Lightning Jar Farm.
Does it name inspiration, captured creativity, moonshine, or 1860's canning jars? Yes. It means what I think it means after all.
It is the act of holding my breath and diving in. It is fifteen acres to keep open without owning a tractor. It is holding a day job and staying good at it so the dream survives. It is giving the kids a landscape to roam in and explore freely. It is growing and raising really good food, and then eating it, and sharing it with others. It is about learning and teaching, and art. It is conservation, ecology, whole farming, and harvesting the sun.
It is my alter ego, my cape in a phonebooth transformation.
Twenty years of living in the burbs have not put the walking ghost inside my heart to rest. The ghost has been tap, tap, tapping on my strings. The spirit has been walking through hayfields and woods, and wandering amongst newly tipped Christmas trees in the spring time fog (a particular shade of green, impossibly fluorescent), she has been galloping horses, listening to spring frogs, and digging potatoes. In autonomic response, I have planted a larger garden every year. I take my shoes off after work in the summertime and stand squeezing the garden soil between my toes. In this way all the worries and fatigue of the day have drained through the rough soles of my feet into the earth, I am grounded in the warm dirt. The ghost is not yet quiet.
It will not be anything that exactly matches my imagination, but it has an exceptional chance of being wonderful. Anticipation.