Conflict and resolve
June 22, 2012 § Leave a comment
“The most tragic conflict in the history of conservation is that between the conservationists and the farmers and ranchers. It is tragic because it is unnecessary. There is no irresolvable conflict here, but the conflict that exists can be resolved only on the basis of a common understanding of good practice. Here again we need to foster and study working models: farms and ranches that are knowledgeably striving to bring economic practice into line with ecological reality, and local food economies in which consumers conscientiously support the best land stewardship.” – Wendell Berry, “Hope,” The Fatal Harvest Reader
* * * * *
I just want to add: yes. And you know, as far as we have to go, in my experience there are already many moving in this direction. Berry’s essay was published in 2002. Ten years later, I’ve come across an encouraging number of farmers who want to work with conservationists, and conservationists who are working to understand the needs of farmers. Have we adequately defined “a common understanding of good practice”? Oh, no. That will long be a conversation in progress, a dynamic and region-specific process. But to begin to agree on some fundamental principles of good practice, alongside an awareness of what humans need to survive both in the present and long-term, is a foundation that, I think, many have begun to build. And we’ll keep on building it, as more and more of us realize that we must.
Summer solstice
June 20, 2012 § 1 Comment
It’s the longest day of the year! (That explains why this morning seemed to drag itself out . . . )
All ordinary, routine, and/or work-related things aside: what will you do with your many hours of light today?
We have overcast skies and storms, storms, storms in the forecast. So Tassie and I got outside while we could, just a short mid-day break down by the riverbank.
There are some arching trees out there that create space to invite you. I like the sorts of doorways, trees, gates, and pathways that seem to beckon.
A snapshot from our solstice. Tonight may be one for candles and books.
Two organizations and one good day
June 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
At the beginning of May, I got to visit a couple of great nonprofit organizations in Minnesota.
My sister works for a nonprofit called Community Thread, which is a volunteer center based in Stillwater, MN. Each spring they put on a big Spring into Service event, which pairs volunteers with local nonprofits to participate in work projects, followed by an after-party at the Community Thread office. Since Elena knows I’m all about agriculture issues – and how these overlap with social issues – she sent me up to Marine on St. Croix to work with the Minnesota Food Association.
There, I got to jump in with the staff, participating farmers, and a group of volunteers to weed, plant, transplant, and learn. The MFA provides farmers “with the skills and knowledge to operate their own viable organic and sustainable vegetable farms, while providing fresh, organic produce to local consumers by the farmers-in-training and promoting a more sustainable food system.” They work specifically with immigrant and minority populations, offering plots of land for rent, training programs, benefits, and a CSA that farmers can participate in as they grow their businesses.
I feel like I could go on a gigantic rant about how great this all is, but really, the best way for you to learn is to go to their website, go to the events and work days they put on, and maybe even become a member of their CSA, which operates as Big River Farms. I’ll just add this: that providing people with support and a strong start in a growing field, within the context of community, producing something that is not only more and more in demand but is also essential to our well-being, is a cleverly mult-faceted approach to dealing with many of our nation’s challenges that I can’t help but find inspiring.
We worked on a cloudy, slightly chilly day, but most everyone was cheerful and hard at work. How can you not to want to jump in when you’re surrounded by the health and life of young, strong, promising little plants?
Thanks to Community Thread for connecting me with this opportunity. And thanks to the farmers and staff at Minnesota Food Association for the work that you do. It was a privilege to meet all of you, and I look forward to participating more in the future!
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
June 7, 2012 § Leave a comment
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
-William Butler Yeats, 1888
Beekeeper
June 7, 2012 § 3 Comments
I do not usually love pictures of myself. But this one that my sister snapped a few weekends ago may be a new favorite. It is evidence of an idea that has become a reality. How lucky is that?
Barn moving
June 3, 2012 § 5 Comments
Aren’t barns superb?
I mean, the old sorts of barns, of course. Lucky me, to have spent much of my childhood in areas where these still exist, when many are disappearing.
They have been places for play, for rest, for work. They have been places for thought. For being alone. For discovery.
Last Friday we moved a red barn from one of our locations to the spot where I live in the white farmhouse. The barn is still propped above the place where it will settle, once the foundation is built up under it. It’s still hooked to a big ol’ Mack truck.
But it is here, rounding out the space. We all feel pleased when we catch that line of roof against the sky.
It makes the farm feel like a farm.
Quenched
May 24, 2012 § Leave a comment
It is raining outside. Yesterday I bought two trays of flower starts thanks to a sale at our local nursery, and perhaps somewhat foolishly (and optimistically) decided right away to put them in the ground. Rain was in the forecast. Surely it would be all right.
But as I loosened the soil to make pockets for the salvia, hypoestes, zinnias, mimulus, phlox, allysum, lobelia, and begonia the wind blew roughly and the soil moved through my fingers dry as sand. Now and then I’d have to pause and close my eyes to keep the dirt from flying into them; even so, there were times when I missed anticipating the dusty gust and had to gently wipe the corners. Poor little flowers! I suppose I should have stopped right then. Sometimes I get so determined and just keep going when I ought to reassess and redirect.
While the heat, despite the lack of rain, has been coaxing the peonies and irises towards heavy, just-about-to-burst budding, that hot, dry wind is one of the reasons I do not terribly miss Colorado (apologies to all my favorite people there, and horses. I do miss you). Such a wind isn’t an especially common thing in the Midwest, just the result of this dry spell, something we expect will pass. With each little cluster of transplants in their places I gave them a good watering, yet the few times when I went back to relocate a few of them I discovered that beneath that top wet layer the earth was still dry, dry, dry. I rewatered and sort of wished/prayed that they would find the moisture they needed.
The sky to the West had that promising slate blue-gray, one of my favorite colors, and yet a tantalizing one. The one where you’re watching for rain. I looked west often, but the rain didn’t come. I sowed in some cornflower seeds, watered everything one last time, and went inside to make dinner. Checked weather.com. Listened to occasional growlings. Tassie and I sat on the porch as the darkness came on and blinked at the great flashes of sheet lightning to the West and the North. The winds were calmer, but still restless, blowing in different directions. Uneasy. Everything was waiting.
I tried to go to sleep at 9:30, like a good girl, but I kept listening for the rain. I had my window open a crack and when the first few smatterings came I went pattering down the stairs with the dog close behind. We sat on the porch again, but those first spits were only that. Spits. A bit of dampness, and fireflies flitting around to make me smile like a ten-year-old. All right, then. I really must go to sleep.
This morning meant the most quietly satisfying way of waking up. Pale gray skies and a luscious, cool, wet breeze through the window. Mm. A quenched earth. A morning for coffee, and a lit candle. But first, a barefoot walk on the same grass that scratched my feet yesterday. It is cool and soft today. The flowers stand bright and colorful in the garden and several have already put forth new blooms. About an hour ago the sky decided to give even more, and now I can hear the rain smacking the porch and sliding down the gutters. Tassie and I dashed about it in for a few moments. I grinned at my garden as if I had given it a gift. But the gift is not from me; it is nature herself, this amazing, systematic, mysterious, ecological being, doing what she does. How lucky I am to live here, where she makes everything so green. How determined I am to better learn to her ways and to act within them, so that it becomes less a conscious decision and more a way of life. So that I will know, without even having to think about it, that I am made of dust. And quenched with rain.
Kinds of Honey 