“It struck me that to sit on a porch in the rainy woods is a bit like being a snail: inside and outside all at once, at home in the wet world.” – Margaret Renkl, The Comfort of Crows
Rain crashes down on the roof of the greenhouse, an ever-present staccato in the winter months. The thrum of the noise feels like my own secret song of rain, a sound that I have learned to find comforting for all its persistence in the winter months. I stand over a tray of coriander seeds, removing dried seeds from the browning stalks and placing handfuls of seeds into a glass jar. In a task so normal and, in some eyes, so inconsequential as seed processing, I still find myself marveling at the joy of the task. For three winters now, I have been processing seeds in this space, yet somehow, this task feels like new. This feeling of gratitude for the warmth and dryness of the greenhouse and the work at hand has endured.
I have been reflecting on this wonder recently, trying to find how I can still find so much joy in work that I have come to know so intimately. This feeling reminds me of what it is like to be a child, the wonder we find in the daily discoveries and marvels of the world. How do we still find this feeling in adulthood? How can the everyday routine not become mundane? With the day-to-day stressors and the need to account for bills and schedules, I yearn to surrender to the feeling of timelessness that came with childhood. I find this childlike state in the garden, where a towering tree can shock me with its stature, and the intricate seed heads of yarrow are a small miracle. The natural world holds this power to draw us out of our most inward selves, reminding us of how small our place is in this world.
In the everyday minutiae of life I can become neglectful and take for granted these daily delights that are embedded in my routine. However, in winter, I find myself better able to rest, and with this rest comes the grace to step away from the daily demands of the garden. When I step back into my gardens, I am more fully aware of all the beauty around me. Gratitude and a feeling of sacredness comes more easily, I work with a feeling of reverence and joy.
Working with the land reminds me of the days spent wandering in the field behind my house growing up. This field is long gone, paved over for yet another neighborhood accompanied by matching lawns in a growing suburban landscape. But in my garden I can still feel a sense of wonder, part of this is the creation, the daily changing of the landscape and the surprises that come with it. I also find it while away from the garden, in supporting other spaces and nourishing my community. This work continues to teach me about the resilience of people and places and the deep childlike awe that comes with the healing of both.
In this month of holiday stress, remember to step into the spaces that nourish you and quiet your mind. Admire the morning dew on spider webs, the echoes of the geese flying south. Remember what it was like to be a child again? We laughed with abandon, splashed in puddles, and found pleasure in the margins of fields and the corners of trees that stood in the neighbor’s yards. Find those moments in the day to day, carve them out, make space for them, they are worth protecting. In this season, when we are told to buy more, I am finding I crave a nostalgia of childhood centered in the doing. Communing with family in the spaces I love, without a need for a thing but our sense of joyous discovery. We all come home to our truest selves in these spaces, they remind us of what really matters in this lifetime.
– With Love from the Garden
Shannon
Farm to Table
Our tasting room menu this month features sage, delicata squash, apples, kohlrabi, honey, and oregano.