vicarious farming

We don't have a farm yet.

I like to say "yet" because it gives me the sense that it's coming. Down the road; on its way. I've wanted acreage and horses and dogs and chickens my whole suburban life. But in reality, I don't know if "yet" really is down our road or on its way. And to tell the truth, I'm not even entirely sure how I feel about that.

Part of the problem is cashflow, of course, but that pales in comparison to the problem of the schism in my brain. For example:

I want to live on a farm; I want to live downtown.

I want to be way out of town; I want to be able to bike to the grocery store.

I want to live in a 200 year old house; I want to build a sleek, minimalist, eco-friendly place.

I want to have animals; I want to be nomadic all summer while school is out.

I want a huge garden; I want to be nomadic without the garden dying while I'm gone.

I want to stay here forever; I want to move around and abroad.

See what I mean? And that's only a small taste of my dream extremes. I shot the whole long list at my husband the other night, when trying to explain why I don't mind renting at present, since I have no idea where I'd want to be otherwise, and he was stunned.

"I think you think too much," he said.

No kidding.

But in the meantime, while I try to sort through this muddled brain, we're enjoying vicarious farm life at community gardens and local farms and the county fair. And for now that's definitely good enough.