Dreams, Memories, and the Resilience of Nature
In the stillness of the Pencil Pit, my sanctuary nestled within the barn, I find myself reflecting on the curious blend of dreams and realities that have filled my recent nights and days. The quiet here is a stark contrast to the vibrant, sometimes puzzling narratives that my mind weaves in sleep, and the tangible, earthy tasks of the waking hours.
Last night, the world of dreams took an unexpected turn. I found myself wandering the aisles of Walmart, a mundane setting transformed by the appearance of an old friend who passed away from Covid. There he was, as real as the memories we shared, yet distant, a part of a world I could no longer reach. I awoke before I could ask him about his experience, left only with the echo of his presence and a lingering sense of unfinished conversation. It’s curious how dreams can resurrect the past, blurring the lines between what was and what could have been.
This encounter with a ghost of sorts was in stark contrast to yesterday’s activities. Jon and I tackled the old pine tree that had been lying in the backyard for months. It was the same one that fell mid-summer across our gravel road, which we had to pull with the tractor for half a mile. Cutting it up, piece by piece, felt like dismantling a monument to nature’s unexpected turns. Each slice of the chainsaw through the wood was a reminder of the resilience and impermanence of life.
The day’s work didn’t end there. With our trusty 1975 John Deere tractor, Jon and I reclaimed a 16-foot hog panel, once entangled in vines, from the woods. This panel–with a 4×4 attached lengthwise–which we used to drag behind the disc harrow for garden prep in spring, was a relic of past labors and seasons. Wrestling it from the grasp of nature, which had claimed it as its own, was a testament to the ongoing dance between human endeavor and the wildness of the land.
In these morning hours, as I write, the threads of dreams and the day’s work intertwine. They speak of loss and recovery, of the past re-emerging in unexpected ways, and of the relentless cycle of nature and time. The fallen tree, the reclaimed hog panel, and the dream of my departed friend – each tells a story of change, resilience, and the enduring connections that shape our lives.
Here, in the Pencil Pit, surrounded by the tools of my craft and the quiet of the early day, I find a space to ponder these experiences. It’s a place where dreams can be unraveled, and the day’s work can be understood as part of a larger, ever-unfolding story. As the light filters through the barn windows, casting shadows that dance across the floor, I’m reminded that our lives are a tapestry of the tangible and the ethereal, the physical and the remembered, each strand woven by the hands of time.
The Pencil Driven Life 