Every morning, I milk cows in our little old barn. It’s a quiet place, a bit imperfect and weathered by time, but sturdy, reliable shelter from the elements and kept fresh and clean. I like mornings. As I lean into the rhythm of the milking machine and the cows’ steady breath, my mind begins to drift.
I often wonder about the farmer who built this barn—how proud he must’ve been when it was new, when the beams were fresh and straight, and the cows filed in for the first time. I like to imagine him praying for rain (barns are a great place to pray), planning out his day, maybe even humming a tune to keep the routine from feeling too heavy.
Because the reality is, milking cows day after day—while managing pickup schedules, last-minute cancellations, unpredictable weather, and a constant stream of media noise and strong opinions about raw milk—can sometimes make a person feel a little… well, off their rocker.
That’s probably why I told my daughter Natalie, half-joking, that I wanted to paint Starry Night on the barn wall. You know—Van Gogh’s famous swirling sky, the one he painted from his asylum window—just to remind myself that I could be crazier.
Natalie’s eyes lit up. “When can I start?!” she said.
So we made it happen, with help.
She asked her art teacher what kind of paint to use, and instead of just advise he shared the paint needed with us. This type of surprise gift—where someone says “I see you, and I want to help”—that’s the heart of community. That’s the good stuff.
And now, when I walk into the barn each morning, I look up at the murals she painted and I smile. It’s a reminder that even when life feels repetitive or hard or uncertain, there’s always room for color. For imagination. For reaching out and asking someone else to join you in your wild little idea. And there’s joy in saying yes to someone else’s, too.
Maybe today you need that kind of reminder.
To lighten up a little.
To do something that makes you smile.
To ask for help.
Or to offer it.
Because we’re not meant to white-knuckle our way through life alone. We’re meant to work side by side—family, neighbors, kids, artists, farmers, even cows sometimes. And if you’re lucky, maybe someone will hand you the paint.
Gratefully,
Leah
Great Heritage Farm
