We’ve been farming with Janet and Jeff now for three weeks. Three exceptional weeks. Not only because we’ve had the most beautiful February weather imaginable (We haven’t worked outside in the rain once. And just this week we’ve had a few frosty mornings, but that has come along as a result of glorious warm and sunny days.) But mostly because we are blessed with working alongside people we love and respect deeply. And have a tremendous amount of fun with.
During our one hundred eighty hours of work, almost all of it has been in the blueberry field with our pruners. Repeating the same task again, and again, and again. The most challenging part of this work being to stay alert and accurate with each bush, and not become sloppy as they begin to blur together. We have seven rows (of 37) to go!
Perhaps a slightly more challenging aspect of this work is finding a balanced relationship to our work and our friends. Our friends are our bosses. Our friends are our teachers. Our friends are our community. Our work is new to us, even if we’ve pruned over 400 bushes.
The traditional job market has shown us that if we can demonstrate or simply profess rapid mastery of any task set before us we are a more desirable employee. It seems to me that resume building has destroyed our humility. I came to farm because I wanted to experience a more slow paced relationship to mastery. I want to move away from thinking my ideas are the best, and to redevelop my skills as the student. Karate Kid style.
So while I’m looking at my teachers for guidance, they are also my peers. And I also came to farm for community. I want to experience collaboration and camaraderie. But not at the expense of respect for my masters. (My masters being ‘a person skilled in a particular trade and able to teach others’ not ‘a person who has dominance or control over something.’) So I approach each day, question, and task aiming for the balance of humility, support, and friendship.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Opening the Gate
When I was young, getting out of the car to open the gate was a dreaded chore. At night, it was a momentous feat to climb my mountain of fear to get out of the car alone in the dark, let alone stand nervously as the headlights passed me by and left me running to catch up without looking back at whatever was most certainly chasing me.
After spending the past twenty-four hours visiting my family in the next town over, as we pulled up to the Finnriver gate tonight I stepped out of the car with the same dread I’ve been carrying for decades and got back into the car with a shocking breath of fresh air. Earlier this evening while lying on my parent’s leather couches and watching various sporting events in High Definition (the NBA all-star events and opening games of the Winter Olympics were both featured this weekend) I began to sense the slightest twinge of discontentment at what awaited me back on the farm. I had to hold myself back from describing my cabin to my sister as ‘small’ and ‘cluttered.’ One day of soft wall-to-wall carpeting and endless ginger ales had felt so good.
As Joe and I drove home tonight our chatter was like a freight train. Heading towards an out of sight destination and in the mean time noisy. As I stepped out to open the gate, my mental prattle was slapped silent by the amazing clamor of the quiet night. All at once I was struck by the loud sky of stars and the burgeoning calls of crickets and toads. And just as instantly I was awakened to how wrong I was to lust over the warm house we had just left. The sense of home soaked deep into my skin so quickly that I didn’t even notice the car lights move beyond me. And the cabin even felt amply perfect when I entered.
Joe and I recently found two metaphors to guide aspects of our partnership. From storyteller Utah Phillips we gathered the idea that time is a river and we are standing in it and our ancestors are the tributaries and we can bend down and touch the water and the stones anytime to stay connected. And recently we were taught of the native mythology of the salmon representing a return to home and origin, as they are creatures that travel far and yet always find their way back.
In addition to working on being comfortable in the dark, our time on the farm (however short or long it may ultimately be) is precious for its potential to guide us through relearning the mythologies that shaped us or our ancestors. It is a time when life is lived with all senses engaged. Our comforts have been exchanged for awareness and our indulgences for curiosity. In this state I hope to become more familiar with the meaning of home and the importance of return. What is it that we should be returning to? Is it best to return rather than advance? Before long it will be my job to pass along these lessons. I cannot approach this responsibility without preparation.
Not long ago my dad told me that when he first moved to live in the darkness of the mountains he was afraid at first. I asked him how he managed all those years. He told me that he forced himself to simply stand in the dark and witness that nothing frightening would happen. I cannot teach the children of my life not to be afraid of the dark until I myself am not. I cannot partake in a revival of mythology until I have searched for meanings with my own hands. I believe the best place to do that is here, where I can walk down the field to see the salmon returning up our creek. Where I can be most intimate with the life cycle of the plants and animals around me – both domesticated and wild. And where I am required to use my body each day in a way that is constructive to both the day’s work and my own physical health. There is no other place to explore the meanings of continuation and return than the place that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to stand in a dark solitary moment just a little longer.
After spending the past twenty-four hours visiting my family in the next town over, as we pulled up to the Finnriver gate tonight I stepped out of the car with the same dread I’ve been carrying for decades and got back into the car with a shocking breath of fresh air. Earlier this evening while lying on my parent’s leather couches and watching various sporting events in High Definition (the NBA all-star events and opening games of the Winter Olympics were both featured this weekend) I began to sense the slightest twinge of discontentment at what awaited me back on the farm. I had to hold myself back from describing my cabin to my sister as ‘small’ and ‘cluttered.’ One day of soft wall-to-wall carpeting and endless ginger ales had felt so good.
As Joe and I drove home tonight our chatter was like a freight train. Heading towards an out of sight destination and in the mean time noisy. As I stepped out to open the gate, my mental prattle was slapped silent by the amazing clamor of the quiet night. All at once I was struck by the loud sky of stars and the burgeoning calls of crickets and toads. And just as instantly I was awakened to how wrong I was to lust over the warm house we had just left. The sense of home soaked deep into my skin so quickly that I didn’t even notice the car lights move beyond me. And the cabin even felt amply perfect when I entered.
Joe and I recently found two metaphors to guide aspects of our partnership. From storyteller Utah Phillips we gathered the idea that time is a river and we are standing in it and our ancestors are the tributaries and we can bend down and touch the water and the stones anytime to stay connected. And recently we were taught of the native mythology of the salmon representing a return to home and origin, as they are creatures that travel far and yet always find their way back.
In addition to working on being comfortable in the dark, our time on the farm (however short or long it may ultimately be) is precious for its potential to guide us through relearning the mythologies that shaped us or our ancestors. It is a time when life is lived with all senses engaged. Our comforts have been exchanged for awareness and our indulgences for curiosity. In this state I hope to become more familiar with the meaning of home and the importance of return. What is it that we should be returning to? Is it best to return rather than advance? Before long it will be my job to pass along these lessons. I cannot approach this responsibility without preparation.
Not long ago my dad told me that when he first moved to live in the darkness of the mountains he was afraid at first. I asked him how he managed all those years. He told me that he forced himself to simply stand in the dark and witness that nothing frightening would happen. I cannot teach the children of my life not to be afraid of the dark until I myself am not. I cannot partake in a revival of mythology until I have searched for meanings with my own hands. I believe the best place to do that is here, where I can walk down the field to see the salmon returning up our creek. Where I can be most intimate with the life cycle of the plants and animals around me – both domesticated and wild. And where I am required to use my body each day in a way that is constructive to both the day’s work and my own physical health. There is no other place to explore the meanings of continuation and return than the place that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to stand in a dark solitary moment just a little longer.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A Choice
Sunday evening dusk has descended. I’m watching from the window in my loft, looking out over the hop and strawberry field. I see movement of farmers tidying up the barnyard. For the farmers weekends are not days off, they are the days set aside each week to catch up on the other aspects of farm life that didn’t fit into the ‘work week.’ Farming is not a job for them, it is their lifestyle. Like being an activist. Except they are the most extreme of activists because they are in the ‘street’ everyday, with pitch forks in hand. And like the activists worldwide they remain unheard and taken for granted.
I am not a fighter. My place is not in the streets of the cities. At twenty-four I am not ready to give into pessimism as my fuel for positive social change. In fact, since I believe that a more peaceful society cannot come from a violent revolution, than I must also believe that an optimistic society will not be born from cynicism. So here I am. On a farm. In what I, and many others, believe to be one of the most beautiful places in this country. Each day I rise with my life partner and we meet two of our most beautiful friends in the field to begin the day’s work. I have never laughed so much during a day of work at any previous job.
But I am not here as a form of activism. I’m not here to be a more extreme ‘locavore.’ I’m here because I really love growing things. The happiness that comes from eating food I grew is of another realm from the satisfaction I got from eating an entirely local diet. To me it is the difference between living from optimism and living from pessimism. Activists must have optimism that things will change, or surly they would give up. But the lifestyle also relies on the existence of imbalance and seeing the world in terms of its negative aspects. Being a (small, organic) farmer requires believing that there is balance and having optimism that you can work within it successfully. As an activist locavore, each food action I made was one of protest. While I came to love rutabagas, my choice to consume them stemmed more from the fact that they were not bell peppers from Mexico than the fact that they were grown in the next county over. Here each food action I make is one of optimism. Optimism that it will grow healthy, and excitement that before long I will sit around a table with people I love and enjoy the deliciousness of our labor.
I don’t know anyone who would describe me as an optimist. And I didn’t pair this concept with farming until I was already here. So in this time that I will be learning to farm, I hope to learn how to let this form of optimism permeate my future.
I am not a fighter. My place is not in the streets of the cities. At twenty-four I am not ready to give into pessimism as my fuel for positive social change. In fact, since I believe that a more peaceful society cannot come from a violent revolution, than I must also believe that an optimistic society will not be born from cynicism. So here I am. On a farm. In what I, and many others, believe to be one of the most beautiful places in this country. Each day I rise with my life partner and we meet two of our most beautiful friends in the field to begin the day’s work. I have never laughed so much during a day of work at any previous job.
But I am not here as a form of activism. I’m not here to be a more extreme ‘locavore.’ I’m here because I really love growing things. The happiness that comes from eating food I grew is of another realm from the satisfaction I got from eating an entirely local diet. To me it is the difference between living from optimism and living from pessimism. Activists must have optimism that things will change, or surly they would give up. But the lifestyle also relies on the existence of imbalance and seeing the world in terms of its negative aspects. Being a (small, organic) farmer requires believing that there is balance and having optimism that you can work within it successfully. As an activist locavore, each food action I made was one of protest. While I came to love rutabagas, my choice to consume them stemmed more from the fact that they were not bell peppers from Mexico than the fact that they were grown in the next county over. Here each food action I make is one of optimism. Optimism that it will grow healthy, and excitement that before long I will sit around a table with people I love and enjoy the deliciousness of our labor.
I don’t know anyone who would describe me as an optimist. And I didn’t pair this concept with farming until I was already here. So in this time that I will be learning to farm, I hope to learn how to let this form of optimism permeate my future.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Now to Farming
One year ago this past December, Joe and I decided we wanted to move to FinnRiver for the 2010 growing season. We didn’t come to this decision by spinning our antique globe that hangs upside down from our ceiling and happening to place our finger on Chimacum, Washington. No, it’s not quite that exotic.
To trace the path that lead us to FinnRiver, I’ll begin with the day after Thanksgiving 2005. Joe and I had met in July of that year, and began our partnership in October. While camping and fasting in the Olympics of Washington we celebrated Buy Nothing Day (the day after Thanksgiving) with a sunny hike along the Ozette coast. We decided to a fun challenge of seeing how many days in the month of December we could ‘Buy Nothing.’ After the December challenge, we had a January of no packaging. And in March while we were on a bus traveling through Mexico, I suggested that when we returned to the US we try a year of eating locally. In March of 2006, the only folks we had ever heard of doing this was the couple in British Columbia, Canada. We soon learned we were among many trying out this challenge.
Our two plus years of eating within a day’s drive led us to working on farms in exchange for our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) shares. In 2007 when we moved from Colorado to Washington, FinnRiver was our third work-trade farm.
While we transitioned away from a 100% local diet, we dug ourselves deeper into growing food. We became quite fond of FinnRiver and the folks that farm it. And while we lived in Seattle for the past two years, we visited quite frequently. Joe and I discussed wanting to farm with our friends here, and each time we decided it didn’t make sense. But finally we decided it actually did make sense and it was truly what we wanted to do. So, our public health and community education careers can wait. And in the meantime our connections to the meanings of health, community, and education will be nourished.
So this week we started pruning the blueberry field. We will do this for 3-4 weeks, all day everyday, until each of the 2,000+ bushes has been given our attention.
I’ve been thinking constantly about the words to describe why I’m here, and I hope to continue sharing those with you each week while I discover them. I hope to have something new here each Monday by lunchtime.
What’s brewing in my mind this week: new mythology and optimism.
To trace the path that lead us to FinnRiver, I’ll begin with the day after Thanksgiving 2005. Joe and I had met in July of that year, and began our partnership in October. While camping and fasting in the Olympics of Washington we celebrated Buy Nothing Day (the day after Thanksgiving) with a sunny hike along the Ozette coast. We decided to a fun challenge of seeing how many days in the month of December we could ‘Buy Nothing.’ After the December challenge, we had a January of no packaging. And in March while we were on a bus traveling through Mexico, I suggested that when we returned to the US we try a year of eating locally. In March of 2006, the only folks we had ever heard of doing this was the couple in British Columbia, Canada. We soon learned we were among many trying out this challenge.
Our two plus years of eating within a day’s drive led us to working on farms in exchange for our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) shares. In 2007 when we moved from Colorado to Washington, FinnRiver was our third work-trade farm.
While we transitioned away from a 100% local diet, we dug ourselves deeper into growing food. We became quite fond of FinnRiver and the folks that farm it. And while we lived in Seattle for the past two years, we visited quite frequently. Joe and I discussed wanting to farm with our friends here, and each time we decided it didn’t make sense. But finally we decided it actually did make sense and it was truly what we wanted to do. So, our public health and community education careers can wait. And in the meantime our connections to the meanings of health, community, and education will be nourished.
So this week we started pruning the blueberry field. We will do this for 3-4 weeks, all day everyday, until each of the 2,000+ bushes has been given our attention.
I’ve been thinking constantly about the words to describe why I’m here, and I hope to continue sharing those with you each week while I discover them. I hope to have something new here each Monday by lunchtime.
What’s brewing in my mind this week: new mythology and optimism.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)