Suburban Homestead Store
Farmheart
There’s a condition that inflicts some of us that I can only describe as Farmheart.
Farmheart is a sharp, targeted, unsettledness that affects certain people (myself included) as harsh and ugly as a pitchfork being shoved into your heart. It’s not recognized by any professionals or psychoanalysts (yet), but it’s only a matter of time before it’s a household diagnose. Hear me out folks. It goes like this:
Farmheart is that sudden downcast feeling that hits you while at work or in the middle of Wal-Mart checkout line. It’s unequivocally knowing you want to be a farmer—and for whatever personal circumstances—cannot be one just yet. So there you are, heartsick, confused, yearning in the passing lane of a crowded freeway, wondering why you cannot stop thinking about heritage turkeys or barns or rail fences. Do not be afraid though. You have what I have. You are not alone.
You are suffering from Farmheart.
This is a dreamer’s disease: a mix of hope and desire, determination and grit; targeted at those of us who wish to god we were outside with our flocks, feed bags, or hoes, instead of sitting in front of a computer screen. When a severe bout hits, it’s all you can do to sit still at all. The room closes in, your mind meanders, and you are overcome with a burning desire to be shearing sheep or feeding pigs instead of taking conference calls or answering emails. People at the water cooler will stare if you say these things out loud. If you find this happening, just segue into sports and you’ll be fine.
The symptoms are mild at first. You start glancing around the internet at homesteading forums and cheese making supply shops on your lunch break. You go home after work and instead of turning on the television—you bake a pie and read about chicken coop building plans. Then some how, somewhere, along the way – you realize you are happiest when in your garden or collecting eggs. When this happens, man oh man, it’s all down hill from there. When you accept the only way to a fulfilling life requires tractor attachments and septic tanks, it’s too late. You’ve already been infected. If you even suspect this, you may have early-onset Farmheart.
Not to panic though, folks. Our rural wishfulness has a cure! It’s a self-medication that can only be administered by direct, tangible, and intentional actions. If you find yourself overcome with the longings of Farmheart, simply step outside; get some sunshine and fresh air, and breathe. Go back to your desk and finish your work knowing that tonight you’ll peruse those seed catalogs and starting making those garden plans. Usually, simple, small actions in the direction of your own self-sufficiency can be the remedy. In worst-case scenarios you might find yourself resorting to extreme measures - calling in sick to do nothing but garden, muck out the chicken coop, collect fresh eggs or bake fresh bread. While that may seem extreme, understand that this disease is caused by inaction. It hits us the hardest when we are the farthest from our dreams. So to fight it we must simply have faith that some day 3:47 PM will mean grabbing a saddle instead of a spreadsheet. Believing this is even possible is halfway to healthy. I’m a high-functioning sufferer of Farmheart. I can keep a day job, raise a child and manage my adult world as long as I know my night job involves livestock and dirt under my fingernails.
Farmheart is a condition that needs the smells of fresh turned soil or lanolin, the touch of warm eggs or fuzzy chicks in the palm of our hand, and crisp cool air deep into our nostrils to heal. If you find yourself suffering from such things, make plans to visit an orchard, pick up that beat guitar and get to it or better yet take a farm related class. Busy hands will set you on the mend. Small measures, strong convictions, good coffee, and kind dogs will see you through. I am certain of it.
So when you find yourself sitting in your office, school, or café chair and your mind wanders to a life of personal freedom, know that feeling is our collective disease. If you can almost taste the bitter smells of manure and hay in the air and feel the sun on your bare arms, even on the metro, you are one of us and have hope for recovery. Like us, you try and straighten up in your ergonomic chair but really you want to be reclining in the bed of a pickup truck. We get that.
And hey, do not lose the faith or fret about the current circumstances. Everything changes. And if you need to stand in the light of an old barn to lift your spirits, perhaps some day you will. Every day. For some, surely this is the only cure.
We’ll get there. In the meantime, let us just take comfort in knowing we’re not alone. And maybe take turns standing up and admitting we have a problem.
Hello. My name is Jenn. And I have Farmheart.
