Boston

The calls started to roll in at 3:30 on Monday.  Seattle first, then New York, then Washington DC.  At the farm we were devising a new watering system for 30 new piglets.  It was the sort of day I’ve longed for during this persistent winter – bright, with a gentle breeze and the smell of freshly turned dirt.  Nothing but chickens clucking and rhythm of our work stood out from the stillness of the afternoon.But back in Boston, my city was under attack and editors from around the country were trying to find out if I was near the bombings or how quickly I could get there.  Soon after, calls from Ohio began.  Dina had spent the day photographing the marathon and her family was frantic to know she was safe.  Even though I knew she’d been assigned to cover the race’s start – a safe 26.2 miles away from the bomb blasts – I couldn’t reach her either. And as her phone went to voicemail again and again, fear began to worm its way into my belly.Fear for my wife, angst over my city and something else, too – I felt torn. Pulled between the pastoral scene before me, life bursting from every crack and crevice, and a journalistic call to action to help bring comprehension to the chaos enveloping Boston.  Yes, I had willingly traded in my city life for the farm.  I despaired at the state of our natural world, my dependence on a tenuous economy, and I wanted something more than the hurried, consumptive life of our modern society.  But for the last 10 years, I’ve made a living by using my camera to share our society’s formative moments with a wider audience.  Dina and I exchanged our first “I love you’s” while covering Hurricane Katrina together.  And as one of the biggest news stories of the year unfolded in my backyard with Dina in its midst, I could feel the grip of farm life loosening a bit.The afternoon dragged on, the reports out of Boston growing ever worse. Eventually Dina surfaced unharmed, feeling guilty that it was her colleagues, not her, whom fate placed in the middle of the noise and chaos. I finished my day moving a flock of new layers to pasture in the sheep yard and putting an ear tag on a lamb. But my mind was elsewhere.This attack felt more personal than others, which I suppose is to be expected. Since moving to Boston eight years ago, Dina and I have spent every Marathon Monday photographing a river of runners being carried to the finish by a cheering city.  I worked elbow-to-elbow with photographers who were now taking photos of terror they could never never un-see.  And going forward, my city and neighbors are to be forever scarred because someone else who was also fed up with the status quo decided to make bombs rather than learn how to grow vegetables.Tears flowed at on farm Tuesday morning as we sat next to a pasture of bouncing lambs and checked in about the previous day’s bombings.  And all week, the Farm has been a funny place to be.  On one hand, blue skies, green growth and happy animals provide a welcomed degree of distance and insulation from the large and unsettling forces well beyond my control.  Yet this time, the peace I normally find here has been a bit more elusive.I don’t have a takeaway – or more accurately, I have a bunch of half-conclusions that swirl about my head like confused flies.  I guess it’s messy to be in two worlds at once, like I’m trying to do these days.And I guess there is only much I can ever expect to live in just one.Photos from the week on the farm can be found HERE.