It’s cool in the mornings. The afternoon brings a steady warmth, a shedding of layers, maybe even a prickle of sweat where the sun hits skin. But the mornings are cool, still. The earth hasn’t shaken the last of the deep-seated winter chill, though the soil warms by the day. In the early light, I can feel it: the coursing of warmth through the air, into the ground.

This is how we’re meant to live.

Nothing, here, separates me from the ground. Nothing separates me from the flow of air, the stretch of sky, the soaring mountains. There’s a wonder in it. It’s a childish wonder, the insatiable curiosity of the young person whose first and favorite word is “Why?”

As we get older, we often forget to ask these questions. We think we know the answers, or we lose track of how to ask. The wonder in us gets tamped down. We come to equate childishness with ignorance rather than with sincerity. It takes the voices of children - asking whether worms can see, how plants know which way is up when they’re underground, how a big puff of popcorn comes out of such a tiny shell - to make us revisit that open-eyed way of seeing the world.

The farm is a space where wonder thrives. We’re here, ready for it - ready for the rush of curiosity that comes with the young, and with living in tune with the world.