and you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"

And the days go by

Today, I visited my friend Mandy in studio with baby goats. Because what makes better radio than baby goats? Nothing.

Listen online here.

In addition to the baby goats, I brought down cheese (because of course) and also some goat cheese and lime cheesecakes (click for recipe.)

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When my Dad was alive, he loved to listen to the Talking Heads. One of their most famous songs, "Once in a Lifetime," played on repeat through my childhood. It starts with a spoken portion:

You may find yourself in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself, "well, how did I get here?"

I catch myself, sometimes, as I walk around the house and the yard on our little urban farm repeating those words, "you may find yourself in a beautiful house," and then I look up, imitating Talking Heads' frontman David Byrne, and ask, "well, how did I get here?"

It's not like I grew up dreaming of having a tiny urban farm full of veggies, goats, chickens, and ducks - I grew up aspiring to be a lawyer. Although I never went to law school, after years in politics, I like to joke that although I'm not a lawyer, "I play one on tv." It's not that far from the truth.

Now, here I sit, with a newsletter about quite specifically not-lawyering and not-politics - it's a newsletter mostly about goats, chickens, urban farming, and beauty in the creation of the tangible (and the delicious). Well, how did I get here?

Getting to here is a long and twisty story, full of heartbreak, disappointment, and disenchantment (especially with politics), but it's not unlike many stories. It's also full of hope, fun, and a renewed sense of wonder. I try hard to focus on those things I'm running toward, not those from which I'm running away. My success in that endeavor depends on the day.

I do know this substack newsletter is one of the things in my life to run toward.

Sometimes it's hard to force myself to pause from the chaos and sit in front of this laptop, trying to distill it all here. But, I have never pushed the "publish" button and regretted a second of the time and love I pour into this space. It's easy to get up, milk, gather eggs, water, feed, weed, and get so lost in the tasks I forget to ask the real question, "well, how did I get here?"

Don't get me wrong - I love each farm-related task. Milking goats is one of life's great delights. I pulled the first turkey egg of the season out of the coop this morning and stared at its speckled glory with the wonder of a child. Watering seedlings as they start to emerge (and trying to protect them from the lovingly murderous embrace of a toddler) reminds me that we can harness and shape the creation of life to feed ourselves. Each task is beautiful, but their constant drumbeat can overtake me without making the time to pause to reflect - that's what this space is to me.

I love this newsletter. Also, I have no idea what the next step with it is.

So, I called a friend who is smart about marketing and PR - and we had a meeting with his team about this substack. It was a good first meeting, and they brought up some interesting points.

They asked seemingly simple questions like, "What is your audience? Who are you writing this for?"

My answer wasn't fully baked and sounded something like: "People who like goats? Farmers? Gardeners? Those who want to move to a tiny farm? Maybe people who don't necessarily want to move to a tiny farm but want to read about my misadventures of tiny farming? People who like cheese? Or maybe people who just like food in general? So, basically, people who eat."

Short answer: I have no idea.

But, here's what I do know - I know that people who read this are my friends - and those readers who I don't know in real life feel like my friends.

The next question was even harder, "What is your value proposition? What are you giving to those who support you - either with a free or paid subscription?"

Again, my answers were a similar word-salad disaster of a person who has no idea what they're doing but is stumbling forward in a bizarre lurching motion: "I mean, hopefully, some readers laugh sometimes? Maybe they feel less alone? More hopeful? My goal is to help others reconnect with the magic of the mundane the same way that my urban farm helps me."

So, there you go: I'm not sure who my audience is or what, exactly, I offer - but I do know this - I love being here, and it means so much to me that you're here too.

One of the women on the call referred to this newsletter as "my baby." It struck me because that's exactly what it is. It's impossible to be objective about one's own baby.

Although simple questions like, "Who are you writing for?" and "What do they get from it?" are the precise questions I would ask another friend if they came to me for the same analysis, I couldn't answer it for myself. I'm too close to it.

In politics, we always say that former political operatives make the worst candidates - they try to be both the candidate and the campaign manager. It's the same with this newsletter. I could market and grow this newsletter if someone else was writing it, but I can't figure out how to promote my own work.

This is my baby. Physician, heal thyself.

So, thank you for being my friends. I hope I give something of value to you every week. I would cherish your support in helping this grow, even in a weird lurching crawl, toward something more beautiful. If you have thoughts on any of this, please leave a comment. If there are things you would like to see - tell me. A podcast? A baby goat zoom call?

Also, if you like it, please share.

Well, how did I get here? I'm not quite sure yet, but I like where we are so far.