There is alfalfa scattered across my porch, goat shit in places where goat shit has absolutely no business, and a growing list of repairs directly attributable to the eight animals I've voluntarily brought into our lives. In the past several months, I've made it considerably more difficult to leave my house.

There are morning and evening feedings, water buckets to fill, enclosures to clean, and a dairy goat who needs to be milked twice a day. None of these responsibilities are particularly interested in whether I've had a long day, made other plans, or would simply prefer to rest. The goats and dogs are indifferent to my schedule, my energy levels, and whatever ambitions I might have had for a leisurely morning.

I understood, at least in theory, what I was signing up for. Of course, there are moments when I look around at the mess and wonder what exactly possessed me to make an already full life so much fuller, and yet, I think often about the peculiar freedom I've found in all this responsibility.

There's the kind of freedom we tend to idealize: having fewer obligations, being able to leave whenever we want, having complete ownership of our time. The freedom to make spontaneous plans, to change our minds, to keep our options open. By most conventional measures, I've made myself considerably less free.

But are autonomy and freedom the same thing? Some of the most meaningful parts of our lives are also the ones that ask the most of us.

I don't always want to go outside. There are mornings when I'm tired, evenings when I have a hundred other things to do, and days when the prospect of another round of feeding, milking, and cleaning up after animals is not at all appealing. Sometimes I have to talk myself into pulling on my boots and jacket and getting started, but the animals need tending, and so I go. Often, once the work is done and I've let the goats out to browse, I find myself lingering.

I walk with them through the property, watching what they eat and where they wander. I notice what's growing, what's gone to seed, the birds moving through the trees, the wind coming across the mountains. The smell of the air changes with the weather. The sky takes on colors I might otherwise have missed. The dogs chase one another, settle into the grass, or follow the goats around, each with their own peculiar understanding of what everyone else is supposed to be doing. I watch the little relationships unfolding between them, their curiosities and disagreements, their habits and preferences.

None of this is extraordinary. It's simply what's happening outside my door.

The seasons were changing before these animals came into our lives. The wind was moving through the trees, the plants and wildlife were going about their business. I was just less likely to be standing there long enough to truly take it in.

I've always appreciated the beauty of this place, but appreciation and familiarity are different things. I'm getting to know the land through repeated encounters, seeing the same plants at different stages of their life cycles, experiencing the same stretch of ground in different weather, recognizing the subtle changes that take place over weeks and months.

I think about the family who lived here before us, and the man who built this house. He died here, in an accident while working on his tractor. I find myself thinking about the lives that unfolded here before mine, the ordinary routines and responsibilities, the work of maintaining a home and raising a family. I don't know enough about all the particulars of those lives to draw conclusions about what this place meant to them, but I know it held their days, their labor, their relationships, and their losses.

The history of this land extends far beyond the people who built this house or those of us who have held legal ownership of it. My own relationship with this place occupies a very small part of a much longer history, one that doesn't begin with my arrival and won't end with my departure.

I'm wary of romanticizing any of this. The labor, the land, or the idea that keeping animals and spending time outdoors makes a person inherently wiser or more virtuous. There are many ways to care for the world, and the opportunity to choose additional responsibilities is itself a privilege.

I'm fortunate to have this place, to have the means to care for these animals, even when those resources feel stretched, and to be able to step outside and find myself surrounded by so much life. I feel increasingly responsible for taking care of what is here, knowing how much of it I've been fortunate enough to inherit and how little of it is mine in any permanent sense.

Family life is built around the same principle. Caring for children, maintaining a home, tending relationships, looking after animals. So much of what makes a life meaningful also makes it less convenient.

Parenthood has certainly taught me that love is more than a feeling of affection toward another person. It's the repeated act of showing up, often when we're tired, distracted, overwhelmed, or would rather be doing something else. It's making dinner, listening to another argument between siblings, finding the missing shoe, and tending to someone's needs even when our own haven't yet been met.

I'm not suggesting there's anything especially noble about being exhausted or endlessly available, either. I've spent enough of my life learning how to prioritize my own needs to know that self-sacrifice isn't a virtue in itself. Some obligations are freely chosen, others are imposed upon us, and not every demand on our time deserves our continued devotion.

Our emphasis on independence and personal choice sometimes obscures the meaning we find in willingly belonging to something beyond ourselves. There's a spiritual value in that belonging, at least for me.

I've been thinking about the spiritual value of repetition, too, and how much of our lives are spent returning to the same things. Feeding, cleaning, preparing meals, caring for children, tending relationships. The work is never really finished. The animals will need feeding tomorrow, my children will need dinner, and the house will be dirty in perpetuity.

There's a monotony to it, certainly, and some days I feel every bit of it. But repetition is one of the ways devotion takes shape. We return to the things we've committed ourselves to, often without any particular enthusiasm, and in doing so affirm their place in our lives.

In many ways, freedom still means the ability to make choices for myself, to protect my time and energy, to maintain some measure of independence. Those things remain important to me. But I’m increasingly interested in what we choose to do with that freedom, and what we decide is worthy of our attention, our effort, and our continued presence.

Part of freedom is being able to choose what we devote ourselves to, and then allowing those commitments to shape us. I want my children to grow up with some understanding of this. I want them to know that the animals need feeding whether or not they feel like helping, that the land we enjoy requires tending, and that being part of a family means contributing to its care.

I want them to experience the pleasure of it, too. To remember wandering the property with the goats, watching the dogs tumble through the grass, noticing the changing seasons, and sharing in the small satisfactions of looking after something together. I want them to know that their presence matters, that their contributions are meaningful, and that the needs of other living things are worthy of their attention.

I don't want them to believe that the world revolves around them. I want them to know they belong to it.

I'm grateful for the help I receive, whether it's my children or friends pitching in, or the people who come into our lives and take a genuine interest in this slightly chaotic little farm. I love that this life is something other people can participate in, that the work can be shared, and so can the pleasure of it. I'm reminded often enough that caring for things doesn't have to mean carrying everything alone.

My days are messy, my schedule is full, and I'm frequently tired. There are plenty of evenings when I would rather stay inside, and mornings when I wonder what it might be like to have absolutely nothing requiring my attention. Care isn't always convenient. And obligation is not necessarily a surrender of freedom.

I know that I've taken on responsibilities that limit my freedom in some very practical ways. I sometimes resent the inconvenience. The alfalfa will probably never be entirely swept from my porch, and the animals will be waiting for me tomorrow morning regardless of how I feel about any of it.

But I'm outside more often, and I notice more. The land surrounding my home has become increasingly familiar to me, a place where I spend a meaningful portion of my life. On nights when I'd rather stay inside, I pull on my boots, strap on my headlamp, and go out because the animals are waiting. More often than not, I'm grateful to be there.

—Katie