Of the Eye

Find the shortest, simplest way between the earth, the hands and the mouth.

--Lanzo Del Vasto

The apiary by the pond.

A frog in switchgrass.

Beetle on a post.

Early spring asparagus.

Rye field.

Butter Crisp.

Apple bloom.

A curious nose.

Comet.

Of the Hands

There is a small bone in our wrists, the size of a marble, that dictates what it is we are to accomplish with our hands. In primates, the brothers and sisters of our opposable thumbs, the bone is pyramidal, shaped to give grasping strength to the wrist. In humans, the bone is round, allowing us to not only grasp, but to use our digits for intricate movements: to button a shirt, to hold and use complex tools.

            This difference in bone shape, a single bone in the center of our wrist, might seem a trivial evolutionary sidenote. But it is in this bone that we are faced with the ethics of how we are to live; the bone propounds life and offers us the possibility of infinite creativity.

            And it is with this bone and its variable uses that the body should be worked more than the mind. The body should know sweat and sacrifice through pain and pleasure. The body is the interaction of the spiritual being in all of us with the earthly reality of death and rebirth. But in our age the body has become a burden; if it is not making us money than what good is it? The body has become simply the transport for the mind to and from a location in which we exploit the intricate delicacy the mind gives to this world. We have become creatures not of habit, reacting in a specific way to specific situations, but creatures of sloth and idleness, all because of the was we have collectively decided to use a small bone in the wrist. With the infinitely possible maneuverings of our fingers we created machines to do the work for us, we compounded, and at the cost of the earth and our health, a complex array of steel and wire.

            Why are the maladies of our age that of sedentariness? Diseases of the body are all but ghosts. We get synthetic joints not because we wear then out, but because we refuse to use them,. They rot in our bodies, or what we can collectively call our bodies.  We have created a culture in which we use our minds to avoid the use of our bodies. In offices and buildings, we sit, for hours on end…

            And then here I am.  Surrounded by dirt and earth, apple trees and rye.  I find that small round bone in my wrist haven't failed me yet. My hand knows contours of soil, of a muscle movement repeated and repeated and repeated. And I know then that all that we have created is naught forgot on the steel and wire, but is inherent in the way we must conform our movements so that we get from the earth what it is that the earth wants to give. Nothing will come free of sacrifice. Nothing will provide without sweat and body.  And nothing that comes so easy is not worth it's weight in sand.

            My hands are bloodied and blistered, rough as alligator skin, cracked and dry, and with every movement they remind me of this. Why is it that I have chosen this for my hands? Why the sacrifice of a structure millions of years in the making only to break it down day after day, movement after movement?

            Marx elucidates that value is never inherent, rather, it can only be transferred. The blacksmith transfers value to steel by the way she molds it, the farmer transfers value to the field by planting specific crops, the mechanic the machine, the author the paper.  Value then can never be created, only transferred, as in following the basic condition of matter in this universe. And yet value is not universal. A piano has more value to someone who understands the keys than to someone who does not.

            There is nothing wrong with using the mind, for after all we are creative and intelligent creatures, but it should never be held in exaltedness over the body. For those of us who have separated ourselves from the physical toils of existence—the use of our hands to create that which feeds and heals us—has separated themselves from the understanding of creation, the glory and power of a single bone in the wrist. It is because of this bone that we have become the culture we are. It is because of this bone that we can choose to better ourselves, or deny it the respect it deserves and watch ourselves, and our land, become ghosts.

Ecosophy and Goat Cheese

As well as teaching us both the ecological and business aspects of farming, Jill is a wonderful teacher of all things homesteadable (if I might coin a word). This week she taught us how to make cheese and went through the steps to make Chévre during our lunch break. Mary, who lives up the street, has milking goats and brings Jill several gallons a day. Some of the milk she turns into cheese and sells during CSA pick-up. Goat cheese, I am coming to find out, is absolutely delicious!

I am talking of cheese now because as some of you know (or perhaps all of you) I was vegan for nearly three years, meaning if it came from a face or once had one, I wouldn't eat it. My reason for living a vegan lifestyle was based on the factory-farm system by which nearly all of our meat, cheese, and milk is produced. I have a strong belief that the ethical choices we make should be rooted in the deepest responsibility we can summon. I for one could not trust the sources of the animal-based food I was eating so I gave it up entirely.

However, in my abhorence of all things animal based I did not lose sight of the collective, culinary creativity that brings us all together. Food is the reason we gather and gather happily. In just two short weeks here I have begun to discover the root of food, its original place in the human experince. Eating fresh eggs in the morning knowing that hours before I had collected them and cleaned them myself. Eating cheese made from goats less than a mile away, crafted right before me. Picking and washing fresh greens from the greenhouse. Eating what is in bounty and what has made it through the winter in the cellar.The season's giving is the heart of good food, it is the heart of slow food and leads us on a path to rediscover our connection to place by way of our stomach and tongue. 

The father of deep ecology and author Arne Naess writes in Ecology, Community, and Lifestyle that we should all strive to create our own ecosophy. He explains that ecosophy is "a philosophical world-view or system inspired by the conditions of life in the ecosphere." What Naess is asking of each of us is to create a world view of ourselves based on how we interact, and choose to interact, with the living world. Ecosophy differs from a personal philosophy because it is rooted in action and not thought, in the actions we choose to take regarding the earth, others, and ourselves. 

Though I read the above book nearly two years ago, I am still in the process of creating my own ecosophy. It is not an easy goal to complete, but the steps to get there are simple. I have decided to base my life around the creation of whole foods and sharing them with others. That is why I strive to be a farmer. 

An ecosophy is always a work in progress, it is never complete. While I will use these writings throughout the next several months to elucidate the underpinnings of my ecosophy I am curious to know what you all believe to be your ecosophical base. Do you buy local and organic produce from the farmer's market? Do you recycle and consume less? Do you belong to a CSA or grow beans in your backyard? Do you cook homemade food for others and welcome them into your home with a warm oven and a warm heart? If you have a moment leave a comment for me and for others about what your ecosophy is and how you strive to fulfill it. 

We use nature to give us food, and food it goes without saying, is warming, inviting, and nurturing. Though the spectrum of flavors and textures nature gives us is overwhelming, sometimes all it takes is a little goat cheese to focus our eyes on the horizon.

The Maine Coast

Last weekend Jill insisted that I take the weekend off. As the season becomes busier and busier time to ourselves, and time to explore the area, will begin to dwindle. So I took off in my truck and headed for the coast. I have heard from nearly everyone who has lived in or visited Maine that the coast provides some of the best scenery in all of the country. Even though the days were overcast, they proved to be right. Here are a few pictures from the drive up highway one.

My first stop was at Popham beach at the sight of an old fort. This is a view looking toward the Atlantic during low tide. You can can see all the seaweed, clams, and other sea creatures I have yet to learn about at the bottom of the picture.

 

A picture of Fort George. It was under restoration when I was there but peaking inside the fence I could see the individual rooms of the garrison, each with a window facing the sea for cannon positions, or a killer B and B view.

Tagged inside one of the underground bunkers that were accessible. Just good advise in general.

The lighthouse at Port Clyde. I am coming to find out every city in Maine either starts of ends in "port." Just look at a map...

The main tower of Fort William Henry near Pemaquid. The original fort was built in the late 1600's and subsequently attacked and destroyed three times by the French and Indian forces throughout the next two centuries. If you need any more information on this historic fort, just ask my father. He seems to be the only person alive who has ever heard of this fort.

Farm News

With the arrival of spring comes the burden of the field. We have been extremely busy for the past several days trying to prepare the farm for the first SCA pick up next Monday, the 11th. 

After four days in the field we finally planted the last of the the onion and leek transplants. This year we have planted over 2200 row feet of leeks, three at a time with one foot spacing!  Anyone want to make potato and leek soup this fall?

We have also transplanted lettuce into the field and will soon be transplanting more. This week has given us showers and grey skies so we have taken the opportunity to do various chores around the farm that would otherwise be neglected in sunny weather. Oiling and cleaning the forks, shovels, hoes, and rakes as well as the orchard ladders, organizing the CSA room, putting up additional fencing for the sheep and pigs, and cutting fence posts. Farming proves that even with deadlines there is never an end to the tasks. 

We begin all days with our morning chores which rotate from person to person each day. They include taking care of all the animals and the greenhouses.

We put out the draft horses, clean the stalls, and feed them. Abe and Abby are familiar with the routine, but Ada, the youngest, is still a bit wild. When we take her out in the morning we have to turn her around to face us before we let go of her halter so we have time to get out of the way when she bolts for the hay! 

We feed, water, and collect eggs from the laying hens. We have both fertilized and unfertilized eggs (meaning in one coop we have a roster, and hen pecked at that!). A laying hen will lay nearly an egg a day through its productive years (which are usually no more than one or two years). On average we collect about five dozen eggs a day from the nearly 100 hens we have! 

We feed and water the pigs, and more often than not, wake them. They sleep in like a college student... Two weekends ago Jill got nine pigs that she raises for meat at the end of the season. This past weekend they had already outgrown their pen so Jill expanded it and within several hours they had already rooted it all up! Forget the tractor and tiller, just get some pigs! They are starting to warm up to us and aren't as skittish as they were at first. 

Lastly we tend to the sheep, giving them grain and water. Today (in the pouring rain no less) Jilll, Megan, and myself (though only for a bit) expanded the sheep pen. Our goal is to soon have the all the animals in the largest areas we can get them to and with the completion of a few hundred more yards of fence, the horses should be able to have lots of room to run!

The tasks never end and neither does the bounty of the land. If we take care of both, we take care of ourselves. 

Until then...

Here are a few pictures from the farm.

Last year one of Jill's apprentices rescued five kittens. A few disappeared, a few met their fate on the road, but one survived. Until a few days ago he remained unnamed (Jill had simply called him "kitty"). So we apprentices renamed him Scoby after the thick layer of bacteria and yeast that forms at the top of fermenting Kombucha. Endearing huh? Either way it seemed fitting and he is now our newest neighbor.

This is a view to the Southwest from just outside the apprentice cabins. Past the old Manure spreader is the sheep pasture followed by a few acres of apple trees. 

The greenhouses at this time of year are bountiful. In greenhouse number one we start the transplants of all the crops to be planted once the threat of frost has pasted and to give them stable growing conditions before they are hardened off. There is everything from lettuce to tomatoes to kale to basil in this picture.

Not Yet Enough

Greetings to all of us awaking from the doldrums of winter.

Last Saturday I left the mitten and for once headed east instead of west. My tenure in California had expired long ago (or so December seems) and the future of food lay ahead. I was on my way to Maine. Sabattus Maine.

Earlier this winter I had been in search of farm apprenticeships that would give me an experience of working and living on a full integrated farm. I found Jill and her farm Willow Pond. Jill has been a mainstay in the Maine farming community since the early 1980's and in 1989, she opened the first CSA in Maine. I quickly realized that Jill had more knowledge to share than I could ever gather in one season, yet I would have to gather as much as I could in such a short time.

So it went, or should I say, so I went, through Canada onto Ithaca for a rousing weekend with James and then onto the only state to be bordered by only one other state. I arrived late on Sunday the 26th of April ready to begin a cycle of farming that has been thousands of years in the making.

The first day there was no wasting time, as time is only limiting to a farmer trying to make the most out of all that he or she has to work with. I meet the two other apprentices, Michelle and Meghan, (we will soon to be joined by a fourth, Adrien, in the coming weeks) and we got to the heart of the matter: wrangling chickens.

I will admit, I have never contemplated the delicate intricacies of chicken wrangling and yet dispite this two in a hand they went. We spent the better half of the day repairing and relacing old and worn parts on one of the two chicken coops, building roosts, getting hay, fixing holes in the fence (and yet they still find a way out...). Then Jill turned us loose on the chickens who were still in their winter home on the top floor of the barn. With her apropos directions, "Just bend over slowly and then quickly grab their feet and turn them upside down...", we were off to the races. 65 hens in total and half way through we were beaming with confidence at out great and nibble chicken catching skills. Then they caught on. And comedy ensued. In the end we managed to get them all wrangled and into their new home, outside in the cool Maine air.

This was to say the least, one of the more eventful happenings of my first week here in Maine. The life of a farmer, or in my case a farm hand working on becoming a farmer, is hardly so exciting. There is weeding. A lot of weeding. Mundane tasks that are ever important to the growing of food and to our ability to feed and sustain ourselves. But there are moments that arise, like when one looks back on beds of newly planted onions and sighs with content or when one eats food so fresh it tastes more of the terrior than supermarket.

I live rustically, no electricity, no running water, but every night I sleep heavy knowing that I am the originator, the designer of food, however small a role I might take in the grander theater. And so with that I will do my best to use words and pixels to not only relay my personal experience of learning to farm to you, but to spread word of how we get food, from soil to plate.

Wendell Berry writes "We learn from our gardens to deal with the most urgent question of the time: how much is enough?" Here at Willow Pond we will grow food for hundreds of homes, who will in turn take that food (hopefully enough) and feed themselves on what we have provided. But no farmer, and no person for that matter can ever know what enough is until on has indeed had enough. And I for one, have not.