You can only inhabit so much space. Here I am sitting at my back door, looking out over 52 acres of mixed pasture and bushland, and out to the infinite-seeming grey-green of the national park, and yet I only really inhabit a few square metres of it, on a daily basis.
By inhabit, I mean live in. There’s my house. I’m in that all the time, but mostly in the kitchen or the bedroom. When I’m outside it, I’m on my porch (usually the back, gazing out at the hills). From there, I might wander to my Frida Kahlo Room (the carport, so-called because I saw a film about Frida and thought I’d like to have a place like hers, full of cacti and primary colours.). Or I might trek to the woodshed to get wood for the fire – looking very carefully at the ground because Melisandre and Cecil, like all black snakes, love a good woodshed.
Then of course there’s the two minute walk down to the vegetable garden, and the four minute puff back up. There’s walks around the dam and down to the creek and to the neighbour’s waterfall and just generally around the roo-bedecked paddocks – but I don’t inhabit those. They’re too big. I can’t ‘own’ that much territory – I’m like a dog presented with too many trees to piss on.
And then, rising to the moral plane – why SHOULD I have 52 acres while others measure their living space in square metres (of cardboard, in some cases)? You’re supposed to feel like you’re doing the earth a favour, butting out and living on the land – but if everyone did it, we’d run out of land to live on. And food to live on (given that we’re ‘lifestyle’ countryfolk, not farmers).
Anyway, if I can’t literally stamp all over my stamping ground – I can put a fence around it and say nobody else is allowed in. THAT, I can do. Maybe Trumpo and me have more in common than I thought.