of the earth. The farmmates and I are enzymes, always on the move tending, cleaning, and loving this cell of the body. I want the beneficial effects of our work to spill out wherever they can. I love listening to the stories that pour out of some folks who visit us and find welcoming ears and hearts. And I also need to pick up this pony poo. But don't worry, I've got two manure rakes.