To the place heart-a-yearnin'

Earlier this year a local couple announced they were giving away their farm in an essay contest. I found myself telling everyone—anyone—about it and my dream of living on the land. I was very excited at the possibility, and others were very excited for me, even perfect strangers. I talked about it outside a bar one night and a friend of a friend gave me the first spontaneous donation towards the entry fee. I have had so many supporters that I cannot remember all of the folks who asked me to let them know the result. It is truly humbling to feel such immediate and genuine support from so many different quarters.

I knew that win, lose, or draw, the important work was for me to express my dream in concrete terms and send it out into the Universe. Writing the essay was difficult work. It brought up a lot of emotions, and the writing did not flow as naturally as it normally does for me. Yet in the end, it all clicked in.

Last week, the couple announced that they did not receive enough entries for the contest to work financially. So, the farm will be sold instead. I was disappointed when I heard the news at the end of a long day. I went immediately to talk to one of my biggest supporters and colleagues. Her support never flagged, and we both agreed that something even more suited for me is on the horizon. I feel it in my heart, that place that I belong to, that place heart-a-yearnin'.

So here it is, in 1,000 words or less (985 to be exact): why I fell in love with the dream of living at Rock Spring Farm: 

2013 with Tiny Tim at Smith Meadows' Farm Day. Photo by J. Kennedy.

A few years ago, I read Forrest Pritchard’s book titled Gaining Ground. I consumed it cover to cover in one day. At the last line, I cried. “Somewhere, another farm awaits its farmer.” Those words hit home on a dream that I’ve moved toward for over half my life, and to which I’ve always returned after life’s curves took me further away.

I fell in love with horses at a young age but had little opportunity to ride. I also loved reading, so I allowed Marguerite Henry and Walter Farley to take me on all kinds of equine adventures. I finally indulged this passion more directly when I went to college. I took horseback riding for my P. E. classes and requested the stables for my work study position. Between classes that year I stayed busy mucking stalls, cleaning tack, and watering the horses, from fall through the bitter winter, and then to spring. Years later I took additional riding lessons locally. I envision having a pair of draft horses someday for light farm work and for riding.

After a ride with Shorty. 2010, near Radford, VA.

My interest in farming, a surprise even to me, developed in high school when I discovered the term “sustainable agriculture.” I tried my hand at organic gardening, bemoaning the contrast between the red Carolina clay I lived on and the black loamy soil my grandparents had farmed in the Midwest. My heart still warms when I see the first two leaves pushing out of the soil from a seed. Despite the words of my well-meaning and protective father, “you’re not strong enough for that [kind of life],” which echoed in my mind for years, I began college with a major in Environmental Science and minor in Agriculture.

During college I discovered that I had a creative side as well as an academic side, and followed my heart in changing majors. I graduated with a degree in Art with an English minor. In the meantime, I spent two summers working at a historical farm museum. We dressed in 1800s costumes, tended the garden, and cared for a menagerie of animals, all heritage breeds. Every weekend we cooked a full meal on the hearth, and in the afternoons I would indulge in a new favorite skill: spinning wool.

1996 during the Folklife Festival, Blue Ridge Institute & Museum, Ferrum, VA.

Eight years later, married to my college sweetheart and with a successful corporate career, I suffered from migraines, heartburn, and depression. I left my cube farm job and greatly refreshed my soul by working on a farm and for a landscaper while I was job hunting. I also began volunteering for an organic CSA. I enjoyed connecting people directly with local farmers, and I worked with the organizers and our farmers for several years. 

A new start in an administrative position for a local nonprofit was followed shortly by the end of my marriage. The new financial realities took some adjustment, and I moved to an apartment in the city. Being close to my support network was helpful during that time of personal rediscovery, even when my dream of living on land felt further away. I have thrived at my job, and feel privileged to work for an organization so focused on helping people in the community.

My balcony garden with plants from Forrest Green Farm, 2015.

Over the years I’ve grown more comfortable with who I am and more vocal about my passions. I’ve let go of my own insecurities and others’ discouraging remarks. Instead of trying to justify my love for the land, I’ve simply accepted it as part of who I am. I know that I am here to speak for the earth, in some way, through agriculture. I’ve gardened in friends’ yards and in the community garden. This year I have found deep satisfaction and joy with my second-floor balcony container garden because of its close proximity. I love learning different plants and their cycles and interrelationships. Now and again I escape to a farm where I’ve been taking herbalism classes over the past few years.

I am now volunteering my administrative skills for a state-wide organization that focuses on sustainable farming. A few weeks ago, on a trip with them, I stopped at my alma mater, tucked in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. I sat down under a well-loved maple tree and breathed in the familiar air. The serenity of the remote location always brings peace to me. I have roots there. In time I know I will grow deeper roots on land of my own, and the family I hope to share it with eventually will always be able to come back and visit the peace of our home.

October 2015 in Ferrum, VA.

Attending a soil workshop last year reignited my excitement for science. In 2016 I will begin studying soil microbiology and learn how to correct and balance the biology in the soil, the foundation of all plant health. Living at Rock Spring Farm would allow me the space to put that knowledge into practice easily. The farm is within a reasonable commute of my current job, so I would be able to continue working there until it is time to transition my career again. I look forward to having more space to expand my garden to grow herbs for my medicine cabinet, and to grow vegetables and fruits for the table. I look forward to rubbing down the horses after a ride, and sitting on the porch during a long summer evening as the fireflies come out, followed by the stars. I feel the most joy in contemplating the idea of sharing my new home with my beloved family and friends by hosting gatherings and sharing my love of the land. Thank you, Randy and Carolyn (and Margie), for the gift of knowing that dreams can come true in extraordinary ways.

I am still writing my story. Pritchard was right. There is a farm out there for me, and it is calling me home. My heart is answering, with great joy.

Well the summertime has gone
And the leaves are gently turnin'
And my love, I wanna take you
To the place heart-a-yearnin'
Will you go, lassie go?

Indelible Thanks

“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The last time I posted on Thanksgiving Day, I was sick, and so I am today, five years later. I did make it out to join my 2nd family and more friends—14 of us around the table—for dinner. There are many beautiful people in my life; many stories I could share. I love the story of how I became closer to my 2nd family—when we mutually adopted each other, and how much that has blessed my life. Maybe I’ll share that someday.

Today I want to tell a different kind of story. Not every person that enters our life stays with us on the journey. Not every memory is a perfect one. Yet I subscribe to the belief that no one is in our life by accident. We are here to teach each other, whether through friendship and love, or situations seemingly not so positive. And when we experience pain, is it for nothing? I won’t pretend to understand all that goes on in the world, and I will not glibly explain away suffering. But in our day-to-day interactions, I believe we encounter exactly who we need to help us grow. We choose our own reactions.

So besides being thankful for the folks who shower me with love, I am also thankful for the people in my life who have disappointed me. Actually, in most cases, I have to own that disappointment. It is usually the case that my internal expectations and hopes are not met rather than that the other person did not live up to a stated agreement. I continually strive to live in the present moment, and to not make assumptions about why other people do what they do, but it’s not always easy. It’s a practice.

About six months ago, I attended an event with a friend. There, I met a man. During introductions, he said something to me that I didn’t hear, but I could feel from the energy that he was paying me a compliment. I managed enough presence of mind to say “thank you.”  It wasn’t until a few days later that I found out from our mutual friend what he had said. Our interactions that evening were brief, yet positive, and he gave me an assurance that he would be in touch.

Over the next few days I couldn’t help but think about him. He seemed to share the values that are most important to me. He was tall and handsome, and he had complimented me. One part of me knew my budding crush could be completely one-sided, but I decided not to care. It felt too damn good, and I wanted to enjoy it. My brain was flooded with dopamine and serotonin, and people noticed that I was acting differently. Even a stranger told me, “I love your walk.”

After a few days, I reached out to him. Then, what happened was…nothing. No reply. As the days eked into a week, and then into weeks, I slowly accepted the fact that for whatever reason, he was not going to respond. As is normal for me, I tried to analyze the situation and figure out what I had done wrong. By turns and sometimes all at once, I was angry, sad, confused, and embarrassed.

Yet over that month, I kept coming back to my early reaction—that chemical high. I realized that those feel-good drugs had been of my own making, although he may have been the trigger. “Why don’t I feel that way more often?” I wondered. I decided that I wanted to feel that way—for myself. I wanted to have that energy, that bounce, that glorious glow, because I am excited about my life the way it is now, not just for what may be with someone else. I have come very far over the past years, yet I still felt stuck somehow. I had reached a hump in the road that I just couldn’t get over by myself. And all at once, I decided I was done with that, simply done. Whatever had to be done to live my life with more passion, I was going to do it. I was determined to find the answer.

While pondering this, I found a book on my shelf that I picked up at a used bookstore a while back, but hadn’t yet read: Fearless Living by Rhonda Britten. “Fearless”—that sounded exactly how I wanted to live. I contacted an acquaintance who offers life coaching based on this book. We met for coffee to talk about her life coaching work, and I committed to the path. A few weeks later we began our sessions.

It’s hard to describe the exact course of healing that took place (and is still occurring). It has been life-changing, freeing, and by turns exhilarating and painful. My coach is so helpful in helping me see things in a different light and keeping me focused on the positive. There are times I find myself resistant to the homework, and I realize I’m avoiding the issues it is bringing up. At least once just reading the homework made me cry, without knowing why. On those days my coach was there to walk me gently through, question by question, while acknowledging my willingness to continue the work.

Over time, my perspective began to shift. I found that I began to care less about what other people think of me. It was as if a veil was lifted from my sight and a weight taken off my shoulders. I self-described this as “I’m becoming a bitch,” meaning that in the best possible sense. I was finally starting to be able to say what I thought, what I needed, and do what I wanted, without undue worry for others’ reactions. It was suddenly easier to just be in the world, because it sapped less of my energy. Rather, I was giving people less of my energy, since I was clearer on my boundaries and wasn’t worrying about always pleasing others. For an introverted empath, who avoids conflict at almost any cost, this was a colossal shift. My friends noticed too; they saw I was less reserved, and told me I was glowing. Some people assumed I was dating someone new.

With my first of two fabulous models at Art Attack.
photo credit: A. Bayne

This new-found power allowed me to say ‘yes’ to two events that I would have balked at before. Sometime in the summer, I signed up for Via Colori, which I’d wanted to participate in since it came to town four years ago. A few weeks before that event, I heard about Art Attack, where artists bring their easels downtown and paint. Five days away from the event, I thought, “I want to do that. I know how to do that.” I waited for that other voice to pipe up. I knew what it would say: “You don’t have enough time to get the logistics together…you haven’t done art in so long, it would be better if you worked your way back up to that…what if you have an off day and your art sucks?” I knew what that voice would say, but it never spoke up. So, I just went full force forward. I signed up for the event, I put an appeal on Facebook for live models and a few things I needed to borrow. And I did it. It was the most glorious day; start to finish I was in flow.

Via Colori, held a week later, was similar—I was there for fun and I made a plan and executed it. I sent a Facebook invitation for both events to everyone in the area that I am connected to. Many friends stopped by to support me, and many strangers also admired my work. “I didn’t know you were an artist,” was a common theme from my friends, since I haven’t advertised it much. One couple asked, “How much would the city charge to cut out a piece of pavement and take it home?” Grinning, I replied, “I’m sure an arrangement could be made.”

Finishing details on my self-portrait (from a photo by J. Kennedy) at Via Colori.
photo credit: K. Weaver

This journey has been work—each week I have reading, questions to answer, and a lot to think about. I seem to go through cycles of hiding out, needing to conserve my energy, followed by times when I’m flying high in the world with an energy I would not expect myself to be able to sustain. Right now I feel myself going back into hibernation mode—needing more time alone, more time to work on things at home. The focus now is on learning to love myself—defining what that means and what it looks like in practical terms. It’s difficult to admit how much work I have to do there. Why is it so much easier to love and be patient with others than it is with myself?

 

And the man I met those months ago? He remains an enigma. His choice of silence, over even a simple ‘no, thanks,’ may have felt unkind, yet I have no idea what his personal story is. And yes, the credit goes to me for the awareness I took from that short interaction, and the work I have done since, for myself. Yet he was, in my life, a bright flash of light. His presence, along with others, helped me to jump-start a path that only spirals upward: a life of love and care for myself; a life of fearless living.

So there it is. Life is messy. Through it we carry our hopes, our wounds, and our historicalities. We try to heal, we try to learn. We try to live with open hearts even while guarding them. We fumble, and sometimes regret.

We do our best. And that’s always enough.

We do not need to be perfect to positively affect the lives of others, or even our own. We just need to be ourselves, our best selves, moment by moment. Perfect in our imperfection. Divine in our humanness. Thank you, dear soldier of the Light, for leaving that indelible mark on my life through your innocent observation of my “beautiful green eyes.”

Fireflies

The bees are loving the comfrey.

On the solstice, I spent some time in my garden, planting some more herbs and enjoying the space. Afterwards I wrote in my journal and just soaked in the beauty and energy of nature and the garden. It's on land belonging to friends, and in more ways than one is a very healing place. As dusk fell the fireflies came out, one by one.  Fireflies have always been magical, and I realized that I have the same wonder watching them now as I did when I was a little girl.

When my sister and I were young, just like any other kid, we’d chase the fireflies and try to catch them. I’d hold one in my hand, peeking through my fingers to see them light up again. Sometimes we’d catch a few in a jar, but after a while, we would set them free.  Even after knowing why fireflies light up, it still doesn’t change the magic. You never know exactly when and where the next firefly will light up, even when you try to guess. But you know they will, and it’s delightful to watch.

My fancies are fireflies, —
Specks of living light
twinkling in the dark.
~Rabindranath Tagore

The Universe has been nudging me lately to “enter the wonder of ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen.’” It’s not something that’s comfortable all of the time, especially when tied to things that I’m deeply longing for. And as I watched the fireflies, I wondered whether I could approach the ‘I don’t know’ parts of my life the way I watch for fireflies. Can I sit back, relax, and just see what happens? Can I delight in each moment of light and joy as it comes, without trying to control when and how it happens? Can I wait, expectantly, without getting wrapped up in the ‘how’s or the ‘when’s? Without getting mad or melancholy when my guesses and expectations are not met? And even when I get to hold it in my hand, can I stay in the wonder of the moment without trying to tie it down? 

The beauty about fireflies is you know there’s a season for them. You don’t know exactly when they’ll show up, but you know they will, without fail, every summer. And so it is with life. Joy will come to light up the darkness; it’s part of the rhythm of life. Step into the wonder of it and let it come when and as it will. And when it does, enjoy it; revel in the wonder of it.

Alexi Murdoch: Shine

The Flaming Lips: What is the Light?

The Woman Born to Farming

Ceres/Demeter, Goddess of fertility, grain, and agriculture

 When I was a young child, my dad grew a huge garden in our backyard every year. I remember he would drag a board across the soil to smooth it out, and he would have me lay on it to weigh it down. We grew so much; tomatoes, beans, cucumbers…and my mother would can what we didn’t use right away. I remember the sunflowers that grew high above my head at the side of the house.



Huron County, MI

Then we moved to North Carolina. There, instead of the rich, loamy, black Michigan soil, we found the packed, red Carolina clay. We bought a house which was mostly wooded land, and Dad tilled up a spot in a clearing for a garden. But after that year, he gave up. It was just not as easy in that soil, and with so many trees blocking the sun. Every time we visit my home state, my jaw drops to the floor as we drive past miles and miles of that black gold. I just want to stop the car, walk out into a random field, and dig my hands in it.

The land is in my blood. Both my grandfathers were farmers. I never knew my mom’s father, though—he died when she was still very young. He was out in the fields when he had a heart attack. Grandma stayed on the land to raise her three children, but the fields were rented out. I have fuzzy memories of visiting her farmhouse before she later moved to town. My other grandfather worked his land bordering the river running through town for many years. I have many fond memories of our visits there, especially of Grandpa sitting in his overalls and smoking his pipe. He was a gentle and hard-working man, and I see much of him in my father. He was in his nineties when he passed away five years ago. Grandma still lives on the land in their farmhouse.


My grandpa in his garden with my niece.

I think I’ve always been a little jealous of those who grew up on farms, almost as if that should have been my life. Perhaps I’ve romanticized it a bit, but as I know myself more I am learning to just accept the connection to the land that I feel inside. It is not simply a love of nature, which is an essential part, but an appreciation for the way nature supports us; recognition that in a garden or on a farm, humans and nature are partners together. This is true anywhere, even in a city, but more intentional, and I think more honored, among those who work the land. It is a quality I deeply respect.

Even while still young, it hurt me inside to watch fields and pastures replaced by housing developments. As I grew up, I became very interested in environmental issues, and I learned about organic and sustainable agriculture. The summer after my sophomore year, I planted my first garden, all organic, in that clearing in the middle of our woods. Perhaps I was a bit ambitious, but I generally dream much bigger than practicality. I'm generally an all-or-nothing kind of girl. I planted tomatoes, potatoes, pumpkins, peppers, and sunflowers. I remember my joy at seeing the first leaves of the pumpkin seedlings pushing from the ground. To me, it's a miracle every single time.


My garden in Guilford County, NC.

The only problem with having a garden that summer, was that I was gone for a month that summer attending Summer Ventures at UNC-Wilmington. I bribed my sister to watch the garden, which I later learned was not such a great idea. By the time I returned, weeds were rampant where I hadn't been able to mulch with newspapers, and the pumpkin vines had grown all over the garden. It was still beautiful. And meanwhile, in Wilmington and Pender County, I was taking soil samples and studying their properties.



Kitchen garden at the living history farm where I worked two summers during college.
Blue Ridge Institute, Ferrum, VA

As a senior, our final paper/presentation in English class was about a career of our choice. Mine was on sustainable agriculture. I'm not sure, but I think I kind of shocked my class. I remember feeling a bit vulnerable yet passionate at the same time, trying to impart to them the importance of what I was talking about. For part of my project, I visited and interviewed Rick Williams, a professor at Ferrum College in Ferrum, VA (where I had been accepted). He and his family grew their own food (including a cow), and he showed me the different methods like crop rotation that he used. 

"Farmer's Heartache"
Mixed Media Collage
with poems by Wendell Berry
Fall 1996

When I began college, I had declared a major in Environmental Science with a minor in Agriculture. I jumped right into my science classes, taking Environmental Issues, Chemistry, and Ecology my first semester. I joined the Agriculture Club and met Dr. Moore, who was the professor of most of the Ag classes, and beloved by all of us.

Over those first few years, though, something strange happened. I was also taking some art classes, just for my own edification. I had become hooked on painting in my 12th grade Humanites class, and just wanted to get a better foundation for myself. However, it unleashed a previously unknown creative force inside crying to get out. My science classes became a burden to me, especially Chemistry. There was no room for creativity when there was only one right answer. So after some amount of angst, this science and math girl did the unthinkable: I switched to a major in Art with a minor in English.



Ferrum Ag Club at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway

I stayed in the Ag Club, although I never did feel completely like one of them, especially after switching my major. Yet that was my fault for being too self-conscious. I felt intimidated by their real-farm experience. And being pretty much a teetotaler in those days, I didn't make it to many of their social gatherings. And yet I couldn't resist the chance to be around them. Thank goodness, because I made some pretty good friends out of the deal, one of whom later stood up for me when I got married. I went along a few of the Ag Club trips, including the one to Iowa to see the John Deere factory in Waterloo, and the Field of Dreams in Dyersville. I went to every Dakkota concert I could when Ferrum brought them to town, where I would teach a few line dances to the gals and two-step with a few of the guys. I even took an Ag class after I'd switch majors, just to be with the guys and have a Dr. Moore class. I can't say I was the brightest mind in the room, as I had little experience to relate the subject matter to. Nevertheless, I still have my textbook--Farm Business Management: The Decision Making Process, 3rd edition.


At Big Ed's cotton farm in Orangeburg, SC

Fast forward a number of years--years spent with and recovering from corporate America (partly by working on a farm); years spent being married and later divorced; years spent growing. Time has taught me that sustainable agriculture will always be in my heart, that in fact, my life's purpose is intertwined with it. I hold the belief that no experience is ever wasted, and so I think that somehow my art and my writing will play a part in my passion as well. I believe that every job I've ever had will give me the skills and experiences I need in fulfilling my purpose.

This is the seventh year I've been a member of a local CSA (community supported agriculture). The first was a farm in Ruther Glen, and then the Fredericksburg CSA Project (FACSAP), which I love because of the variety we get from five different farms. While volunteering with them for distribution, during the summer I was unemployed, I was able to get to know their organizers and volunteers a lot better. I then stepped up to be the organizer of the Canning Farm CSA for a few years, which was a small CSA delivering to Fredericksburg. (Canning also delivers to FACSAP, other local CSAs, and now its own CSA has pickup at the farm.) I am now back with FACSAP, with a group of people I strongly admire.


FACSAP 2011 Season

I am still rather shy in approaching our farmers, even though I want so much to deepen that connection. But I realized recently, that if we are to have a food revolution in this country, and change the way we grow our food, it will take a hell of a lot of people to do that. It will take a lot of people growing, and it will take an even greater number of educated eaters. Anything that any of us can share to spread this knowledge will help. My knowledge is limited, especially when matched next to any of our growers. Yet, my knowledge is great matched next to a lot of lay people. I have a lot I can share, and I have a passion to share it. My goal this season is to connect our members more directly to our growers through tours and sharing pictures of each farm.

A long time ago, in high school, I had a dream that has always stayed with me. I was working at a farm, which grew a multitude of different vegetables and fruits. It even had fruit trees; I think at one point I was up in a tree harvesting apples or plums. There were a large number of people there, of all different ages. It was a place for people to buy produce, a place for people to learn, a place to play. Some of the produce was grown for and even by those staying in the local homeless shelter. I think over time the dream has evolved with other ideas in my heart inserted.

Cleome blooming in my garden.

I just know that I need to be working with the earth, and it seems, also with people. I've got the CSA, but I knew that I had to get my hands actually in the soil again. Our city started a community garden this year and I was lucky enough to sign up for a plot in time. And she doesn't look perfect, as I don't have as much time or energy to spend there as I would like. However, I am very proud of myself for actually doing it. I have over 30 varieties of plants, mostly herbs and flowers, and one tomatillo. The cloeme flowers are particularly striking. The herbs come from Forrest Green Farm in Louisa, where I am also taking their Whole Living Class, which covers everything about herbs from good soil and seeding, to the nutritional and medicinal properties of herbs, to making tinctures, vinegars, oils, and infusions. 

While I still have a journey ahead to find my exact place in the world of agriculture, this is what I know: My life's purpose is inextricably woven with sustainable agriculture, with co-creating a partnership with plants and nature, and with the healing of the earth through our most basic need: to eat.

~~~

The Man Born To Farming

by Wendell Berry

The Grower of Trees, the gardener, the man born to farming,

whose hands reach into the ground and sprout

to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death

yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down

in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.

His thought passes along the row ends like a mole.

What miraculous seed has he swallowed

That the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth

Like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water

Descending in the dark?