The Farm Beyond Barbed Wire - PART 2

G’day everyone,

I have tried for weeks to finish the previous chapter on hopes and dreams. I know what I believe, what I have felt, but cannot yet put it into words. So I’ll move on and write what comes to me more easily, here's part two.

(Read part one here: https://www.sohiporganics.com.au/blogs/news/the-farm-beyond-barbed-wire)

Then one day, at age 28, a man comes along. He’d be considered overweight if his towering height didn’t hide most of it, covered in tattoos, his head shaved, grey stubble on his face, and deep lines that each have their own story. We strike up a conversation over dinner at a mine camp. He starts to explain who he is, his voice deeper but wiser than Vin Diesel. “I am the new HR manager,” he reveals without much expression. “How is your project going?” he asks without much interest. I'm not sure who he met that day or what I said in return, it seems so long ago, but it was the beginning of a friendship. He gave me a journal and told me to write in it. At first I laughed and told him only my sisters kept a diary. He didn't laugh or respond in any way, he just sat there completely unamused and stared straight through me. After a humiliated silence, I asked him what to write about and he replied, “Sorry, can’t give you any directions on that, it's your book, your life.” “But what if nothing comes to me?” I impatiently retorted. “Eventually something will come,” he said, with eyebrows lifting, showing the first sign of emotion. For weeks I looked at blank pages, half amused and unknowingly afraid. Again and again I slammed the journal shut, shoving it into the drawer with a mix of shame and frustration. But eventually the words crept in—shyly, yearningly, pulled by a dangerous curiosity. Each page of that Moleskine tugged at loose threads, and soon the entire curtain would be unstitched. In a panic, I reached for needle and thread; with shaking hands, I tried to stitch it back together again. It was no use. I had gone too far—I was left raw, exposed, and deeply afraid.

It's been 2 years since words crawled unwillingly into that journal. I’m on a plane as people around me are snoring, cabin lights dimmed hours ago, yet my reading light remains bright. I close my eyes, praying for an answer, a way back from the abyss I wish I hadn't unstitched. I fill the void with fantasy the best I can, and from somewhere deep inside me I dream of a faraway land. I'm standing behind four barbed wires and a line of crooked posts; on the other side is a field covered with the soft glow of a setting sun. A breeze canters through the long grass, whipping the fluffy white seeds into the air as it brushes past. A small bird struggles to balance on the branch of a young dancing eucalypt tree. Cows dot the furthest hill, slowly chasing the sun to sleep. I remembered this peace from childhood, though no single memory stands out. It's easy to conjure an image of enchantment when nostalgia holds you in her warm embrace: I continue to paint my escape—a weathered farmhouse, its chimney breathing sweet smoke as the fire crackles and groans against the winter rain drumming on corrugated iron. Out back, a chicken coop, a Jersey cow offering milk warm from the pail, sheep grazing lazily to keep the grass down while children tumbled in the yard, shrieking with joy. Evenings would end beneath skies burning hues of peaches and flamingos, mornings would rise with feathered melodies, and the nights would open to stars sharp and endless. Mum and Dad had always dreamt of going back to the land—I pictured them there with us, all of us living happily on these promised lands.

Months went by, and I coached myself through it. Each time I felt myself kneeling to dread and ridicule, it would stoke a fierce and unyielding passion inside. Parked alone at the end of the cul-de-sac, I let the better part of me preach courage and bravery to the shadow that was hissing back. Game night finally arrived and it was time to jump—with a faltering heart, I gave up my life's work and all I had ever known since I was 15. The verdict? I must be MAD. Though nobody dared say it outright. Brave, said a couple. Good luck, said most. I was frightened, yes. Often I thought myself stupid. I have a wife and two kids now. I’d never lived a life not secured in fortnightly pay packets and bonuses. I walked tall while the panic inside me crouched, ready to pounce. But my dream spurred me on like spring rain coaxing seeds to life.

During the chaos of the months that would follow, Emily gave birth to our third child. The house was sold. Bags were packed. Kids buckled up, three baby seats wide. We drove long into the night, kids asleep, the smell of fast food hanging in the late-night air. The highway was empty except for the occasional truck, there was no turning back now—dear god, I hope I haven't just gone and stuffed everything up. For a few months, we soared on the wings of discovery. But then work began with haste, despite agreeing to a sabbatical. Reality crept in like opening a door you thought led to freedom, only to see another hallway ahead. The children are noisy. Do they always fight this much? They keep waking in the night — did I miss all of this? Sleep was patchy at best. I’m doing housework now; I’m supposed to be hands-on, yet I feel out of place. This farming gig is tough, how the hell are we supposed to make money? I didn’t expect it to be this hard. I apologised for shouting, for losing my temper. I didn’t know it would be like this. I thought it would be great. Where were these emotions coming from, why am I so frustrated and quick to anger? I’d been used to having things my way. I’d never had to listen for long; I’d never had to stay. “I’m sorry for being an arsehole,” I told them. I felt like running away.

To be continued…….

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