Artists get sad in the winter. I don't know a single one who doesn't. This is about what the garden gives back when the gray finally lifts, and what it was holding for you all along.
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I moved to my farm in Smith County from East Nashville. I don't think I ever once even noticed a bird at my house there, unless it flew into my window and died by the front door. I was a different person before this land got hold of me. Three years later, I still hadn't planted a thing, but the land had already started changing me.
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