Surrounded by the buzz of university, I became interested in the craze of money attributed to the hopeful lifestyles of doctors, accountants and lawyers. It was a stark comparison to much of my childhood, but the dreams of hustle and prosperity was evident from the families of the apparent elite. Money, and the status associated with it, seemed to rule placements and the future. I became addicted, dreaming of ferraris and large houses, captured by things, rather than feelings.
And yet it was the old jersey and RM’s that attracted me back to agriculture, a beaten up old ute and the slower lifestyle. The wide open spaces, optimism despite pain and the sound of running livestock. It’s the freedom and hope, connection and struggle. It’s in the chase.
I dream of cattle roaming Worimi lands, guided by the read environment shard for eternity. Clydesdales running through nearby snow on the mountains, only to travel to the beaches in summer. And meanwhile, sheep run on familiar country. All earnt, not given, for it is purely the legacy and story that mean the most to me.
So back to the farm. Nan’s farm. After finishing the first bout of shearing, we attended the Harden Show. It was heartwarming to see my cousin show to success, local goods on display and entries abundant through the hall. The canola fields and back roads sang me back to Boorowa, before the time ticked to back home.
On a Sunday drive this country sparkled, as the garden relished in the hope from a few sprinkles and Nan’s tea cake warmed the soul.
Then before long the car became re-acquainted with the northern roads, winding through old horse and cart moulds. The bustling city, Newcastle beaches and struggling towns.
Yesterday afternoon, we stopped at Stroud. It was the first time I saw Nelson in the paddock, quietly fitting in making his mark. Gentle. Patient. All in each stride.
And now it’s back home. Back to dreaming of it all, connecting the dots and planning. Planning to turn it around.