This week’s weather has been hot and sticky, just the kind of weather
you’d expect in a dripping wet rain forest with the heat turned up.
This
hot weather has me thinking about the farm work we did in the summers.
Going back to when I was twelve, at home on the farm. Any day that
looked warm and sunny was usually a hay day.
My dad would say,
‘sure hope the hay won’t be too green to bale’. That meant he hoped the
hay would be dry enough. Once it was cut, it needed to dry in the hot
sun for a day or two. Then he’d put it into windrows.
The wind
rower would pull behind the tractor and would grab the hay and spin it
into a nice even, fluffy pile of hay in the form of a long row, like a
never ending fluffy snake. A day or two later, when the hay ‘wasn’t too
green’ 3 or 4 of us would go out with the baler and hay wagon and bale
the hay. The 3 or 4 would be me, my dad, my brother Max, and maybe one
of my other brothers too.
The smell of the hay is still as clear
in my nostrils as it was then. Something dry and crispy about the smell,
like wafts of weedy dryness with the sweet mixture of clover and
alphalpha.
I would usually be pegged to drive the tractor. This
was a job I did not enjoy because it forced me to stare at the row of
hay and keep the front right wheel of the tractor exactly to the left of
the row of hay as I drove. Even straying one way by a few inches would
mean the baler would miss a little bit of hay, and there’d be a yell
from the hay wagon. That would be my dad’s voice, booming over the roar
of the tractor and the clanging, repetitive sound of the baler,
repeatedly banging out 50 pound rectangular bales of hay.
Now that
I think back, I realize I had to be totally mindful, forcing myself to
keep my brain on one thing for an extended period of time. Ummmm. Maybe
that’s why I’m good at meditating today.
Once I got into the swing
of driving the tractor, I usually didn’t mind it so much. After all, as
long as I kept the wheel of the tractor exactly where it was supposed
to be, I was free. I was free to think of anything else I wanted. I
could sing a song in my head. I could imagine where I’d be in ten years
from now. I could think about the book I read last night, under the
covers with a flashlight till 2:33 in the morning. I was free. Wow, what
a feeling.
Woops, keep that wheel in the right place. Oh, there
goes a field mouse, frantically racing out from under the windrow.
Looking back at the wagon, I’d make sure Max and my dad were keeping up
with the bales, repeatedly spitting out of the baler, onto the hay
wagon.
Looking ahead at the field, I’d realize I’d better get
ready for the end of the row. That was the most stressful part. I was
supposed to know where to go. Right, left. Which new row to choose? I
wanted to do it right. I didn’t want to get yelled at; that’s for sure. I
was supposed to still gather as much hay as I could in the headlands
and then turn down the row my dad wanted me to. I’d stare at him; try to
read his body language. Maybe he’ll give me a clue, I thought, so I
don’t feel stupid. Hmmmmm. How am I supposed to know, I’d wonder?
Eventually,
the hay wagon would be piled high, like a rectangular tower of solid
bricks. My dad and brothers were always proud of how high they could
build the load and still keep it solidly on the wagon. The wagon only
had a rack on the back, the sides and front had no racks or supports, so
the way the load was built, was what kept it together. One by one,
every bale was put in its place, each one was important to holding it
all in place.
Focusing on that one thing was my lesson. I had to
learn to ignore the hot sun, the ear-shattering clanging of the baler,
the obnoxious, burning hot diesel fumes pouring out of the tractor, the
sharp, angry yells from my dad. I was practicing mindfulness even then,
even before I knew what the word meant.
How do you practice mindfulness in your day?
Send me an email, bruce@mindfulnessmode.com and tell me an activity you did in the past whic