I think careers are a twentieth century invention and I don’t want one.

The following morning, I pull out of Katie’s beach front bungalow, only to park my car a block down the road. My cell phone rings. I’m in California and I can’t talk and drive. But it’s Turtle Island Preserve. And when I answer the call it’s Eustace Conway himself, on the other end of the line. We’ve been playing a wicked game of phone tag and email exchange over the last few weeks. And it is a wonderful surprise to have finally been caught.

On the phone he sounds like one of the Woodcock brothers, although from the pictures I have seen, he looks more like Ray LaMontagne. His polite accent, thick and slow. His bearded visage and work torn trousers. We make arrangements for a visit to his farm. A week long working interview. A chance to see if I can hack it. To make sure our personalities will mesh and to acclimate Marley dog into the farm life. He’s excited to meet me. And I am in such awe that a man who has hiked the Appalachian trail and ridden his horse from North Carolina to San Diego would find my little adventure intriguing and exciting.

After a couple conversations with a woman named Desere, in the main office, I sent my resume and an essay describing why I was interested in being a part of there preserve, and more specifically a cooking intern. My reasoning being mostly that I was tired. I lived in Charlotte and woke up one morning and couldn’t do it any more. I was living for five o’ clocks and Fridays. Dreading Sundays because they were followed by Mondays. I was a slave to my own routine. And I longed for the excitement and adventure I was reading about in books and watching in movies. There’s a reason why people write about those things. Why millions of dollars are spent to project images on screens. People sitting in darkened theaters watching larger than life people realize their dreams.
So I traded in most of my possessions for a few dollars in my pocket and took off for Maine. Exchanged my Pottery Barn living for L.L. Bean hand-me-downs. Traffic lights for Moose Crossing. The familiarity of routine for the new surroundings. The false sense of security for the comfort of friends and family. The illusion of life for the reality of actually living it.

I want to learn a proper respect for food. To work long hours for the sake of the work. To be rewarded by my accomplishments instead of a paycheck. I think I was born in the wrong decade. Little House on the Prairie seems like a better fit. I like making things and being outside. I know random facts and can ghetto rig almost anything I come across. I’m crafty and strange and I feel at home around people and using my hands. And it’s all coming together. The pieces are falling into place. I feel more comfortable than I have in years. This gypsy lifestyle seems to fit my wanderlust. I have no physical address, and I have never felt more at home.

-The core of man’s spirit comes from new experiences.
-More enduring than skyscrapers, bridges, and cathedrals, and other symbols of man’s achievement are the invisible monuments of wisdom, inspiration, and example erected in the hearts and minds of men. As you throw the weight of your influence on the side of the good, the true ad the beautiful, your life will achieve and endless splendor.
-No, life cannot be understood flat on a page. It has to be lived; a person has to get out of his head, has to fall in love, has to memorize poems, has to jump off bridges into rivers, has to stand in an empty desert and whisper sonnets under his breath.
-Never settle with something for the sake of security. You must find what it is that makes you happy because life is too damn short to settle.
-I think about the woman I have become lately, about the life that I am now living, and about how much I always wanted to be this person and live this life, liberated from the farce of pretending to be anyone other than myself.