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.