I have been told that I should write more about the different farms I’ve worked on in the past couple years. I don’t describe them overly much it’s true. I don’t have the language to explain a farm, to explain the experience of farming, or gardening, or homesteading, or any of the things occupying a lot of my time recently. How to tell about plants? How to describe dirt? I would have to be a poet.
I can describe how the farm looks, functions; its quirks, but that is not really describing a farm. To do that well I would have to be able to share with you the nature of a farm and this I’m unable to do.
The language of plants is not our language. The nature of plants though, speaks to something in our nature. It is the difference between talking about who you are and being whom you are. One is verbose, one is authentic and often they don’t quite add up. You understand now my conundrum? I could explain, all day, about the color, texture, smell, taste of a plant. But I cannot explain how the plant is. How it feels to be around and nurture.
To the uninitiated this all probably sounds very strange. It is only the gardener, the farmer who knows what I mean.
I will say then I worked processing (like from life to death) chickens at indian ridge organic this morning. It was one of the strangest things I’ve ever done. I now know how a chicken heart feels, like tiny, overfull balloon, as it slips through my fingers. The sound of baby goats rings in my ears and good fresh food fills my belly.