The Blister Popped

In 2010, I worked on an organic farm and even though the work was hard, the hours were long, and free time was almost non-existent, I felt more creative than ever before.  I thought of all sorts of photos to take, ideas for concepts to connect them, I wrote poems, played music, and philosophized about the nature of things.  I'm not sure why this burst of creativity happened, but I don't doubt that it was due to the combination of the inspiring people I was with, the satisfaction I got from hard work and dirt under my nails and in my skin, and the very fact that I was working outside all day, everyday.

I recently heard of an interesting theory called "Earthing."  From the little I understand about it, I believe it purports that much of the dullness we experience in our daily lives, both mental and physical, is due to the fact that we have lost our connection with the earth.  I suppose my experience of increased mental and physical vitality and creative spirit while working on the farm would be evidence in support of this theory since I worked barefoot almost everyday for 8 months (not without some sacrifices made by my skin).

Here's one of the poems that came during this period of creative drive:

The Blister Popped

The blister popped

in the crease of my finger

finally.

"shit," I whisper

trying to hide it.

The pain gives permission

to stop,

to look up,

the looming gray clouds sinking lower,

swollen,

like the udder of that pregnant cow.

I stick the hoe deep

into the soil

between the nose-high corn.

"let's get the fuck out of here," we agree,

leaving the boys behind.

On the way, the clouds

empty,

earlier than anticipated. 

I'm embarrassed

for not holding out long enough.

Soggy now, we take shelter

in the skeleton of an old barn

     from the electrical storm above.

Under this non-shelter,

we are laughing,

because we've been exposed, and

     because we don't care.