Imagine the countryside. In imagination, it’s probably daytime. Why? The world is in darkness half the time. And it’s beautiful.
When people visit our farm, they often compliment the peace and beauty, the sunsets and the trees, the birdsongs and the breeze. And they also often comment on the heat and the flies. I always want to tell people, though, be their opinion complimentary or not, that they are only seeing half the picture.
Visitors usually don’t get a chance to see a sunrise here. They don’t see the stars slowly fade, the profusion of birdsong announcing the sun, and the high clouds tinting a brilliant pink.
Our cows enjoy grazing in the cool of the night when the flies and heat are less bothersome. Chickens are most active right around sunrise. The garden, that has been absorbing the life-giving light all day, uses the energy to grow at night. The wildlife animals that hide away in the daytime rummage around freely at night, padding about the barn, exploring our compost pile, delicately nibbling off carrot tops, snuffling longingly about the secure chicken coop.
I like to go out very late to finish up chores. Sometimes the full moon is rising, shimmering through the night clouds. The stars wheel overhead in their rhythmic dance. The ground is still surprisingly warm to my bare feet. And fireflies, the paparazzi of the country, flash over the fields and up the trees.
And then whenever I get up particularly early to do chores, I wonder why I don’t do it that early every day. The world is stirring. The night and the animals that love it are preparing to hide away again. A few birds make a tentative claim to the hour. It’s the smelling hour – when the breeze is blowing and I can smell the grass and the flowers and all the scents I don’t notice in the day. I hear everything then. All my senses but sight are fully stimulated. Somehow it’s then that I grow closer to this land; not when I can see it, but when I feel it with every bit of myself.
