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." 

On leaving and arriving

This morning I'm typing from a sunsoaked window seat in a coffee shop in downtown Portland, Maine on Easter morning.  I woke up chilled to the bone in a tiny camper situated in a back meadow of an organic veggie farm 40 miles south of here.  How did I get here?  Let me back up a couple of months and explain.

In June 2013, I reached a major milestone in my life: ten years in New York City.  A full decade, longer than I'd lived anywhere since childhood.  I was living my dream - at least the dream I set out to accomplish when I was 23 years old: move to NYC, work in publishing.  And I was working for the best in the business: Random House, where I respected and adored my colleagues, believed in the strategy of the company, felt we had strong leadership, was well compensated.  In my social life, I was surrounded by loving friends who made me laugh and shared my interests and taught me about the world.  I was paying below market rent for a cute garden level apartment in a charming Brooklyn neighborhood with landlords who treated me exceptionally well.  I felt settled, established, lucky.

And yet, something about that milestone began to signal an end.  A decade: a nice round number, a tidy chapter.  And I began to feel a tug.  It was time to get out, to explore, to see what it might be like to live another way.

It took over a year of scheming and dreaming and hair-brained ideas for me to land here in Maine.  Should I go to Colorado to be with my family?  Should I go to the Bay Area to be with my friends there and attempt to stay employed in publishing?  Should I move to Asheville and be a bartender or rafting guide?  Should I take a year to tour the great independent bookstores across the country, working in each a month at a time?  I circled these ideas around and around, receiving all sorts of enthusiasm and eye-rolling from my friends.

But then, one weekend last fall, I went home to visit my mom.  On our way home from the airport, we drove past an empty lot, and my mom said, "That's what I need, a space that big for my garden."  And something in me clicked.

At the time, my mom and some of her siblings were in the process of selling off parcels of the farmland they grew up on in Eastern Montana.  Our family farm wasn't a place that I ever spent much time on or knew, and it didn't particularly feel like the place I should return to.  But, it struck me that doing the work of farming, learning the kinds of skills, doing the kinds of chores that my mom and her siblings and my family has been doing for generations before me, might be a really meaningful enterprise, a way to "come home" and honor my heritage symbolically, if not geographically.

So I began the process of unwinding myself from urban life and transitioning to farm life.

I was lucky enough to find an apprenticeship on a farm that I feel really suits me.  Black Kettle Farm is run by Laura Neale, a kind of farming dynamo, and real community builder in the area.  She's young and funky, goes to yoga and spinning classes and listens to reggae, and grows some of the most beautiful and tasty veggies in the area.  She raises pigs and runs the farm all on a 12 acre plot she purchased a few years ago.  She's business savvy and a compassionate person, and I have a lot to learn from her.

I'm living in a tiny camper with no heat, no electricity, no water.  I gave away all of my possessions except what would fit in my car.  When this apprenticeship ends in November, I have no clue what I'm going to do.  And all of that feels very different and very free.

People ask me if I felt sad about leaving New York.  I really don't.  I feel held by the relationships I built there and even in saying my goodbyes, I felt more taken care of and connected than ever.  I feel like I gave that city my all for 10 years.  My friend Sarah once said to me "KJ, you eat life alive."  And in NYC, I really did.  I devoured that city, literally and figuratively.  I set foot on every bridge, explored every borough, ate all the food, absorbed the energy, danced joyously, loved madly, said yes to everything, gave my time, money, hands, sweat, and worked my ass off.  I did good.  And I feel good about it.

But now I'm ready to greet new friends, see new places, and experience the world in a different way.  Last night after I'd moved into my camper, Laura threw a dinner party for the crew and friends of the farm.  About a dozen people showed up, decked in wool sweaters and Carhartts, all ruddy-cheeked and hale-looking.  Laura served up cuts of pork from last year's pigs that she'd brined all day.  I brought a bottle of Rioja given to me by friends in New York, a sheep farmer brought rum and pineapple and made rounds of Mai Tais for everyone.  And despite being the new kid, I didn't feel like a stranger in a strange place.  I felt home.

Recharging station

When your brain gets fuzzy, and you don't know here from there, and you are knee deep in big questions, wondering if your life isn't going according to plan, or if it's going exactly to plan, or if there's no plan at all, here's what you do: book a flight, get out of town, go see your mom.

She'll meet you at the airport with a big hug, and then since it's her birthday, you'll take her to the new farm-to-table restaurant in downtown Boulder, and you'll order beet burgers and kale chips and hard ciders.  You'll giggle when she elbows you to say that she thinks that fresh-faced waiter named Howie has eyes for you.  Wander the stacks at the Boulder Bookstore, making notes of all the things you each like to put on upcoming birthday and Christmas lists.  Buy a fancy chocolate bar with caramel and pink sea salt and split it into little squares to share as you walk up and down the thoroughfare, in and out of the shops.

Pull up vegetables from the garden, and marvel at the miracles the season has produced.  Tall leafy kale, brussels sprouts growing like jingle bells on a thick stock, carrots twisted in funny ways.  Put a leaf of mesclun lettuce right in your mouth and chomp down to a bite so peppery and fresh and delicious, it tastes exactly like dirt and sunshine.  Clean out the herb gardens and be treated to the cheapest and purest aromatherapy session there is, inhaling mint, lemon balm, basil, sage, lavender.

Tune up your fiddle, and your momma will join you on guitar, your stepfather on mandolin, and play rounds of the few songs you know over and over, Bile Them Cabbage Down and Shortnin' Bread and You are My Sunshine.

Spend time in the kitchen, turning the garden abundance into simple, hearty and satisfying meals: carrot ginger soup, potato kale soup, pumpkin pie.  Trout pizza made from fish they caught up north earlier in the summer.  Homemade pickles and rye bread.

Let your mom beat you at Scrabble, every day.

Go see a romantic comedy at the movie theater, the one which you've already seen, and happily anticipate all the things that are going to make her laugh.

Sit in the hot tub each night and look up at the stars, glittering galaxy covering the sky.  You never see them in the city.  See your first falling star.

Greet the birds with your morning coffee, chickadees, juncos, bluejays, finches, and flickers, who drop in to feed and say hello.

Ask your mom what she felt at your age, if the restlessness and self-doubt ever go away.

Say your prayers, which you only ever do here.  You may not believe as fervently as your stepfather does, but his heart is so pure and his words so well chosen, that it will soften you.  It will teach you to remember how to say thank you, how to ask for help, how to have patience, how to let go.

Detours for the faint of heart

In March of 2007, cognitive scientist Douglas Hofstadter published a book with the title, I am a Strange Loop.  I have not read this book, and it's likely I will never get around to reading this book, but the title has intrigued and stuck with me for years.  The phrase popped back into my consciousness this week as I was reflecting on some of my patterns over the last several years, scratching my head at what I'm sure has appeared as mystifying and idiotic behavior to anyone close to me.  "I am a strange loop," I kept saying to myself this week.  "Sometimes a silly loop, sometimes a sad floppy loop, but undoubtedly a loop, and undoubtedly strange."

And when the loop of my mind needs a new track, I know the best thing I can do for myself is take a walk in the woods.

After I made myself a good hiker's breakfast of coffee, scrambled eggs with kale and breakfast sausage on harvest bread, I jumped into my car and headed north to the Hudson Valley.  The October days in New York have been magnificent and crisp, the fall colors are prime, and just being in my quiet car space traveling out of the city gave my mind and heart some rest.  I pulled off I-87 at the New Paltz exit, to a major traffic backup - this is THE destination for rock climbers, mountain bikers, hikers, and apple pickers, and with a day like today, no one wanted to miss out.  I slowly drove through funky New Paltz, and wound my way up past the Mohonk Mountain House to arrive at the Spring Farm trailhead for the Mohonk Preserve, intending to hike the Bonticou Crag trail.

I hadn't been on a trail since my last hike in North Carolina back in late August, and it was hugely gratifying to set out with my trail map, my backpack, and the freedom that comes with being one's own company.  The trail ascended gently through a field lined with juniper trees sporting berries and then into the woods of the Mohonk Preserve.  I had to rely on the blazes on the trees to show me the way, as the trail was covered in places with a thick layer of fallen leaves, which, while providing a satisfying crunch underfoot, also proved to be rather slippery.

About a mile in, I arrived at the Bonticou Ascent trail, which my guidebook had described as a "strenuous rock scramble", only about .3 mile in length, but fully vertical.  Recalling at how I'd surprised myself with my courage and strength on Old Rag mountain in Virginia, I thought I'd have this climb in the bag.  I tackled the first few boulders enthusiastically, remembering how good it felt to engage my whole body in the task of climbing the mountain.  I kept my center of gravity low and looked carefully for rock holds, but as I moved upward something felt off-kilter in my body.  I felt not quite balanced, not quite sure of myself.  About a third of the way up the rock face, I found myself with limbs stretched across a deep crevice in the rock, and my confidence crumbled.  I sat on the edge of a boulder contemplating a different way around, trying to give myself a pep talk to push forward.  But looking up and down the trail, I saw no one, and I felt alone and scared.  I needed a hand to help pull me up the tough spots, and I had no helping hand.  I acknowledged defeat and slid my way back down the trail, taking the gentler, more circuitous path to the top.

As I hiked and contemplated my failure to pull myself to the top of Bonticou Crag, I thought about how taking the path of least resistance seems the necessary course of action in my life right now as well.  In short: there's a man in my life who I've loved fiercely for nearly a decade.  Together we make a strange, dysfunctional loop.  Every year we connect - full of promises and hope and dreams of a life together, and every year we dissolve - confused, sad, and angry.  I thought I let it go earlier this year, but call me a slow learner or a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist, but I tried again recently, working my heart into a swooning, dreaming frenzy, and to nobody's surprise, the relationship failed, again.

A brilliant friend of mine said to me, "KJ, you have been playing with a Rubik's cube wrapped in barbed wire.  It's time to put it down and walk away."  And she's right.  I have been rearranging and reconfiguring my approach year after year, trying to solve the puzzle and win this guy's companionship and commitment.  I've never figured it out, and now my hands are all scratched up from trying so hard.  And even though in my loopy heart of hearts, the idealist in me believes that there IS some configuration that would ultimately align me and this man, I'm finally ready to admit that I'm not going to find it this year, or next year, or likely even in this lifetime.  It's time to concede defeat, slide down the mountain and take the gentler, more circuitous path.

The top of Bonticou Crag was an open white rock slab jutting out from the mountain, dotted with dwarf pines, with views of the Hudson Valley in all directions, a blanket of autumnal color.  Without the shelter of the trees, the chilly wind whipped me in all directions, and I stayed only briefly to snap a few photos before retreating back into the woods to find a calmer place to enjoy my lunch.

The hike back down was easy and uneventful, a peaceful and solitary meander disrupted only by a totally welcome and affectionate kiss from a 3 year old Labrador mix with soulful eyes who reminded me of my dog from growing up.

On my way out of town I stopped at Stone Ridge Orchards and bought cider, and a few apples, Macouns and Honeycrisps, which I'll send to my sister in Los Angeles who says that she misses the seasons.  I ate a Honeycrisp in the car, juice dripping down my arm, as I turned my way back home, tired, humbled, and resolved.

Then we came to the end

I awoke in the treehouse this morning, and lie in bed, imagining that if I stayed inert, I could make my vacation last just a few moments longer.  The roosters started their crowing outside, and knowing I had many hours of road time ahead of me and the threat of holiday traffic looming if I waited too long, I put my feet on the floor, turned the coffee pot on, took a shower and packed my things.

After I got dressed, I took my coffee out to the treehouse porch and read a few Wendell Berry poems.  The rooster crowing gave way to the rap of woodpeckers.  A couple of squirrels jumped from branch to branch in a nearby tree, dropping acorns onto the wooden deck with a loud plunk.  The spider web was gone, by her own undoing or swept away by another guest since I last stayed here, I do not know.

I said goodbye to the treehouse, the mountains, the farmland, the days of no alarm clocks and optional showers, and hit the road for the last leg of my journey.

I finished listening to Flight Behavior and teared up at the end when the main character comes to terms with a truth about herself and makes a decision to say goodbye to someone she loves.

I stopped in Bethlehem, PA in hopes of finding good food, but had to settle for an unsatisfying veggie omelet at an unremarkable diner.

I replayed some Edward Sharpe tunes, recalling that happy night in Louisville.  I arrived at home, unpacked my things, smiling at each new keepsake and remembering that moment, that place.

It was a trip of a lifetime, and I thank everyone who followed me on this journey.  It certainly made the time less lonely to know you all were reading.  But I do hope that I've inspired at least of few of you to take a solo journey of your own.  It's an incredible way to get to know yourself, and really see and interact with the world, without distraction.

Here are a few highlights and trip stats:

Miles traveled: 2766
Number of states passed through: 11 (Indiana by accident)
Number of parking tickets, speeding tickets, flat tires: 0
Number of times I nearly peed my pants between gas stations: innumerable

Number of times I cried: 4
Number of times I felt joy: daily

Best cup of coffee: the treehouse in Virginia
Best meal: Hammerhead's in Louisville
Best bookstore: Malaprop's in Asheville
Best music: Asheville

Biggest splurge: Shoji Spa package in Asheville
Best deal: $5 Lifetime membership to Bywater in Asheville

Prettiest place: Catawba Falls in Asheville & New River Gorge in West Virginia
Prettiest people: Louisville

Nicest park: Cherokee Park in Louisville
Nicest people: Everywhere

There's a Jiffy Lube sticker in my car that says "I have chosen to return at 52,885 miles" to remind me when Ingrid needs to be serviced.  I wish someone would put a sticker on me that tells me when I will return to these places so that I can look forward to that date.  Regardless, I know I'll be back.

I go among trees and sit still

I do admit: I cried a little bit when I turned the lock on the door of my mountain studio this morning, packed up my car, and drove away from Asheville.  While I'm feeling completely spoiled and grateful that I got to enjoy an 11 day vacation, I am greedy for more time in these places.  This trip was a bit like speed dating 5 different cities, and I want to go out on a second date with all of them.

Wanting to take my leaving slow, I opted to drive north on the Blue Ridge Parkway for a bit rather than the interstate out of Asheville.  I drove for 200 miles on the parkway at 45mph, through fog and sun and torrential rain.  And it was sublime.  Driving that road is like a meditation, a mesmerizing journey through verdant green mountains.  I listened to bluegrass hymns and Barbara Kingsolver's captivating audiobook Flight Behavior, with the windows rolled down and butterflies and birds flitting all around me, and those hours were the best kind of Sunday morning worship I know.

Ingrid loves the Blue Ridge Parkway!

I stopped in at the Blue Ridge Music Center along the way for "Midday Music", a daily afternoon jam for traditional Appalachian Music.  (Mom and Aunts Linda, Becky, Naomi, and Jody, you know this one!)

My meandering route along the Blue Ridge Parkway stretched my travel time to nearly 11 hours, so I arrived wearily back at the treehouse in Virginia, where I spent the first night of my trip.  It is the coziest place, sweet refuge for a tired traveler, and I want to stay in it forever.

I've settled in for the night with my newly purchased Wendell Berry poetry collection and a glass of wine.

Here's a selection that seems apt, on this Labor Day eve:

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
Where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives awhile in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.

Over 2200 miles behind me, and about 400 to go tomorrow.  One last Shenandoah sunset.

Just slow your sweet self down

A couple days ago my friend Lexi posted this list of words from other languages that are untranslatable to English.

My favorite, of course, was this one:

The weather this morning was more hiker-friendly today than yesterday, so I got a good dose of Waldeinsamkeit.  But it came with a few other feelings, ones that I'm not able to translate into a single word.  What is the word for "knowing your vacation is coming to an end" or "the feeling of already missing a place you haven't left yet"?  I think the word is simply "blues", but I tried to shake it, knowing I still had one full day of Asheville ahead of me.

I had planned to take a Nia class at 11am, so I chose a short 3 mile trail where I could get in and out quickly and be on my way to dance.  But as I started on the Catawba Falls trail, I knew that this wasn't the kind of hike that should be under any time constraints.  The trail was easy going, but so beautiful that it required many stops for photos and pure awe.  Just slow your sweet self down, I told myself, and don't miss this.

The trail had many river crossings, so instead of trying to navigate the slippery rocks in my hiking shoes, I changed out to my sandals, and sloshed my way through the water.

Check that giant millipede!

I reached the Lower Falls in short time, and met up with a hiker from Raleigh there.  He'd done this trail many times and said, "Well, if you're up for a challenge, you can go up a little further.  If these falls are a '5', the Upper Falls are a '10'."  He said it was another half mile up, and involved a strenuous climb.  Feeling emboldened by my rock scramble up Old Rag last weekend, I thought I could manage.

The first part of the climb involved hauling myself up a steep rock face with the help of a rope, followed by additional climb, with the help of only rock slabs and rhododendron roots.  I took the climb slow and steady.  It was physically demanding and hard work, but when I reached the Upper Falls, I was richly rewarded.

I arrived about the same time as a local hiker and field guide for a wilderness therapy company named Brennan, and we swam in the ice cold pool below the waterfall and chatted on a sunny rock for a bit.  At one point in the conversation, Brennan abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his eyes darting all around.  "Sorry", he said after his pause, "I like to watch the butterflies."

Brennan at the Upper Falls

After a snack and a nice rest at the falls, I carefully made my way down the steep rock face again, only falling on my ass twice.  A delicate rain started on the hike out, tickling my skin, and nicely cooling me off.

I hit Native Kitchen again for a lunch stop, and as I walked in, the bartender said, "Hey, welcome back!"  I gave her a startled look - she had been working last night but hadn't served me, and must have just remembered my face.  "Oh, wow," I said, "I'm not used to being recognized.  I'm from New York and we all feel kind of anonymous there."  She laughed.  "Of course I remember you," she said.

I ordered a chicken club sandwich with German potato salad and a glass of Cheerwine (a Southern cola similar to a Cherry Coke), and it was just the thing.

Feeling good and tired from the hike, I headed back to the mountain studio and laid out a blanket on the  back porch, read a couple more Ron Rash stories and took a long nap.

I had planned to visit the Biltmore Estate today, but after my nap, I realized I hadn't left myself enough time, so I changed course and wandered the River Arts District instead, where dozens of local artists have open studio and gallery spaces in former warehouses and factories.

For dinner, I made my way to Tupelo Honey, recommended to me both by my New Yorker friends who'd visited the area, and by locals.  At 6pm, there was a 90 minute wait for a table for 4, but as a solo diner, I was able to walk right in and sit at the "Chef's Table" - bar seating that overlooks the kitchen.  The chefs fed me little samples of food they were preparing and entertained me with lots of good jokes. I started with a rosemary-peach lemonade and a biscuit with blueberry jam and tupelo honey.  For dinner, I had a smoked jalapeno-glazed pork ribeye with mac and cheese and asparagus spears, along with a flight of local microbrews.

Chef's Table 

After dinner, I walked a few blocks over to Pack Square, where the concert series Shindig on the Green was wrapping up its summer season.  The "Shindig" is a showcase of Carolina heritage and features cloggers, bluegrass, old time music, and square dance.  A few years ago, I read in the book Geography of Bliss that Asheville is the happiest city in the US, and at this Shindig, this cheer was on full display.  People genuinely love to have a wholesome, happy, good time here.

Finally, so many locals had recommended Bywater to me, that I had to stop in for one drink before heading back up the mountain for the night.  It's a truly special place, and along with Hammerhead's in Louisville, is now among my favorite places on earth.  It's technically a social club, so I paid a $5 lifetime membership fee to get in, but now I can bring you all as guests.  Bywater is an off-the-beaten-path bar up the river and just off the railroad tracks, popular with rafters and tubers.  They like to take a break from floating down the French Broad river and stop here to hang out for a while, and I can see why.  There's a cute bar with a patio, where a killer bluesy rock band was playing tonight, along with a massive yard, featuring a Vietnamese food truck, a fire pit, tons of picnic tables, outdoor games, and just a really sweet summertime happy vibe.  I sampled the locally brewed Green Man Thai Basil Wheat beer, and sat enjoying the cool evening and the fantastic band.

Tomorrow, Ingrid and I turn our wheels north and begin our journey home.

What's the word for "the feeling of being a visitor in the happiest place and knowing you have to leave"?

I am so nice to me

Here are a few select things I love about Asheville so far:

1) A pint of fancy local microbrew will set you back about $4.

2) There is a higher concentration of quality street musicians here than any other city I've ever been in (sorry, New Orleans, I still love you).

3) Cell phone addiction is almost non-existent.  Though I think I'm a moderate/average cell phone user in NYC, I have been conspicuously the heaviest texter/time-checker/Facebook scroller everywhere I go here.  There are no cell phones out on bars or restaurant tables, no one texting while walking, no one talking into a Bluetooth.  People here - wonder of wonders - seem to talk.... to each other.

4) When people give you their card, they are not trying to network or sell you something.  They just want to be your friend.  Last night at the contra dance, I met a nice lady named Kaye.  We chatted for a bit, and she said, "Hey, let me give you my card."  The card had her personal contact information and the phrase "Life abundant - Today is the Day!"  I said, "Oh cool, so are you a like life coach or something?"  "Nope," she said, "I'm just a person, and I like to make new friends."  Whelp, I'm just a jaded city slicker.

This morning I set out for a hike I had picked out just off the Blue Ridge Parkway.  The skies were overcast, but I hoped it would pass.  As I drove up the mountain, though, the fog got so thick I could only see about 10 feet in front of me and it felt like a thunderstorm moving in.  Not good hiking conditions, unfortunately, so I wound my way back down the mountain and into town.  I did get a couple snapshots out the car window before the rain started though.  No filter on these, folks.

 


Happily, it's easy to kill many hours in downtown Asheville.  I started with a visit to Battery Book Exchange, a beautiful bookshop that doubles as a champagne bar and coffee shop.  I sat with a cafe au lait and began reading the short story collection "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by local author Ron Rash.

I wandered the shops a bit more, and when it came time for lunch, I decided to go for a healthy option, giving my body a break from the heavy greasy stuff I'd slammed down in Nashville and Louisville earlier this week.  The skies had cleared so I grabbed a sunny seat at the outdoor patio of the vegetarian restaurant, Laughing Seed Cafe.  A jazz trumpeter played across the street, and he was quite good, giving the whole street a romantic ambiance.  I had a hibiscus tea and a "Dragon Bowl", which was a bowl full of nourishing raw vegan bliss (avocado, beet pate, arugula, cabbage, kimchi, etc).

Next up was a visit to Malaprop's, one of the coolest independent bookstores I've ever been to.  They are really a great model for what an innovative, vibrant, essential community bookstore can be.  At every turn it feels as if you are making a discovery, and you want to pile your arms high with books and tchotchkes and gifts.  My favorite thing was this table at the front called "Blind Date with a Bookseller".  The concept was that the staff wrapped a few of their favorites in brown packaging with a few descriptive words written on the front.  Trusting and brave shoppers could take a flyer and purchase a book unseen.  I was so charmed by this idea that I had to play along and selected one that sounded intriguing.

Alas, I have already been on a date with this book.  While we had a nice time a few years back, it wasn't a love match, but I'd be happy to pass along the copy I purchased to an interested reader, or hook someone up with Colum McCann's digits (his 13-digit ISBN, that is... haha, publishing joke).

I hit a few more shops including the historic Mast General Store, and the factory and tasting room for French Broad Chocolates.  The guys at French Broad told me that if I could find a shop in Brooklyn to carry their product, they would supply me with free chocolate.  That sounds like a challenge I should probably take on...

Kudzu Blossom and Scuppernong... what is this stuff?  I do not know, but I will put it on toast and tell you.

Ingrid's first blog appearance!  Isn't she pretty?

I am so nice to me.

At 3:30, I had scheduled an appointment at Shoji Retreat, a Japanese-style woodland spa.  My treatment package included private access to a little hut, with three walls and an open view into the forest canopy, with my own hot tub.  I soaked and napped in the hut, and basked in the divine tranquility of this place.  After an hour to myself, I had an 80 minute aromatherapy massage and facial.  It was blissfully indulgent and I left Shoji feeling relaxed and radiant.

On the way back to the mountain studio, I made one stop at Native Kitchen, a sweet bar with a huge outdoor patio and backyard.  They were featuring a singer-songwriter who played a mean harmonica and covered artists like Gillian Welch, along with playing some of her original music. 

I retreated early to the mountain studio for an evening writing and reading on the balcony with the crickets.