A Thousand Dabs of Mud

I trudged slowly into Spring, this year. My bones creaked. Usually, I jump into my rubber boots and greet Spring like a friend who's been away far too long - with enthusiasm and delight. But this year, the winter frost heaved up some challenges that drained much of my psychic energy.

Metres above my head, untouched by the fog bank surrounding my brain, the cliff swallows showed no such sluggishness. They were paragons of industry, zipping from mud hole to eaves and back again at top speed, applying the thousand tiny dabs of mud it takes to build each perfect nest. There are so many swallows here, all building with an enthusiasm that would put suburban Toronto land developers to shame. The air fairly hummed.

They are either birds of great vision, or great faith, I figure. They spend hour upon hour, day after day, swooping across the field to snatch a dab of mud, exploding up again from the ground and speeding off to stick the dab onto the side of the house. For ages, it doesn't look as though they're making any sort of progress. But then, all of a sudden, you look up and there are these majestic domes, practical, comfortable, with babies peeking out. Some of these architectural masterpieces are strong enough to last through winter's fierce storms.

Our work here at Old Man Farm is a bit like this - a thousand dabs of mud that don't look like anything much. We, too, hold a vision in our heads and have faith that our daily efforts will some day create a work of art.