“Satsung Sangha,” Paul affirmed as stopped his old truck by my back door on his way home. A young therapist, he had studied meditation and practiced yoga. He explained later that that Satsang is a Sanskrit term meaning “being in the company of the truth.” Sangha refers to a group of like-minded people who engage in spiritual dialogue. We had just spent 90 minutes with seasoned farmers bringing freshly-made hay bales from the field to the barn. It had been a first for both of us.  

When my friend Leigh Anne said her husband, Ron, had offered  to make hay in my three-acre front field, I was amazed at his generosity. He brought his equipment in two loads on his trailer: two tractors, a sickle bar mower, a crimper, a rake and a baler—all antiques. “He loves making hay,” she explained and added, “He likes to work slowly and enjoy his work.”    

 As he began mowing, he sat so easy on his tractor--he was clearly at home with the work. The hay dried quickly in sun, heat and breeze. On Tuesday, Leigh Anne began raking the hay into long rows. “Would you like to try it?” she asked. “Yes!” I answered resoundingly.  I climbed onto the worn seat of the Kubota tractor. It was all buttons and levers.

“Turn the key to the left to activate the hot stick. Put your hand over this little hole and when you feel heat come out, turn the key to the right to start the engine.” she directed. She helped set the gears and activate the PTO drive. She showed me how to lift and lower the rake and told me to set the throttle at 1800 RPM's.

 I released the clutch and aimed the front tire next to a row of hay. The tractor moved slowly around the field.  Soon I too became one with the work. I was soothed by the rhythmic, claa claa claa claa claa of the rake and warmed by the afternoon sun. A slight breeze dried my sweat and the fragrant smell of the freshly-cut hay surrounded me. I sensed every dip and curve in the land.   

 Next evening, I heard the rake. Ron had come a day early to get ahead of the rain predicted for Thursday.  Paul had planned to help me milk my cow. “Baling tonight, bring your truck,” I texted. Soon he and I bounced in the back of my trailer as Leigh Anne drove my truck into the field. Lightning flashed to our east; clouds formed in the west. We smelled a hint of rain and sensed the urgency of our work.   We  loaded bales into the bed of truck and trailer while Ron drove the tractor. The baler dropped small bales onto the ground behind him. As the shadows lengthened, the field became a study of soft contour and chunky bale.

 Paul and I pushed our backs against bales of hay as we sat on the tailgate and Leigh Anne drove the truck to the barn, a large warm empty womb of a space. We spread the bales six inches apart, loose sides up to let the last of the moisture escape. Ron had known barns that had burned when the bales had been stacked too tightly too soon. Light from the waxing moon and flashes of lightning shone through the barn's slats. “It feels great to have hay in my barn before our barn dance!” I exuded. Ron nodded.  

 As Leigh Anne directed Ron to back the trailer into the shed, I struggled to share with Paul how I found this experience so different from the yoga classes I had attended inside. The whole process was so immediate and sensuous. The hay reminded me of sinking my face into my lover's hair;  filling the barn with summer's bounty spoke to me subliminally about filling my own emptiness with life. The hay would feed and bed my cows through the winter; they would feed me with their milk and the farm with their manure. When spring came, they would return to pasture. 

“Yoga is connecting with God,” Paul responded. “This is like the yoga of farming.”  I sensed later, we were connecting with the Goddess, the Earth Mother. Full cycle. Full circle. Satsung. Sangha. Amen.