In the weeds

We're in the high season now, hot and humid on the farm.  We're in our hustle and flow and everything is coming up in abundance.  We're sweating ourselves silly, jumping in the lake at lunchtime when we can, and taking time to appreciate this week's first red tomato, the rain and breezes when they come, the nights where we can see the full moon rising in opposition to the most glorious sunsets.

And of course, since everything is growing and booming, so are the weeds.  So. many. weeds.  This week I spent hours upon hours pulling up weeds.  It could make a person batty if you let it, but it can also be good therapy - to see a weedy patch fully cleared and the plants given new opportunity to produce and thrive.  

It's a good chance to clear the head as well, to work out any ideas, to be with your emotions and your self, and maybe, if you keep on pulling up weeds long enough, reach a state of peaceful emptiness.  It's sort of luxurious, all this time for self-reflection, time I used to grab for desperately and greedily in tiny pockets in my old, overly busy life.

I got to thinking this week about the guiding principles of my life.  I've always liked the idea of having a kind of personal mission statement, a mantra, or something that I could check in with whenever I'm feeling rootless or pulled in different directions or confused.  When I was training to become a Nia teacher, we used The Four Agreements, from the book written by Don Miguel Ruiz.  I think this simple set of rules is so valuable and a great touchstone to share in any group.  But I think it can be a worthwhile exercise to pen your own agreements to your self as well.

A few years ago during a meditation, these three statements came to me in a gentle wave:

Work hard in everything you do.

Be grateful for everything you have.

Spread joy wherever you go.

I've been coming back to those statements again and again since then, whenever I need to re-motivate or check in on my life or make a decision.  And those three sentiments have served me well, but I've been feeling like it may be time for a refresh.  So, on my hands and knees, among the pigweed and the quack grass, lamb's quarters and purslane, I came up with my new guiding principles:

Always maintain a sense of wonder and curiosity.

I think I'm naturally inclined to this anyway, but I wanted it first on my list for a reason.  I want to live a life full of adventure and discovery and constant learning.  I actively put this on the top of my list, because I can also be naturally inclined to go in the opposite direction - valuing stability and security and routine, finding myself wrapped in a very comfortable blanket of inertia.  I put this on the top of my list to remind myself to GO, get out there, see it, do it, taste it, say yes, give it a try.

Be where you are.

A simple notion that packs a powerful punch.  For me, this means not getting too far ahead of myself trying to map out a grand life plan.  It means being where I am physically - being in the conversation without distraction, doing the work without thinking about what's next.  It also means being where I am geographically, taking full advantage of the unique gifts and offerings of any place, whether that's Maine or New York City or Appalachia or Colorado.  And it means allowing myself to be where I am in whatever journey I'm on.  I'm at the beginning of my journey as a farmer - make mistakes, absorb, BE a beginner.  I'm at the beginning of dating someone new - let it unfold and be in the often unsettling space of the unknown.

Live simply, in beauty.

Living in a camper the last three months has taught me: there's very little I need.  I want to remind myself to keep it that way, to limit my consumption and value what I have.  I want to live in a beautiful environment and see myself as a part of it.  I want to see myself as a beautiful woman.  I want to create simple, beautiful meals.  I want to stay in touch with the exquisite pleasure of how I feel when I drive down a leafy backroad with the windows down or when I walk through the meadow under a full moon and a sky full of stars.  The senses are enough.  Less is more.

So, I'll run with these for a while and see where they take me.  I'm curious to know: what would your principles be?

How to hug a porcupine

One night this week, after a heavy rain and a long work day, I set out to take a walk in the woods nearby.  It was a hapless outing; the bugs were ravenous, the trails a wet mess not well-blazed, and I set out late enough that when I found myself a little bit lost at 8:30pm and my daylight hours were closing in, I started to worry a bit.  I was rushing my way back to the last point of signage I could recall.  I bushwhacked my way through the overgrown trail, crossed over the creekbed, and there he was: standing on his hind legs, peeking out from behind the tree, staring at me, as if we were playing a game of hide and seek and he'd been found.  A porcupine, the third one I'd seen recently.

The first one snuck up on me a couple of weeks ago as I was planting sweet potatoes with the crew in the field.  No one saw it approach, it seemed to appear magically out of nowhere.  In my peripheral vision I noticed a creature, and only when it was about five feet from me did I register that this slow, lumbering thing wasn't one of our farm cats.  We both froze, I backed away, and the porcupine moved along, making it's way through the field and out to the road.

Earlier this week, I saw another: after rising at 4:30am to do my morning yoga in the yurt, I was returning to my camper and witnessed a porcupine creeping its way through the meadow, crossing directly through my walking path.

I'd never seen a live porcupine before coming to Maine, only ever as roadkill.  The farm gals agree: something is going on with the porcupine population this season.  They seem abundant and very bold.  They sort of creep us out with their quilly rodent bodies and their sloth-like slowness.  But there's something that feels significant about them too: like they're carrying a message.

I went online to read about the symbolism of the porcupine and found the following:
"Porcupine meanders casually and nonchalantly in full confidence.  She is equipped with all she needs to protect herself and she wears her protection like a badge of honor and regalia.  This spirit animal can appear for you when you are at a very important crossroads.  She can walk with you in new situations particularly when you feel apprehensive or vulnerable.  Porcupine will teach you the skills of carrying the energy of protecting yourself with authority."

So, I've come to embrace the porcupine (figuratively, because hugging a porcupine would be ill-advised) as my spirit animal this summer.  I am indeed at an important crossroads, taking in so much newness, choosing a new lifestyle, forming new relationships, learning new skills, that it's easy to get overwhelmed or get ahead of myself or cling to the stories and ways of being I used to know.

It's exceptionally hard to just be somewhere, to - as the porcupine, meander casually and nonchalantly in full confidence.  The planner in me wants to know what's next after this apprenticeship ends.  When will I see my friends?  What will I do for work in the winter?  The lovelorn in me wants to know where this relationship with the guy I'm dating is going.  Will it last, and if not, should I continue to invest time and energy into it?

A few weeks ago, I did a small thing that made a big difference.  I took off my watch.  At first, it was simply to get rid of the tacky tan line I'd developed, but then I noticed how it altered my sense of time.  Instead of thinking "It's 9:30am...two and a half hours until lunchtime," my awareness became "I am halfway through harvesting this bed of kale."  It changed my perception of the day from "What's next?" to "Where am I now?"  I think there is a kind of simple beauty in that - a single-tasking, grounded, mindfulness, that is impossible to achieve when you are always looking forward.

Says the internet, the porcupine spirit animal carries this message:
"You will find great power and unlock ancient wisdom from the energies stored within the earth.  Spend time connecting with the earth going to the mountains, stopping by a creek, dipping your feet in the waters, planting trees, collecting rocks and leaves and twigs and create a sacred earth alter in your home.  Delight in the great abundant variety of gifts found in the great outdoors.  What is the message in the song the bird sings as you walk nearby?  Porcupine conveys the message that there is always magic around you, you must simply be open to seeing it.  Open to nature with new eyes, the eyes of a child, and then you will enjoy the magic of the earth's abundant and awe-inspiring gifts the Great Spirit has bestowed on you."

And so, I lay in bed and listen to the sounds of the thunderstorm.  I wrap my hands around my cup of coffee and feel the warmth.  I listen for that birdsong.  I watch the fireflies.  I feel the sweat on my forehead.  I try.

Eating life alive (on a toasted buttered bun)

It's a cold, damp day - whiskey weather, I call it - and while I could be sulking at the fact that it's almost June and I'll still be wearing my long underwear to bed tonight, I'm fending off the bone chill by cooking in my camper.  This afternoon I harvested six big stalks of rhubarb from the patch alongside the farmhouse.  I mixed together a sugary, buttery crust from my mom's classic rhubarb bar recipe and topped it with the gooey mixture of chopped rhubarb, sugar, flour, and egg.  It baked in my tiny camper oven for 40 minutes while I prepared my dinner, and filled the space with warmth and sweet scents and the memory of home.  I'll take the bars to a farm potluck I'm attending tomorrow, proud to share this gift of myself, my family, and my farm.

My friend Sarah once said to me, "KJ, you eat life alive."  I took it as a compliment and a command.  This last week, I feel like sunk my teeth into a big juicy chunk of life here in Maine.

While I am loving life on the farm, cozy nights reading by the fire in the yurt at night, the peace and solitude of living in the meadow, I've always been an itchy little bug, eager to explore my surroundings.
One of the reasons I most love my location here at Black Kettle Farm is that I get to live in an area of rural farmland, winding roads through thick woods and rolling hills of pasture, but I'm also close enough to a handful of awesome little cities where I have access to the things that I always loved about living in New York.  Last week, I went to a farmer training workshop and potluck, saw one of my favorite authors read at a great independent bookstore, went to a bar for live jazz, had a date a newly opened noodle bar, and took a Nia class.  All the things that make me tick.

On Sunday, I randomly picked a destination from my hiking guide, hopped in the car, and drove 90 minutes north to Reid State Park, at the end of a peninsula in mid-coast Maine, near Bath.  The skies were overcast and it rained as I drove up Route 1, but by the time I reached Reid, the sun had come out, and I was rewarded with a beautiful day for exploring.  Since I'd arrived early, I nearly had the place to myself and I walked along the sandy beach, marveling at the expansiveness I felt in myself, in this place.  Once my sneakers had filled with sand, I gave in and kicked off my shoes, letting the bitterly cold and foamy ocean waves touch my toes.  I slung my fleece jacket over my shoulder and let the sun warm my skin.  Goldfinches flitted about and plovers scurried alongside me on the shore.  I gave myself a little kick for not thinking to bring a picnic for myself - this would have been the perfect place to settle in with a book and a few snacks for an entire day.  But I wandered until my stomach told me it was time to go.

Luckily, I recalled that my friend Ron had recommended a place not far from where I was, Red's Eats, which often tops the list for "Best Lobster Roll in Maine".  I drove to Wiscasset eager and hungry.  No surprise - it was Memorial Day weekend and the place was overrun with tourists, but I sucked it up and dealt with the crowd.  On the flip side of a 40 minute wait, I sat down to enjoy my lunch: a heap of sweet lobster meat on a toasted buttered bun, with melted butter on the side, an order of coleslaw and a root beer.  I left the place with my annoyance abated and my taste buds sated.

It goes without saying, but what I'm really coming to appreciate more and more as I chomp my way through Maine is that so much of what makes food good is about the quality of the ingredients, and you just can't compete with local.  Most days in my camper, I make an omelet or an egg burrito for lunch.  We get our eggs from a CSA workshare member or from neighboring farms, and I cook them with chives I clip from our herb garden.  Each time I cook the eggs, I remember those Julia Child videos about how to cook a perfect omelet.  I rarely mastered it when I was living in Brooklyn, buying my eggs from the natural grocer down the street.  But when I cook these eggs in my camper, they are effortlessly perfect.  Fluffy and beautiful and tasty.  And so, sure, there are many factors in making the perfect omelet - the cookware, the heat, the technique.  But really, when it comes down to it, it's all about the egg.

I feel such immense gratitude for my life here these days - the deliciousness of the food, the beauty of the place, the unending sense of discovery.  My friend Adrienne said to me the other day, "It sounds pretty good to be you right now, KJ."  And I concur - it ain't half bad.

Spunk and splendor

Bucking a gloomy forecast, the sun shone pretty consistently this week and our little crew got a lot of plants into the ground: even more onions, fennel, parsley, napa cabbage, five beds of red gold potatoes and zucchini and summer squash.  We're in the final countdown of weeks until CSA begins, and Laura is on her third week of farmer's market.  The watermelon, winter squash, and brussel sprout seedlings are popping in the greenhouse, and things are about to bust open and boom.  Our second apprentice Shannon joins us today and just in time - we're going to need that extra pair of hands as we hustle to finish out our transplanting and prepare for summer harvest.

This week, Laura gave a talk at a Pecha Kucha event at an art gallery in Biddeford, a mill town about 15 miles from the farm that is a burgeoning scene for creatives and small business owners.  Pecha Kucha is a presentation format, kind of like a TED talk on fast forward, that allows a speaker to show 20 images for 20 seconds each to share their ideas and projects.  Laura was an engaging and energetic presenter and made me proud to be affiliated with Black Kettle Farm and a participant in the greater cause for healthy communities and healthy food.  The other six presenters includes local craftsmen, artists, and chefs, a very inspired and diverse array that left me impressed with this spunky small town.

Today marks one month since I've left NYC, and I'm finally starting to feel like I've settled into the rhythm and have oriented myself to my new life here and I can start to explore.  I bought a hiking guide for Southern Maine and borrowed another from Bill & Adrienne and have begun plotting weekend excursions.  I'm eager to explore this beautiful state, by car and by foot, and now that I have my bearings and the weekends are bringing more sun and less rain, it's go time.  Yesterday, after heavy rains in the morning cleared and the sun came out, I made my way to the Steedman woods near York.  A causeway extends out into the bay and a small suspension footbridge connects to a preserve with a 1-mile loop trail.  It was a charming walk, but I wished it was longer for extended meanderings.

I had a date with a guy I met online in the evening and needed to kill some time beforehand so I wandered into Kittery to visit River Run bookstore and grab an ice cream cone.  I sat outside the ice cream shop in the sun, licking on raspberry chip and coconut stracciatella, determining that the summer would bring many afternoons just like this.  I feel such a spaciousness on my weekends these days - the hours seems endless and the days very long and easy-going.

I met my date at a brewpub in Dover, NH, and we chatted happily over pulled pork sliders and local ale.  He then walked me up to a lookout tower on a hill for a nighttime panorama of the area, pointing out the direction of the White Mountains, Kittery, and Portsmouth.  We agreed to meet up again for a hike and he sweetly kissed me goodnight before I got into my car and headed home.  It was better than any date I had in a decade of attempting to navigate the plenty-of-fish waters of New York City.  Walking through the meadow back to my camper around midnight, I noticed how full and illuminating the moon was that night - I didn't need my headlamp to help show me the way, and the clear sky was full of stars and breathtaking.

This morning, I woke early and drove out to the East Point preserve for a look at the ocean.  Maine, you knock my socks off.

A sea of seedlings

It's 4:45am and I'm waking up on the sun porch at my friend's house in Northampton, MA.  I'm most certainly awake hours before anyone will even think to get out of bed, but I also was falling, crawling into bed last night around 9pm while their 3 year old son was still tearing open birthday presents.  I'm on farmer time now, waking hours aligned with daylight hours, and while it doesn't quite make me the life of the party, it suits me just fine.

I'm sunburned in funny places, rocking the classic farmer's tan t-shirt line.  The tops of my ears are crispy red and I'm developing a very fine back patch of color, or "farmer's cummerbund" as I'm told it's called. I spent most of this sunny week on my hands and knees, dragging myself down 200 foot dirt beds to transplant onion seedlings into the field.  With the help of two CSA workshare members, our crew put over 12,000 onions into the ground this week - ailsas, copras, shallots, cipollinis, redwings, and an heirloom wethersfield red onion.  It's an astonishing number to me, and even more astonishing: we still have more to plant.  I'm amazed at what our little industrious crew can get done in a day, in a week, and when I look at how the farm has evolved in just the three weeks I've been here I can't believe that the bulk of that work was done with just six hands and a few tools.

My favorite farm tool so far is called "The Dibbler."  When I first saw the thing, I thought it looked like some kind of medieval torture device or something from a renaissance fair.  I'm sure there are fancier pre-made models available for purchase, but this one appears to be a cobbled-together contraption of PVC pipe and wooden spikes, set six inches apart in three rows.  The idea is this: Laura creates the bed in the field with her tractor, the tractor wheel treads becoming the aisles between where we will plant.  Then she runs down the bed with a three pronged implement attached to her tractor to create the lines in the bed: most of our plants are in two or three rows per bed.  Then, the dibbler gets attached to the tractor or we pull it down the length of the bed to create "dibbles", which are evenly spaced holes where we will drop and plant our seedlings.

Using the dibbler this week, I was reminded of a guy who I used to work with at summer camp in Montana.  His name was Jacob Dibley, a super sweet, fun-loving dude that I've lost track of over the years.  I'm sure he's kicking around somewhere having a great time doing his Dibley thing.  But the association made me and Abi laugh as we were out in the field and we spawned a new creation: my imaginary boyfriend "Johnny Dibbles", who takes me to drive-in movies and rubs my feet and cracks a beer for me at the end of the day.  Good old Johnny Dibbles, I'm sure he'll get me through the summer.

It's a nice break to get over to Western MA, to celebrate Arlo's third birthday, and Mother's Day weekend and catch up with my friends.  My friend Nancy drove up from Brooklyn, and my 3 hour drive from Maine was easy and relaxed, and a great opportunity to see spring bursting forth: the trees are awakening in all array of chartreuse, yellow forsythia on display, and the azaleas are popping out in dazzling, showy magenta.  But I realize that I've become very attached to Maine and the goings-on at Black Kettle Farm.  And I know that when I cross back over the Maine state line later this afternoon, and drive past the fields that we've spent the week planting, and walk through the meadow to my little camper, I'll feel like I've come home.  

 

Beginner's mind

Yesterday morning, I hung around the farm and did a couple loads of laundry.  As I was hanging my clothes on the line to dry, one of my favorite Jane Kenyon poems came to mind:

The Clothes Pin

by Jane Kenyon

How much better it is

to carry wood to the fire

than to moan about your life.

How much better

to throw the garbage

onto the compost, or to pin the clean

sheet on the line

with a gray-brown wooden clothes pin!

There was a simple, pure pleasure in that chore, that sunny morning, with blue skies, clothes flapping in the breeze, my body sore from a week of hard work and a whole wide open weekend ahead of me.  Time felt expansive, I felt present and full, wanting for nothing more.  And I recognize that it is these small pleasures and merciful moments that will energize and sustain me.

In truth, life on the farm was not all sunny breezy fantasy this week.  It was cold and damp, the kind of cold that settles into your bones and only a hot shower can cure.  Nights dipped down to the 30s, and while I felt fairly confident in my fire-making skills a week ago, there were nights this week that I simply could not get anything to burn.  One night when I desperately needed a roaring fire, I failed  repeatedly and cracked a bottle of whiskey instead in a last-ditch attempt to warm up.  I burrowed into my sleeping bag as soon as the sun went down.  I missed my city friends and my cozy apartment intensely that night, feeling frozen and alone.

And when the weather is spotty and spring is slow in coming, things get stressful on the farm.  With one eye on the ground and the other on the skies, Laura has to make real-time decisions about the operation that are critical for the timing of planting and harvest.  On Wednesday, a chilly, overcast day with rain looming in the forecast, we hustled to get our first round of crops into the ground: rainbow chard, three kinds of kale, and napa cabbage.  Right now, we are a crew of three - Laura, Abi, and me. Another apprentice will join us in a few weeks and we'll get some additional labor help from CSA workshare members.  But that day the three of us hand-transplanted about 3000 seedlings into the ground.  Calculate how many squats that is per person and you'll wince or cry.

Needless to say, I was a little stiff the next couple of days.  But along with the soreness also came a few moments of humility that bruised me too.  It goes without saying that I'm new at this, and any apprentice is going to make mistakes as they develop and grow.  But I really, really hate making mistakes and am hard on myself when I slip up.  I'm trying to get better at shaking off those errors and just seeing them as they are - opportunities to learn - but I often allow them to build into rain clouds that hover over my psyche the rest of the day.

But as Kenyon says, "How much better it is to carry wood to the fire than to moan about your life."  And it's true and a little bit miraculous what a good day of hard work and a spot of sunshine can do to turn your attitude around.  By the time the skies cleared on Thursday afternoon, I had let go of my self-doubt and felt grateful to be exactly where I was.

When you've let go of nearly everything you own, left a place you've known so well, given up a paycheck that once allowed you to explore and entertain yourself to your heart's content, the small things really do come into focus.  I am grateful for the beautiful handmade cup made by my friend Ming that I use to drink my coffee every morning.  A trip to the local coffeeshop for wifi and a bagel is a once-a-week treat.  I have awesome new friends - Bill and Adrienne Andrews - who have made me pizza and introduced me to their pet goats and whose house is a treasure trove of books I can borrow.  A hot shower feels like a sacred experience, and a hot meal at the end of the day - even if it's just a can of soup that I heat up in my camper feels like necessary nourishment.

I am encouraged by the fact that the days will get warmer and longer, that I will get better at this, that I will get to know the people and places of Maine.  But for now, I am just here: to do the work, to take it all in, and to spend a whole lot of time with myself, living and learning.     

Settling in, falling in love

Perhaps I shouldn't be so easy.  Perhaps I shouldn't fall so hard, so fast.  

I'm only a week in, but here's the truth: I am smitten.  

I love Maine, I love this farm, this way of life.  Upon leaving the city I was telling an astute New Yorker about my plans, and she said, "That sounds so nice...  you can actually have your thoughts back."  And I feel that bearing out.  I feel like I have gained oodles of space and time and, in my semi-rootlessness, I am beginning to feel rooted in myself.

One week in, I am starting to get a feel for the rhythm of the farm and living in my camper.  Here's how the days typically unfold:

5am - Dawn breaks and the birds starting singing.  I lay still in my bed, eyes wide open, cocooned under many blankets until I am ready to throw off the covers and bear the early morning chill of my camper.  Winter is slow in retreating this year, and a handful of nights have been below freezing temperatures.

5:30am - I bundle up, step into my rubber boots and stomp through the muddy field over to the yurt.  This week, the crescent moon has still been visible in the sky as the pink sunrise begins to filter through the trees. I do a 20 minute yoga routine in the yurt, fully bundled, and begin to wake up my body.

6am - I return to my camper, stream NPR Morning Edition through my phone while I prepare coffee and breakfast.  In the early season, farm work begins at 8am, so I have plenty of time to sip slowly, wash up, and get ready for the day.

7:45am - I commute to the barn via a 5 minute walk through the field and I check in with the crew for our game plan for the day.  The work is varied and continuous: my first week of tasks included trimming about 1000 onions, repairing the high tunnel, digging holes for new trees, clearing a thicket of brambles, potting up tomatoes in the greenhouse and thinning brassicas, building a new low tunnel, and assembling a shelving unit.  Some of the work is quite physical and repetitive, and some is very focused and detailed.  I find that I am quickly able to get "into the zone", and love the tasks that for some would seem tedious.  I can work with little seedlings for four hours at a stretch and feel a deep sense of presence and peace.

12pm - We break for lunch.  I generally retreat to my camper and prepare something quickly - a sandwich wrap or heat up some soup.  If it's nice, I'll sit outside on my "porch" for a few minutes, or if I'm tired, sneak in a 10-15 minute nap.  On Thursdays, someone from the crew cooks lunch for everyone.

1pm - We work for another four hours, solid.

5pm - Day is done.  I cook dinner in my camper and then spend most of the rest of the evening in the yurt, where there is a woodstove and I can stay warmer.  I build myself a fire, heat up water for a cup of tea, light candles and the oil lamp.  I cuddle up on the sofa under a wool blanket and read for about 2 hours.  Then around 9pm I do another 20 minutes of yoga and make my way back to the camper, using my headlamp to light the way.  I'll often spot deer leaping through the fields at night, and I always marvel at the abundance of stars.  I quickly get into my long underwear, pajamas, and burrow under a sleeping bag and 4 blankets and nod off around 10pm.

And when I wake and hear the birds start singing again the next morning, I smile and think, "It's so good to be here.  This is the way life should be."