I was raised in a house in a forest surrounded by fields. We weren’t farmers, but we, at one point or another, had sheep, a goat, geese and ducks. We always had a large dog and a cat. On our property, we had flowers, fruit trees, all kinds of berries, rhubarb and potatoes. My father chopped wood. In the summer, my mother made jam. My sister and I helped out. As an adult I always lived in cities and now I live in one of the biggest cities in the world. New York City. I have been here for many years. The modern architecture, the elegant townhouses and pre-war apartment buildings, the stores, the restaurants, the avenues and streets, the parks, the people, the energy; this is where home is. But intermittently I get this intense longing for the country. This is when I go online and browse real estate in upstate New York. I connect with real estate agents, inquiring about houses within an hour or two from the city. Right now I can feel one of those phases coming on again. My wanting-to-move-to-a-house-in-the-country phase. I dream of a house, not too large, old, freestanding, surrounded by large trees and fields. I imagine doing practical things, like mowing the lawn or picking berries or hanging laundry on a clothes line in the garden. I imagine running barefoot in high grass and getting my hands dirty in soil while planting flowers. I think this my country dream is related to a need to escape the city, clearly. I imagine I am also melancholy about the past, wanting what I had as a child. But in addition, and perhaps more significantly, I imagine it has to do with an innate need for basics, a desire to connect with what is practical and pure. Nature.
Photo above by backgroundpictures.net.