When we say goodbye

Four months into goodbye and I still cry about it. To take leave of over one hundred souls, many to never see again has been a torturing process. The little farm still lives, to be sure. . . but it is in flux. . . its is a living transition. Its path is mirroring our own. Who are we now? . . .hobos without a farm to ground us to the fertile earth we wither as we bloom. 

Backing up, Nancy Place Farm is right now a place where the garden finishes its season untended, where neighborhood children make jack-o-lanterns of compost pumpkins, where garlic lies in wait hoping someone can be coerced to do its planting for its long winter hibernation. Nancy Place Farm, where its inhabitants have spread over wide distances, most to never return. Nancy Place Farm, where small trees struggle to take root and to become a perennial part of the landscape. Nancy Place Farm. . .who's owners have ventured thousands of miles distance to try on a new hat.

While we venture, we grow-- in leaps and bounds. But we are torn, and as each challenge inevitably makes us stronger, a part of us withers with the landscape we have abandoned. We sure miss you Maine!

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