I cannot fully explain the gravitational pull of arboreal grace and how each spring I bow to your tree-ness—as I thrust another pointed dig with the D handle shovel and etch a hole for the young pear tree to and tuck it into the soil spanning rhizospheric reach of influence.
At the start of the growing season, I surrender to my lack of botanical restraint. It’s hard to resist the insistence of fruit trees and tomato starts, and to plant that which will outlast my lifetime. Even the act of pruning (of shedding, mind you) yields the potential for dozens of new fruit trees as I snip and save scion wood, graft it forward for giveaways, and divide and transplant the currants. With their trimmed limbs, the shape of sea pens, I attempt to write it all down, on seed scrolls, to center myself.
As you may recall, last fall, I shared my intention of a farming sabbatical in 2021 to embrace change and explore, in mutual evocation, what the next ten plus years of the farm may be (or not). I even gave this year a title, “The Transitional Year of Wonderment”.
Once again, I am humbled and try and release the illusion of control and expectations I place on myself. Wonderment happens all around and all the time, not just in a passing year because I proclaim it so. So, I turn to Socrates, “An unexamined life is not worth living…” and reflect on the pace of transitions and what to plant into being for the year(s) ahead. But first a little release.
It’s hard to shed old farming habits, let alone support them economically. Re-aligning or transitioning a flower business doesn’t happen overnight, or even over a season. Yet flowers have a hold on me, and I am asking myself, “How can I move toward this with choice and reciprocity?” Does it have to be transactioned, or instagrammable? How else might flowers support life as it’s worth living? Can this dahlia be enough as is? This season, I almost dove in full circle and returned to a Flower CSA, then I got overwhelmed with logistics and revisited the balance sheets from seasons past and decided to experiment. I paused and reminded myself that I have committed to three weddings on the books from last year and that flowers would inform poems and re-ignite joy (or realistically whatever might bloom into the moment). Thus far, I am on track, and even managed to publish and present 2 poems about plants (Goldthread Encounters for The Little Book Project Places/Spaces Edition: Wisconsin and Horsetail Dissection as part of the Chazen Art Museum’s Bridge Poetry Series). I am also teaming up with poet and Wormfarm Institute’s Program Director, Philip Matthews, CSA farm neighbors, and the plants for a poetry test plot project funded through Sauk County Arts Board Good Ideas Grant. It’s hard to write and farm at the same time. Making space for gardens and poems to take shape seems like a healthy compromise.
It’s hard to find work/life balance as a perennial farmer as there will always be points of seasonal intensity. This is a perennial conundrum that I think it’s safe to say we have all struggled with at some point. David White’s words luminesce in my mind, “How do we balance the need to make a living with that which makes us feel most alive?” Most of my life things have balanced in the extremes (no regrets, though I am learning that I don’t need to make things so challenging all the time). Thank goodness for Rob, for friends, family, and zinnias, providing centration.
Now I am starting to embrace change like the turning of lakes as there are only so many 100 year floods, global pandemics, and ‘great recessions’ that one can hold in a lifetime. There are also only so many gig jobs a farmer can hold in a season to feed the farming habits. I am grateful for these just in time contracts with work in service to sustainable agriculture. I am also grateful to end a few projects on a good note as this winter I was at a near breaking point. Maybe 5 - 10 years ago I could hold down full time work equivalent and manage a farm, but now, one off farm job is enough. I am taking cues from the hardy kiwi vines and pears, trusting in the time it takes to gather nutrients, take root, and when conditions are met bear fruit (you grow pears for your heirs after all). I also worked really hard to save up and make space this season for ‘wonderment’ explorations. I am learning to practice discernment, give space to grieve the losses that 2020 tossed our way, so I can once again ask myself what I can say yes to, rather than just no (even though clear no’s help lead to yes?…o.k. there is the doubt and ‘possibilitarian’ paralysis seeping in).
By now, you might be as confused and curious as to what the season ahead will bring as I am. Thank goodness, Rob, as your farmer can. We do know, that we’re committed to sharing bare root plants, an every other week vegetable CSA, fruit market share, storage shares and sharing pickles, jams, salsas and other farm loot that bears fruit. Our heartfelt gratitude for signing on with us this year, bringing certainty and support.
I wish I can give you clarity and certainty in the flower sphere, but this year I can meet transitions halfway. I am breaking ground on a few new possibilities in the works that I hope to share as the season unfolds. For now, and with a clear heart, I offer to you the hope for continued good health, peaceful surroundings, and the unspun allurement of peace through peonies. May you find a place to pause and bathe in the botany and the beauty of the world as it is.
