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| The West Garden and Orchard at the Art Farm June 2, 2012 |
This is your weekly newsletter about what's growing at the Art Farm. We'll include harvest reports, delivery dates, recipes, soulful events and glimmerings for the coming week. Feel free to contact me if you have feedback or want to contribute to this haphazard editorial endeavor.
We already have three baby golden zucchinis, cosmic purple tomatoes, adolescent sized beets and even a few new potatoes... and lots of young lettuce. I ordered half bushel boxes for our weekly delivery schedule beginning in July. I'm not sure of the dates for first delivery or distribution site yet. I will let you know more as we see your garden unfold.
Finally, the first wave of crops is in the ground and coming forward into the green wide world. I watch the garden from my window. A shiver runs up my back as rain shimmies down the window. Your garden is sown. The water lines set. The compost tilled. Rain and sun will come. The birds and moles and beetles may descend. The wind and hail may rise. Planting has become an act of faith. There is not much to fret over that is within my control now. The land will always be free and sacred on this small farm.
A poem from a man who seems to know that the Spirit of the farm and poetry and social justice are intimately interconnected.
A Standing Ground by Wendell Berry
From his book New Collected Poems, 2012, p.133
However just and anxious I have been
I will stop and step back
from the crowd of those who may agree
with what I say, and be apart.
There is no earthly promise of life or peace
but where the roots branch and weave
their patient silent passages in the dark;
uprooted, I have been furious without an aim.
I am not bound for any public place,
but for ground of my own
where I have planted vines and orchard trees,
and in the heat of the day climbed up
into the healing shadow of the woods.
Better than any argument is to rise at dawn
and pick dew-wet berries in a cup.
However just and anxious I have been
I will stop and step back
from the crowd of those who may agree
with what I say, and be apart.
There is no earthly promise of life or peace
but where the roots branch and weave
their patient silent passages in the dark;
uprooted, I have been furious without an aim.
I am not bound for any public place,
but for ground of my own
where I have planted vines and orchard trees,
and in the heat of the day climbed up
into the healing shadow of the woods.
Better than any argument is to rise at dawn
and pick dew-wet berries in a cup.
Peace
Rick and Heather
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