Dear Curiosity Journal,
Determined to complete the new pasture, we fenced until sunset. By the time we leaned against the gate to high-five each other, the palm of my hand was cramping from 7 hours of gripping the pliers. There is something decidedly rugged about the act of fencing. The fusion of the land, animals, and tools paired with the physicality of marking a boundary is giving serious home on the range vibes. Over the course of our Sunday fencing journey, both of our fathers called us. When we told them what we were up to, there was a distinct tone of approval as I imagine they recalled and associated their own embodied fencing experience with a chuckle of solidarity. It’s curious how the sight of the flock on fresh grass makes all of the physical labor worthwhile. For whatever reason, likely a rural Wisconsin upbringing, my brain associates livestock on pasture with peace and the natural order of life on the land, and I’m basically as blissed out as the sheep when they bust onto the new block, kicking up their hooves in a fresh wide open space and taking in the joys of spring.