The past few weeks have felt long and full. We’ve been going back and forth between Brisbane and the farm in Tenterfield, trying to keep up with both places, both lives. Kobi got home from his trip to Japan—he had the best time. It was so good to see him come back happy, relaxed, and still glad to be home. That felt like a good sign.

The very next day, we were over at the neighbours eating pizza when Maya called. Eli—our old cat—suddenly couldn’t use his back legs. We rushed him to the emergency vet and then to the animal hospital the following day for more tests. Eventually, they suspected a growth on his spine. They said he’d need surgery but didn’t know if he’d ever walk again. His blood pressure was high, and at 17, the risks were too great. We decided, together, that the kindest thing we could do was let him go. He died on my lap, where he always curled up in the evenings. It was his favourite place to be, and I’m glad that’s where he took his last breath.

Back at the farm, winter has properly arrived. Mornings are freezing—zero degrees most days—but the sun’s been shining and the light is beautiful. The garden is moving slowly. The cabbage moths have finally stopped laying their eggs, which is a small relief. Everything is sleeping, and I’m trying to listen closely to what it needs.

Benji and I have been working on the tiny house, getting it ready to move to the farm. We had to reinforce the cladding, take off the front screen and the bench seat, and clear everything out. She’s empty now and ready to go. The builder and the removalist think we’ll be able to move it in the next couple of weeks. It feels like such a big step—even though it’s just a small house, it holds so much hope.

I’ve got a few knitting projects on the go at the moment—one of them for Maya’s 21st birthday in September. I’m also back on the gloves, starting from scratch again and trying to work out where I went wrong last time. It’s fiddly and slow, but knitting has become part of the everyday now. A quiet kind of anchor in the evenings.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what A Plot in Common could look like as a business. I don’t need it to be huge or extraordinary. I just want to offer something gentle and grounded—an invitation for people to come to the farm, learn how to grow their own food, maybe try their hand at fermenting, share a long lunch, stay in the tiny house. Real things. Good things. A way of covering the costs without turning it into something it’s not.

One idea I’ve been playing with is starting a gardening membership—monthly videos, PDFs, a Zoom conversation where we can share what we’re growing and learning. Members would also get discounts to farm events and workshops. It’s something that makes sense in my head, but I haven’t been sure whether it would make sense to anyone else.

And honestly, I don’t know if any of this is going to work. Some days I feel really unsure. Like maybe I’m just fooling myself. I’ve put so much thought into this farm and A Plot in Common and all the things I want to share here—but I keep asking myself: is this something people even want? Will anyone come? Will they care?

I’m not trying to build anything big or impressive. I just want to create something slow and real and useful. But the truth is, I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if I’m enough to make it happen.

I guess I’m saying this because I want to be honest. Not the tidy version of starting a farm business, but the real one—where I lie in bed wondering if I’m wasting my time. Do I keep moving forward anyway, but with shaky hands.

So I’m putting it out there. Would you be interested? In coming to the farm, learning something new, slowing down, being part of it? I’d really love to know.

Tash xxx