The Sobering Truth of More to Learn

I received some very disappointing news yesterday.  It came, as with so many awakenings, at an angle; indirectly, in the context of a different conversation.

A very helpful and congenial man from the Department of Natural Resources visited the farm to advise us on development and management of the several acres of grassland that spread over the northward crown of our property.  Standing at the sunroom windows looking out over the expanse of it, we talked about our goals for the area -- what we wanted to accomplish; what values we wanted to honor.  We walked the trails ankle deep in snow, pulling seed heads here and there to crush between fingers and sniff for tell-tale aromatic identifiers.  We pushed our way into the brush beyond to explore varieties of trees, and we sat around the dining room table comparing aerial view maps of the property from the 1930's to the present.  Readily apparent from the photos was the encroachment that we had confirmed in our walkaround:  the cedar trees will take us over unless we take concerted action.  That, along with the pernicious multiflora rose that has already gained a foothold.

In the course of making recommendations he confirmed what a friend had already pointed out:  that our prairie is largely populated and held together by brohm grass -- a basic ground cover that was the DNR's weapon of choice in a previous generation to prevent soil erosion.  In that capacity it is virtuously successful, but its additional virtues are few.  As a feed it is a passable C+ -- better than nothing, but hardly as desirable as others; the agricultural equivalent of corn flakes without milk or fruit.  What it does best is prevent topsoil from vacationing downstream, and that has counted for something.

Then my new friend called attention to the aerial map of the property overlaid with soil survey data -- what kinds of soil were located on what parts of the property.  Alpha-numerically labelled, it was all gobbledy-goop to me until he translated the codes -- these numbers in the string representing soil type, this letter indicating fertility, this number tracking erosion.  On the one hand, it was a fascinating revelation -- the multiplicity of types banding our single property, coupled with one thing we already knew.  We live on slopes and grades that make for highly erodible land.  For conventional cropping, most of our land earns a score in the vaunted "Corn Suitability Rating" of "don't even bother."

But that wasn't the disappointment.  As I said, we already knew much of that.  The sobering douse of cold water came with the designation printed squarely on top of the garden plot I have been planting.  The soil there is better than I had thought.  No, maybe not Garden of Eden quality, but generally well-drained, suitable Iowa soil with a moderate pH and much to commend it.  I was devastated.  For two years now I have been accepting my relatively poor harvest results philosophically as the understandable effluence of a challenged raw material.  "Anyone working in this kind of soil," I comforted myself, "would experience these limited results."  But with the prick of an informational pin, my delusional bubble was burst.  The deficiency turns out not to be in the soil, but in the ignorant farmer who has been arrogantly judging it.

Ah, the sobering white light of truth.

I suppose it is only appropriate.  This is, after all, the beginning  of Lent -- the traditional season of confession, contrition, and the sobered re-engagement of life on more clear-eyed and less narcissistic terms. The truth turns out to be that I have more to learn, more to practice, more seeds to sow, more lessons to learn -- all on humbler terms.

That little fenced in enclosure will have to find its place in a lengthening line, however.  The garden, as it turns out, isn't the only place in my life where all those things are true.  So much for the cockiness of new beginnings.  Encumbered with and coddled by fewer excuses, now it's time to get back to work.