By Rich DuBose
When I was 18 years old I worked in a factory for 7-8 months to pay off a debt I owed my dad. I was glad to absolve the debt, but I hated the factory. I stood at the end of a production line in a cookie factory putting smaller boxes of cookies into larger shipping containers that were destined for grocery store shelves. As a creative right brain, visually-oriented person, it was hard to do such mindless repetitive work eight hours a day—five days a week.
One of the ways I coped with the trauma of factory work was to visit a field when I got off work. I'd grab my guitar and walk out into the large field that was directly behind our house, sit in the soft grass, and quietly strum my guitar. When sitting, the grass was up to my shoulders, so I could still see over it. Sometimes I'd just sink into the grass as it sucked the stress out of my weary soul. The factory noises, smells, and repetitive motions were jarring, but in the field I felt only the soft breezes and late afternoon sunbeams that flooded everything in the “golden hour” of the day. It was quiet, except for the random chirping of distant birds. Mesmerized by the sky with its ever changing cloud formations—I celebrated being away from the smells of cookie dough and concentrated humanity.
As the orange tinted shafts of late afternoon sun lit the tops of the grasses and flowers, I found my second wind to keep looking for life in the midst of unfulfilled desires and mindless toil. Surely something good would come out of this.
Over time I wrote a few songs in the field, but I didn’t push it because it needed to be stress-free and spontaneous. Otherwise it would be like work.
Mind you, this was not a cow pasture, but a field. Cow pastures probably have their redeeming qualities, but I was mesmerized by the plainness of the field that featured a collection of unscripted vegetation—wild grasses, flowers, and rugged spires that provided shelter for bugs, lizards, field mice, and a frazzled factory worker. Nearby was a hill that was about 1,400 ft above sea level. It wouldn’t be considered a mountain where I live now in Northern California, but for the locals in Tennessee, it was a mountain.
I’m attracted to fields because they are patches of land that are wild around the edges. In a world where everything is so tightly scripted and controlled, I long for the untamed, unfettered spaces that can defrag my scattered mind.
Sidetracked by a Field
A Reading
I was on my way to self management, where efficiency rules with precision and rigidity. Where production is king and spreadsheets have the last word. I was on my way, when suddenly, I was sidetracked by a field.
Are you kidding me? A field? I was doing fine until I saw it out of the corner of my eye, a wispy patch of land with fuzzy edges, filled with Pointed Ligule, Annual bunchgrass, and Wild Rye.
Such undisciplined soil shouldn’t be able to captivate me like it did. After all, monetary success is more valuable than untamed soil.
What can dirt, Shepherd’s Purse and Mallow do for my future? How can the random patterns of nature feed my soul? How can Brittlebush, Yarrow, and Black Sage give me security? And yet, I was drawn to the field’s ragged edges and windswept soul.
Without explanation I became absorbed by the mundane face of nature. As crazy as it sounds, I was captivated by its Chlorophyll and light.
How does ordinary beauty become so enchanting? What is there about nature that derails my perfunctory pursuits? Why do fields of Chickweed and Wild Mustard alter my priorities?
All I know is it happens.
So, when life gets frazzled, laid bare, and dark, take me to a field.
Rich DuBose writes from Northern California. Photo by Rich DuBose.
The above photo was taken in Cameron Park, California (not Tennessee). It is just a representational image of a field. Find more essays and images on the web at: richdubose.com. All Rights Reserved © 2025. Join Rich on Blue Sky @spiritrenew.bsky.social.