Sometimes, sitting at this desk overlooking the prairie, I become lost in my own reveries - not really thinking and certainly not doing, rather just watching. Watching the wind, the sky, watching birds land on the tree branches at the edge of the yard or on the dead tree sitting there waiting. I watch. It took me two years of cleaning to be able to have a desk here in the little house, as we call it. Dad built it as an additional family room for when we all came home after he and Mom bought a new double wide and put it in place of the old house. And then they moved into town, sold the double wide, a few years later Dad died, and the farm went wild.  

When I came back to Kansas and began working on the farm, there were dead birds in the little house screens and dead jars of homemade canned goods in the basement. Oh - and packrat nests. Lots of packrat nests. And mold on the basement walls.   Obviously a work of love to have a desk here. I often wonder just what drives me back to this farm; why, in my years of wandering, when I meditated on a place of peace and safety, my mind always brought me back here. Back to the tallgrass; back to these pastures and trees. I wonder sometimes if the spirit of the land calls me or the spirit of some long dead inhabitant - and if the latter, whether the spirit comes from a pioneer or a native. There are some answers we never know. But I know when I'm here, I'm at peace.