Mother’s Day

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From where do you draw your faith?  How do you learn the lessons that you need?  

These questions have been following me around this spring as the farm has faced some serious challenges.  Our commitment to maintain the most vibrantly living soil possible by drastically reducing our tillage, combined with bringing a whole new garden into production after years of being pasture, has been hard. We've questioned whether this faith in the almighty earthworms and the rest of the soil food web is a beautiful revolution, or if we are being just plain stupid by changing everything about how we make beds and plant. 

That faith was tested more than ever yesterday as we struggled to plant our onion block.  Despite weeks of tarping, and a smoothing out with the power harrow, the no-till beds were rough with clumps of old grass roots, making the transplanting tool that we have used for years catch, clog up, and basically simply not work.  Only through the determined effort of all four of us (Noah and I, and the two farm interns, putting in yet another day that lasted past sunset), did we manage to get most of the onions roots-down into the soil.  At dark, with three rows left, we just had to call it.  

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This spring, one of testing faith and searching for our lessons, I've been thinking of my parents, especially my mom as mothers day comes this weekend. My folks, farmers of a different sort of farm than ours, have an ability to meet problems with a blend of quiet pragmatism and humor that I so admire. I've been remembering a small example of that good humor this spring, as for the first time I am wearing eyeglasses, especially for the close-up work of seeding and greenhouse propagation.  As I learn about condensation, yet am surprised every time a peek into the germination chamber fogs up my lenses, I keep having a memory of my mom, whose glasses came at a similar age, coming from the damp Oregon weather outside into our warm cozy house, or opening up the oven to check on a roasting turkey.  As her glasses went cloudy, she'd laugh.  I can hear it so vividly in my head:  "ooh!" little whoop, and then her delightful chuckle.  A surprise and an amusement, rather than annoyance; it's hard to know how accurate memory is, but I feel she might just laugh till the fog cleared. 

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It's a good example, but I'm not always hitting it myself, at large or small scale. I'm trying, but I did throw a few planting trays in frustration yesterday during the most difficult onion planting in our years of farming.  My mom's examples aren't limited to the minor annoyance of steamy glasses.  When a medical diagnosis led a neurologist to tell her to "go home and put your affairs in order," she did in fact think through and decide details of the end of life at a much younger age than anyone would hope to.  And she summed up her decision to not be extended by ventilation machines or feeding tubes in the most succinct and characteristic way I can imagine.  Though it was as serious anything we've ever discussed, she had a bit of a spark and chuckle when she told me how she had decided where to draw the line: "I figure, when I can't enjoy the ice cream anymore, maybe I don't want to stick around."  

Though we can't have some of the conversations about fear, faith, learning, and confidence that I wish we could, anymore, I'm grateful that she can still enjoy the ice cream, and can ride along the waves of laughter of gathered friends and family.  We all learn some lessons from our mothers, I think, and this spring, I'm trying to pull up that lesson of meeting real problems with calm and humor. It's a work in progress of course.  And also to remember to appreciate what I am capable of: starting these plants, working with this soil, building this farm, tasting spinach so sweet it could almost make you cry. And of course, enjoying the ice cream. 

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As we continue our spring, feeling our faith and our abilities tested so often, and knowing that there's a good chance that things could not work out as well as we need, we're trying to maintain that faith. The farm tries to support and teach us, I believe.  The plants and the biology and the place itself, and also you, the farm supporters.  The members who read the whole newsletter and said at market last week, "I"m coming for my hug!", the members and customers who were so happy to be back in spring, back to eating farm veggies, celebrating the greens. You help us keep the faith, and inspire us to learn the lessons that we need.  

This mothers' day, may you find the faith, growth, and humor that you need.  In grattitude for nurturing and lessons in all their forms, eat a giant salad, and then eat your ice cream, too.  

With love and living soil, 

Mary and Noah, SweetRoot