To Be Here, Home

The darkness dissipates as it does every morning, gradually, glacially, as the sun inched northward, relinquishing someone else's day in pursuit of our own. As I say, it is hardly novel; indeed, this quotidian movement is so ordinary as to routinely go unnoticed.

But not this morning. I sit out on the deck and allow it to unfold me as well as the morning. Yes, the sky - only moments ago full of stars - is clear and permits the emerging glow it's full and unobstructed stage. Yes, the air is crisp, befitting a new autumn day. But singular beauty is not what simultaneously settles and evokes me this emerging dawn. It is simply that I haven't seen it envelop this particular landscape in quite awhile - first, the silhouette of the trees, and then the rounded shape of the chicken coops; the outlines of the leaves in the nearby trees, and eventually the hints, the teasing foretastes, of autumn's golds and reds and yellow and bronze. The morning of a new day. The dawning of a new season. Now the rooster officially announces the fact.

We've been traveling.

First, there was grief work to attend. Emotions, consolations, ruminations, details; simultaneously carrying and being held. Physically we were elsewhere - emotionally, relationally, psychologically, too.

Home, then, for a rapid-fire turnaround during which we scarcely looked around before flying off again.

The hours and the stories and the laughter and the tears, the tasks and the memories and the new experiences forged, first, days and then weeks until finally, long after darkness had settled upon our traveling stamina and Taproot Garden, we arrived home last night. Our travels have been rich. Glorious, even. The distance and the privacy came at a good time. The celebrations we indulged, the landscapes on which we became drunk, the time together to both remember and dream. To simply "be".

I listen now to the stirring chickens, already clamoring for release. I survey the garden from the deck's distance, wondering what gifts might still be on offer after such neglect. Mostly I simply receive the familiar and now beloved landscape, night's curtain raised, accept the sudden lump in my throat, and whisper a prayerful gratitude for being here.

Here.

As the poem of this day begins, I recall the observation with which Wendell Berry closes one of his own:

"What we need is here."

Here.

It's good to be home.

Together, The Persons We’ve Become

 

The table is laden with leftover bottles of water, cans of tea, chips, nuts and plates.  The chairs and tables have been folded and returned to the barn.  The microphone cables have been coiled and the sound system ensconced again in its corner of the basement.  The farmstead has quieted again to the usual crowing of the rooster and squawks of the hens and occasional grunts of the alpacas next door, and our routine shufflings here and there.  

And the enduring whispers of memory.

 

On Friday evening, as this holiday weekend commenced, we hosted the opening gathering of Lori’s high school reunion.  Memorabilia hung from tree branches, and animated tables.  Music from the ‘70’s backgrounded conversations.  An “In Memorium” display sobered one end of the displays, while nostalgia and news and food lubricated the rusty relationships.  There, under the waning daylight and beside the fire pit, the flowers and the expansive sky, a remote season, once again, drew near.  

 

Memories are mercurial – ephemeral even.  “Do you recall…?” someone would ask from this corner of the gathering, and then another.  And the answers varied.  “Yes.”  “No.”  “Kinda.”

 

Pictures helped.  Artifacts nudged.  For every anecdote reanimated, two were irretrievable. It has been a long time, and many roads have been traveled. Some things are dearly held, while others are best forgotten.  We don’t agree on which is which.

 

The evening crackled with laughter and conversation, and stories etched into older faces.  For a few hours we were younger again.  Me, as well, for though these were not “my people”, rooted in a school and a community 1000 miles from my own, their memories reanimated my own; their rapport refreshed the faces in my heart of names and personalities with whom I had shared classrooms, built homecoming floats, made music…and a life.  “Me,” along with the other spouses along for the ride.  We, too, listened and told stories and found our places in narratives that preceded us.  It was nourishing to inhabit, if only for an evening, deeper recesses of my beloved’s life in which I had had no part, and vicariously to retrace a few of the lines of my own.  

 

And to marvel afresh at the myriad fingers that shape us.  

 

I have long found evocative the assertion of one of my teachers that, “We are all born human, but we become persons by our associations, our affiliations, our conflicts, our relationships.”  

 

On Friday evening, it was good to touch our fingers, again, on the cooled forge that formed at least a part of the persons we’ve become.  

 

And to give thanks for the gift of those days, and this one.

The Raccoon Wars Resume

After a long season of detente, in which the raccoons constrained their foraging to the darkness while the chickens busied themselves in daylight, the peace was suddenly breached.  It has happened before; August seems to be the month when raccoons step out of bounds.  An early evening dinner guest recently stepped away from the table and into the sunroom to answer a call where she noticed through the window a chicken, clenched in the jaws at the opposite end of the ringtail, being dragged toward the fence line.  In broad daylight.  Our friend raised an alarm, and the group of us hurried outside accompanied by as much noise as we could generate.  The offending raccoon, concluding that safety was more desirable than supper, dropped the dazed hen and scurried into the woods.  The traumatized chicken survived, and eventually shook off the assault.  A quick census of the flock, however, revealed that this had not been the first incursion.  

War plans were subsequently drawn and set in motion.  

The battles, in the ensuing days, grew hot and then cold.  Escalating and then briefly calming, they would quickly escalate anew.  We are now three weeks into the conflict, and though it’s hard to know who has the upper hand, I can say that my efforts have not been for naught.  In keeping with my larger vocational urgings, I have evangelistically introduced 25 raccoon souls to Jesus.  

So to speak.  

I’ll spare you the details of the baptism.  And I have every reason to believe that the bushes - if not the fields - remain “white for harvest.”  

So I continue.  So I remain vigilant.  It’s not that I have any particular prejudice against raccoons - and harbor no peculiar animosity.  I completely respect the fact that every life needs and deserves its nourishment.  

Circle of life and food chain and all that.  “Nature red in tooth and claw,” as the poet described it.

I simply require that predators look for their sustenance somewhere other than in our chicken yard.  I have taken the chickens to raise and tend and protect.  It is a commitment I have made to their keeping, and I intend to keep it.  The raccoons are welcome to the rabbits which, this year, frolic in abundance.  There is a veritable carpet of bunnies these summer months, and the bunnies have been known to commit yet another farmstead sin of sneaking into the garden.  Rabbits I can do without.  I have proffered no promises to them or on their behalf.  

But the chickens are another matter. The chickens I will protect.  Should the raccoons return to their nocturnal normal I will happily reinstitute the armistice. 

In the meantime, however, I am vigilant - set, baited and watching.  

Amen.

Sweet Collaboration

“How hard could it be?” I wondered on more than one occasion as I set up the beehives last year.  “Bees have been tending to themselves for thousands of years.”  

 

Despite the latter observation’s affirmative truth, the answer to the former question is, “More than one might think.”

 

I learned that the hard way.  Purchasing two “packages” of bees and setting them up for housekeeping around the back of the prairie, I apparently went out of my way to be inhospitable.  Within a month one of the colonies was gone – dead or merely departed I couldn’t ascertain.  I did my best to nurture and cajole the remaining colony through the summer and fall, and with the outer reaches of my microscopically limited knowledge did what I could to prepare it for winter.  Through the course of those bitter months I would pass by the lonely hive, neither seeing nor hearing any sign of life.  

 

On the foundation of this astonishing failure, I began the new year by ordering three new colonies for springtime. I would execute a “reboot.”  As winter faded, I made the sad journey to the apiary to dismantle the remaining hive, only to lift the lid and find a burgeoning colony, happily undertaking a new season.  That one, soon joined by the three I had newly ordered, and eventually joined by the two successful splits from that overwintered miracle.  The swollen population meant that August honey extraction season approached riding the momentum of six healthy hives.  Not all would be ready to share their stores, of course, but some were extending their hand.  Questions arose.  We consulted teachers and mentors and YouTube videos.  We purchased equipment.  We sanitized and organized and asked a few more questions.  Finally, when we could think of or justify no more impedimenting delays, we loaded up the Club Car, gathered the promisingly loaded frames, encouraged the clinging bees to stay behind, and returned to the processing area we had laboriously staged, and got to work.  

 

Yesterday.

 

It will likely take years to master the uncapping knife, but we got the job done.  It took awhile to finesse the electric extractor, but we eventually fell into a routine.  We spun, we drained, we strained the viscous gold.  We licked our fingers when we thought the other wasn’t looking, and we filled bottle after glorious bottle until we closed the bucket’s honey gate for the final time.  

 

And then, surveying the 52 pounds of bottled harvest, we smiled.  It’s hardly “free”, this liquid largesse.  The dollars invested in beekeeping have been surprising; the labor demanded has been as exhausting as it has been fascinating and disciplining.  And yet the abundant generosity of it all is a wonder to me.  Bees, themselves, were already a wonder.  A “super-organism” that functions enviably and organically as a whole rather than a collection of individuals, the hive is a throbbing body of specialization and efficiency; nursing, guarding, cleaning, gathering, reproducing, sustaining and monitoring.  And then the honey.  Honey manifests the bees’ alchemical accomplishment of spinning, Rumpelstiltskin-like, straw into gold; transforming the myriad pollens and nectars into a life-supporting pantry and medicine cabinet.  

 

That happens to be delectably sweet.

 

A friend asked how the bees feel about being robbed of the fruits of their labors.  I can’t imagine that they are thrilled, but they acquiesce.  Industrious, they’ve already gotten about their business of making more.  And we will help – planting more flowers for the long term, filling sugar water feeders to augment their efforts in the near term, attending to their health and preparing their space for winter.  It’s a partnership, after all; a reciprocity that nourishes and delights us both – the colony in the hive, and the colony in the house; sweeter for the collaboration.

 

 

Garden Mentors, Shining in Their Way

 

Sunflowers were in our imagination this year as we filled greenhouse trays with seeds. The infatuation paired nicely with our resolve to scale back on vegetables. Having finally comprehended that we aren’t growing to feed an army, we mentally allocated more space for flowers. We’ve added bees to the farmstead enterprise and they would certainly benefit from additional flora, and while we still had plenty of vegetables in mind for the season, the reapportionment of garden rows would better align with the fact that it is just the two of us and miscellaneous dinner guests consuming the harvest. We would still be over-supplied.

Sunflowers weren’t the only flowers we seeded. There was a floral diversity, but sunflowers were at the heart of our efforts. Lots of them. Lots of varieties of them. “Evening Sun,” “Chocolate Cherry,” “Earthwalker,” “Panache,” “Mammoth Grey Striped,” “Hopi Black Dye,” “Short Stuff,” among others. There are, perhaps, a hundred of them now transplanted into rows - a number to rival the tomatoes.

But why? 

To be sure, they are striking in their Seussian quirkiness. They stretch and sprawl and tower above it all. We like the fact that they reseed themselves and return, year after year. Presently, we like their resplendent mindfulness of the people of Ukraine as they reel under the onslaught of murderously colonizing tyranny, but their hapless plight couldn’t have been on our minds when we ordered the seeds. Sunflowers are a food source not only for humans but pollinators alike - an adequate justification even if there were no others. They are heliotropic - meaning they seek the light - which might be inspiration enough in this shade-throwing world. Too many of us politicians, preachers, commentators and citizens behave in ways betraying too much affinity for the night.

But surely there is something more.

I rather think, in addition to their other virtues, our enthrallment has something to do with the sunflower’s unabashed, full-throated but unpretentious openness. Their face is like an open hand - petals extended and exposed without precaution. There is no timidity, simply the forthright precocity that seems to say, “Here I am. Welcome.” 

Early in life we are commonly taught, “Don’t talk to strangers” - wise counsel for vulnerable children - but unfortunately too few of us outgrow the caution. I'm not immune.  More times than I want to admit I "pass by on the other side of the road" like the foils in Jesus' parable of the Good Samaritan.  The result, of course, is a collective of adults malnourished by sameness and suffocated by a seduction of safety that is neither tenable nor safe.

The sunflowers, by contrast, are unperturbed and unprotected. They are simply open. There is no artifice or opposition; simply the uninhibited, fully exposed offer of themselves to the sun…and beyond. 

In brightness. In beauty. In seed. In stately grandeur.

A face, fully offered. A hand, open wide and hospitably proffered. Content to be, or be given. And received.

Whimsically, winsomely open.
Turning toward the light.

We could do worse by way of mentors.

Blessedly in the Midst of It All

 It was, ostensibly, to enjoy the wildflowers.  We had spent the better part of the day working companionably outdoors – Lori supporting the burgeoning tomato bushes, while I mowed the grass.  And, indeed, as I had trimmed the path around the prairie, near the apiary, and then back around toward the house, the eruption of wildflowers had truthfully caught my attention.  

Finishing, then, the more detailed grooming, we boarded the utility cart for a look around.  The day had been sunny and blue, with cottony tufts of intermittent clouds; warm but not hot, with gentle breezes replacing the blustery winds of recent weeks.  It had been pleasant enough and satisfying work of the sort that makes for easy sleep and contented dreams.  

And as we crept our way around the pathways, the wildflowers were truly joyful – bergamot and blackeyed Susans, sunflowers and verbena, along with others whose names I need to learn.  The bees should be very happy at all the culinary options.

But as satisfying as was the ride – as lovely as were the flowers – the richer, still lovelier comprehension, was the sense of awe-filled appreciation that this is the anchoring place of our lives.  Yes, we have brought our hands and our souls to this place; yes, we have broken and sowed, we have planted and opened; yes, our fingerprints are here.  But I will be so bold as to assert that our efforts have served to magnify rather than stifle the personality of this piece of earth.  We have resisted the arrogance of forcing it to be something that it’s not, but have endeavored to hear its voice and amplify it.

And along the way it has nourished us.  I’m speaking of more than the garden and the orchard.  These several acres have fed more than our bodies.  It has enlarged and enriched our understanding of self, grounded our relationship to the “moreness” of creation, and humbled our assumptions surrounding our place in the world.  We are, to put it simply, simpler, and richer.  We are increasingly shed of our presumptions and pretensions – learnings, the irony of which are not lost on me this “Independence Day” weekend.  

Amidst a holiday that has come to be a self-indulgent bath in self-adjudged exceptionalism – that we, out of all the nations of the world and history, have managed to get it “right”; or at the very least, are the best among the alternatives (an argument that is at once gratuitously delusional and aspirationally pathetic) – we alternatively take a moment to admire a wildflower, pluck a wild blackberry and giggle at the burst in our mouths of its undeserved sweetness, and simply give thanks not for any possession of it, but for the generosity it unself-consciously tips our way.  

The celebration around the farmstead this weekend, then, is not about “rockets red glare” or some faux narrative about religious freedom or the trumpeting of supposed high and noble ideals.  Those, after all, are mere self-congratulatory fictions we perpetuate in order to elevate our national ego and sell more firecrackers and bottle rockets.  Having forsaken the beauty of community and the mechanics of cooperation, we collectively are left to settle for the fetish of "independence", a hollow and terminal alternative.  

Our celebration, instead, will seek to be a quiet and grateful wonder at the privilege of belonging - that we are a petal on a flower on a stem on a root in a soil that is no respecter of boundaries or borders; partners as busy contributing as receiving; speakers, but mostly listeners to the rustling, the stirring, the emerging and the blooming.  

And as darkness closes the day, "oohing" less at the fireworks in the sky than the fireflies in the field, we give


thanks that we get to be connected to - interdependent with - it all.  

Viriditas Comes Home

 The seed was sown in Italian soil, in the Umbrian village of Assisi.  We had read about a bronze sculpture in the Upper Basilica of that storied village, and nearing the end of our visit to a neighboring village six miles away, we hastily arranged an exploratory expedition.  The sculpture depicts Saint Francis receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit – a common enough theme.  But unlike the usual depictions in which Francis’ hands are extended towards the heavens to receive the descending dove, this characterization positions Francis on his knees reaching downward to receive the Holy Spirit emerging from the soil.  That made sense to us in a way so compelling that our spiritual and agricultural imaginations kept returning to the idea.

And then we met Hildegard.  

Hildegard of Bingen was a 12th century German polymath – an Abbess, an herbalist, a physician, an artist and musician, a blunt critic of religious leaders who grew accustomed to her scorn when she deemed their actions contrary to the gospel, a preacher, writer and mystic.  She was, in a phrase, a spiritual force of nature.  

I rather think she would smile at the label.  

Central in her writings was a special attention to the presence and activity of the Spirit in the world/nature. The Latin word she frequently used to refer to a central element in her thinking and approach to life was “viriditas” - often translated as “greening”.  As one contemporary disciple of Hildegard noted, “Viriditas was a key concept that expressed and connected the bounty of God, the fertility of nature, and especially the presence of the Holy Spirit.”

And with that, the seed sown in Italy sprouted in Germany, and blossomed in Iowa.  A friend connected us with a Belgian artist living only a few miles from us – significantly named “Hilde” – who accepted the commission for an outdoor sculpture that would integrate these two inspirations.  Click here to see more of her amazing work.

Early in the process, we sent an email to her that shared our thoughts about this intriguing Latin word, “Viriditas:  Holiness, health, vitality, nature and fertility - all wrapped up into one lovely Latin word; all central to a European mystic whose name reminded us of you.  Delightful. It could name the piece.”

And so it has.  And Viriditas came home to assume its place today on the farmstead, framed by the garden, the chicken yard and the tall grass prairie.  She’s magnificent.  With wings inspired by oak leaves and a gentle spiral evoking upward movement, the corten steel piece subtly incorporates the taproot that names our farmstead, on a base that hints at the labyrinth that highlights our acreage’s western edge.  The color of the bare metal will evolve with the elements and time, much like the farmstead itself.  

And already we gather around it, or pause as we pass; acknowledging in fresh ways that we are accompanied here in our daily work by winds exhaled from lungs holier and more instrumental than our own; evocative breezes stirring life in freshly incarnational expressions, at once grounding and elevating, centering and expanding…

…into ever-new life.

I somehow think that Hildegard is smiling at Hilde's work - singing, even - while Francis kneels and reaches toward it to receive, yet again, the Spirit that is the very creative impulse of God.  

Here.  Now.  In this very place.