To Plant Again
To Plant Again
BY FARMER JESS
We are in full spring here on the farm and summer is just around the corner. Dirt covers my face and gets trapped underneath my fingernails, my skin is showing its relationship with the sun as my arms are becoming as brown as the soil that I find myself in. Seed packets fill my pockets, garden tools are strewn about and weeding has become our not so favorite pastime once again.
All of this feels familiar and comfortable, even with an ache in my lower back and sore shoulders from carrying buckets and transferring water from here to there. The warmth of the earth beneath my feet and the soft breeze that blows through my hair welcomes me to remain fully present where I am at, steadfast in my work and joyful in anticipation of all that we will be able to enjoy and share over the coming months as a result of our partnership with the land, its plants and the many animals that call the farm home.
There is another thing that is accompanying me this season, a reality that is familiar and yet has been torn fresh each spring for the last three years. That is the presence of grief as a result of loss. Last spring I lost my mom a month before harvest season began and this year I lost my dad. These losses bring a deep layer of complexities to my heart and to my hands, as death brings with it the invitation to respond and the desire to rest. The farm doesn’t give much time for traditional rest this time of year, but it does welcome the presence that I speak of, the presence that desires to remain fully engaged with oneself and their work.
I always say that the bravest thing a gardener can do is plant again — each season brings a seed that doesn’t grow, a frost that kills, hot days that burn the foliage, or rain that decimates a crop. But a real gardener doesn’t plant things in the dirt simply because they enjoy success, as the success is the sweetness in the bittersweet work that is found there. Most gardeners continue to enter their plots each year with the hope of something new, plans for something different, with a little more knowledge and wisdom that can only come through planting again, no matter how bitter the previous season had been.
We lose some things and gain others. Death and birth can happen on the same day on the farm and we have learned that our ability to carry one of those experiences into the next illuminates the beauty that is found in this world. We can be as we are in heart and mind, no matter where we find ourselves.
And so we will plant again. We will sow seeds and harvest veggies. We will share the abundance of whatever might come through the garden this year and marvel over the shiny skin of a tomato, the crunch of the beans and the velvety goodness that comes with freshly picked spinach. We know that there is nothing better than garden fresh kale, perfectly timed summer squash enjoyed with summer harvested garlic and fresh onions or anything that is covered in a perfect chiffonade of basil. We will take notes of what works and what doesn’t, allowing wonder and curiosity to approach each with kindness and openness to needs for change and opportunities for growth.
This year I entered the garden and I thanked it for allowing me to rest my heavy heart in the soil that will grow food that will fill our bellies and the bellies of those of you that call yourself friends of the farm. With each bushel I harvest I will remember that although death is a strong reality of the garden, so is life.
Spring is the season for hope and anticipation and summer is the season for celebration and enjoyment. Nourishment abounds in many forms as the year progresses. We are welcomed to heal and to rest and to dance and to sing alongside whatever may come through the work of the warm sun and the hands and bodies that care for it. We live our life on the farm in recognition of this.
