"Wow, those have grown!" seems to be one of the themes this week.  I said it to Erin in the green onions earlier this evening. A farm member said it about the tomatoes in the caterpillar tunnel, immediately upon arrival for Tuesday's pickup. I say it silently with a little inward cringe, about the weeds in the garlic beds and other places. We're halfway through June, but still somehow surprised that it's here. Any of you who've seen us know we've been a little bit harried this spring, and we thank you for bearing with us, as we continue to grow. 

Last weeks' market started off a little rough, as one of our reliable regular customers approached with a question as I was setting up (answer: yes, we're always happy to take a check, no worries if you forgot to get cash).  

Her next comment, though, was when it got tricky...."That newsletter this week was extremely depressing," she informed me.  Not sure how to respond, I just kept stacking kale, aiming for a sympathetic expression; I couldn't argue, it was pretty stark, but I hadn't had the time or energy to try to add an amusing farm anecdote when editing. "Who wrote that one?"  Still arranging greens bunches I replied "Noah wrote that one--we take turns, but it was him this week."  "Well you should tell him not do to that." the customer continued. I took a deep breath, and paused in my veggie stacking to turn towards her....how to explain....as if it were so simple, that Noah Jackson would ever do or not do something simply because I or anyone else said so, was laughable in itself. But what came out was the simplest and truest explanation: "It is extremely important to Noah to really be honest, and tell the whole story."   

I've thought a lot about that exchange. I understand what you are saying and I sympathize. Part of me agrees with that, coming as I do from a classic rural culture of a keep-troubles-to-yourself, stiff-upper-lip, chin-up, captain-goes-down-with-the-ship sort of approach. The farming family and neighbors I grew up with could be getting their third tractor stuck axel-deep in a field of Oregon spring mud, and would still answer "how are you?"  with "Oh, pretty good."  I am prone to fretting about our balance of humorous anecdotes vs details of the struggles, and may very well even have told Noah not to write about tears.  But I've also learned the good reasons not to just tell him not to do that.

Because, as Noah would say to just about everything, "It's a lot like chickens."  Erin, the  third farmer on the team this summer as an intern, has been learning the chicken chores and the ways of the flock, this past week.  Having another willing and capable farmer for feedings, watering, and egg checks, is great. I, for the record, flunked out of chicken training ages ago and am used only as second-string help when Noah is off the farm or very busy. One reason I'm on chicken probation is that I'm prone to let them get under my skin. When they swarm me as I collect eggs, pecking at my boots, my braids, my earrings, the pencil in my back pocket I get aggravated, annoyed with them, lose all pleasure in the task.  "They are just being chickens," Noah reminded me after a particularly terrible round this winter when my patience wore out after they knocked over a full basket of 5 dozen eggs. In trying to scoot eager hens away from the basket of spilled eggs with an awkward sideways kick, I managed to snap something in my left lower back/ hip badly enough to barely limp back from the coop.  Chicken injuries are the worst, as it's always slightly embarrassing, and it's always the farmers own fault.  But the reality was, they were just being chickens--and I had not paid close enough attention to the directions, which clearly stated to water them first, before collecting eggs.  They will mob a farmer when they need something they are lacking, and I just tried to force my agenda instead of theirs.  They aren't really jerks (I may have called them that), they were just being chickens, chickens with needs, in that case.  

A tenet of permaculture, a design concept that we try to keep in mind, not just in farming but in our lives, is that creatures should be allowed to express their full nature.  An industrially raised chicken in a cage or massive indoor barn can't be a true chicken. We strive to let our chickens be true chickens: running, digging, foraging, scratching in the soil, dust-bathing, engaging in their social politics, and moving on to fresh ground when they've used up a patch of pasture. We can't quite provide the tropical jungle canopy they evolved in, but we do our best to create a system where they can be as chicken-y as possible, can be their best chicken selves.  

That's why we spent 15 farmer-hours shoveling out more than 15 yards of bedding so we could move the barns to new pasture last week (yes, the egg flavor will now also be better).

In light of that customer's comments, and my own tendency, if I'm not careful, to reign in some of Noah's brutally honest sharing, I've been thinking a lot about that principle this week.  How to let each part of the farm embrace it's full nature as much as possible--to let a chicken be a chicken, and Noah be a Noah, knowing the whole farm will benefit the most from everyone's full expression.  

The main reason Noah hasn't been at market this season is that we are still so deep in behind-deadline building projects that each Saturday after helping me unload the truck, he has rushed home to make progress on something: intern cabins, chicken pasture, high tunnel structures, ground prep, etc..  When I came home from market last week, there was a small army of farm helpers under his command, tackling the many parts and pieces of our latest high tunnel:  Erin, on her day off, with a friend she'd convinced to come over to help, farm members Travis and Shelly back for a second shift after helping set up the ribs the night before.  All there because Noah had reached out saying clearly "we need help."   It was a lot to manage, but an amazing jump forward towards getting a tunnel ready to plant.  With their help, we actually wrapped up the day at 6:00 pm, and sat together taking a break in a cool breeze. 

Though I often prefer the comfort of "oh, pretty good" as a public front, I have learned that that honesty has so much value.  Noah's conservation work, the years in the tropics of Asia, from his Peace Corp days to Fullbright fellowship, to independent contractor work, were not just about "saving the rainforest."   Everything, if you look closely, was about ensuring that people's stories were heard, shared, understood. The story being understood is as core to Noah's essence as a chicken digging for worms. So, I won't apologize if his writing makes you sad, and I won't tell him to stop.  It's part of his nature, to show the world as it is, in order to think it out, understand, find solutions.  

And of course, sometimes what is uncomfortable but true provides some of the best conditions for improvement.  Because people knew, we received helping hands this week. Because people knew, there were calls, cookies, and cards from near and far with kind words and support beyond what we could ever have expected.  Thank you.  We'll do our best to use those gifts to continue becoming our best expressions of ourselves, and help the farm continue to find and express its own true nature, as a place for all of us.  

With gratitude, 

Mary & Noah, and all of SweetRoot 

p.s.  Father's day snuck up on us! But we couldn't send out a newsletter without a brief thank you to the man who is not only my Pa, but definitely the farm-dad: SweetRoot cannot express enough love and gratitude to Frank Bricker for all the "quick question" phone calls he's answered, the face-times from the shop to diagnose a tractor problem, teach us how to wire a motor, or fix a tool.  He's the agreed-upon voice of reason for settling disputes, the sounding board or "is this a good idea, or are we being stupid?" and the one most likely to truly understand many of our struggles and worries. And he reads every single newsletter. Thank you.