Rachel's ThinkSpot Everyone needs a spot to think.

Lying in [our sinful pre-marital] bed a few nights ago, Nate and I were discussing my dream of owning some acreage, getting out of the corporate world, raising animals, and supporting myself and my family as an author.

“What is it about a farm that appeals to you?” he asked.

Good question. I have a billion answers, but I only mentioned the top 50 or so to him.

S0 what is it about a farm that appeals to me? It’s everything. Space. Air to breathe. Stars at night. The fact that night-time is really night-time, that street lights and neon signs don’t blur your vision. On a farm, you can’t see your hand in front of your face in the dark. There’s no constant low moaning of traffic always in the distance. Fire and police and ambulance sirens actually command your attention, because they aren’t a constant presence. There’s no stench of city and suburban life—of grease that’s always frying and beer signs that are always illuminated. On a farm, your crappy old Ford Escort isn’t directly linked to your perceived worth as a human being. Bad hair days are a foreign concept; who cares about your hair when there’s work to be done? On a farm, work is actually work, challenges are honestly challenging, and rewards are actually rewarding. Solving problems matters in a way that it doesn’t matter to me now: if the pump freezes or the fences break, work is required, solutions are necessary—and doing that work and finding those solutions matters. Right now, my ‘challenges’ revolve around things that do not affect me, and if truth be told, things that I really don’t care too much about.

A farm means something new or different every day. You never know when animals will get sick, when they’ll give birth, when they’ll decide to bust through their pasture fences and start a miniature riot. You don’t drive the same route every day, day after day, to arrive at your institutionally-gray padded cubicle, where you stare at the same computer screen, surrounded by the same walls, hearing the same voices, the same grumblings from the same unsatisfied coworkers who believe a ‘problem’ is finding a date for Saturday night or picking out the right outfit for their (ohmyGod!) important presentation to the vice presidents.

Am I idealizing farm life? Absolutely—and I understand that. I get it: sometimes it will really, really suck. Sometimes I won’t feel like getting up to feed the donkeys when they’re braying at 4:00 a.m. and it’s -30°F. Sometimes I’ll wonder how on earth I’m supposed to pay the large animal vet when I can barely afford large animal hay. Sometimes, surrounded by the stench of rural life, I’ll long only to return to the city’s stench of frying grease and beer signs. Sometimes I’ll be frustrated that the animals have escaped, or have gotten sick, or have refused to cooperate with my grooming or pasture-rotation plans. I get it.

But I want it.

“I don’t mean to be hokey,” Nate said, “but you know that saying, ‘Life is a journey, not a destination’? It seems like you might be stuck on the destination.”

I guess I can understand why it seems like that. But I don’t believe that a farm will mean ‘I’ve arrived,’ or that it’s my great destination. For me, a farm would feel like my journey was finally beginning. Right now, I feel like I’m idling at the starting line, pointlessly revving my engine and waiting for the chance to go.