>>24702095
A man must make an honest living, and I am only a man as you are. Presumably. Every man has their origin. On my dad's side, Scots from Northumbria. What is now Northern England.
How my soul yearns for the old country, as rednecks call it. The green hills and plains, the comfortable little world of old time tradition. The other day I was watching a documentary on British rug making, a tradition adopted from Persia.
Why? I aspire to raise sheep. It is wise to process their wool. Wool to yarn, yarn into products. What products? Rugs, prayer mats. Maybe scenes of Appalachia, hills and little American flags. Maybe plain colors or geometric patterns. The shepherd, a tradition from the old country, a Sunnah of Islam. Tea, another shared tradition.
There should be a word for it, probably is a word for it in German. Germans have a word for everything. That warm, comfortable feeling of being embedded within a traditional heritage. Old rugs, old libraries, stories of the old times from old men and women. Speaking slowly, another Sunnah. Living with the pace of the seasons.
Warmth, spiritual purity and goodness. The holy order of nature with a human being firmly in it and belonging well. A little village, a warm bowl of soup. A little drama, a little comedy. Low stakes, a slow pace, a smile and a big hug from a big country girl.
The reality of a pastoral life is no fantasy, but the country is beautiful and brings me closer to God. For all its warts and imperfections, there is beauty in life and it is worth living. There is my great big mansion, its pillars are pines and its roof is the phasing skies full of lights and stars, winds of fury and the great milky band of the galaxy.
