“The landscape is changing. We are changing. What are we to make of our own short stay on this beloved blue planet of ours as it rotates and revolves in space.” – Terry Tempest Williams, Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert
There comes that moment in the garden where you are so immersed in the task, so fully present in the sensory experience, that the simple act becomes a form of meditation. I find these minutes in the potato patch, a place where knee-deep in damp compost, hands sifting the soil, I find a sense of awe in the unearthing of the golden tubers hiding amongst the tumult of the garden bed. In those moments, in the knowing and understanding that I am nourishing my community and myself, there is not a worry on my mind.
I hold onto these moments of pure bliss in the garden and secret them away. I pull them out of me in times of fear and deep sadness, often while I sweat my way through another heat wave. In the stress of pulling the last of the garlic, as I watch bees fly to the pond to cool their hives, I take myself to the happiness of the potato patch. I do this to keep myself rooted in purpose, knowing that thoughts are like seeds, and by sowing positive thoughts I can will myself to continue to grow.
These moments of joy are embedded throughout each day in the garden. The trick is to stay fully present and aware of them. By choosing to be observant of the land, these delights pour in more often, flooding my senses. With each passing impression, I remind myself why I have chosen to continue to steward the land, repeating these reasons like a poem of hope, a message of endurance. The simple gift of the hummingbird, who perches inches from where I stand, watering peppers. That second of laughter when I feel like a child again crawling amongst the strawberries as I look for another ripe berry to fill my basket. My hands and mouth are stained red from the mulberry tree that has been my daily delight.
I lean into these impressions like the gifts they are, giving me the strength of resiliency. I always thought I would have to be physically adept as a farmer to continue to work in the age of climate change. I would need to be willing to withstand both the extremes of cold and heat, to become stronger, to fight harder. What I have suddenly realized is that I also need to have the mental fortitude to endure. To find the patience and the flexibility to continue to show up, knowing that it won’t ever get better in my lifetime. I remind myself over and over again that I am resilient. I find purpose in the memory of my hand emerging in the cool compost of the soil, fingers grasping a golden potato. With this in my mind’s eye, I shake the sweat from my sunhat and continue the path forward, growing in this good earth while I can.
With Love from the Garden
Shannon
Farm to Table
This month, our tasting room menu features parsley, basil, kale, zucchini, potatoes, leeks, sweet onion, chives, greens, cucumber, peppers, mint, honey, garlic, strawberries, and boysenberries.