Farming with a Trowel

I was about six years old when I started tending my first garden. Even then, I loved pulling away the chaotic weeds to make room for orderly groups of flowers and herbs, relishing that satisfying accomplishment of checking in later and seeing them flourishing.

Over the years, the gardens I've tended have gotten larger and more complex, to eventually include ponds, fruit trees, wide assortments of bulbs, roses, trellised vines, lush ground covers and, of course, vegetables. Does everyone enjoy the taste of home-grown tomatoes or strawberries warm from the sun?

Despite the increased sizes and complexities, I've consistently had the problem of running out of dirt. It's too hard to choose between a rose bush with vibrant yellow blossoms blending into deep orange edges and one with rich, purplish pink blossoms. Just get both. Find room somehow.

And then we moved to Oregon.

I remember our first spring, exploring the friendly, neighborhood nursery, with greenhouse after greenhouse burgeoning with plants of every size, shape, scent, and color. Oh, Lordy. Thank goodness for the cargo van waiting for me out in the parking lot.

One variety that I brought home that was new to me was artichokes. I bought three, 4" pots and carried them up to the empty patch of soil that I thought would make the perfect home for them. THAT'S when I read the label advice. "Plant 5 feet apart." What!!!! That's ridiculous. How could they possibly fit? And then I looked around at the empty patch of soil and realized, no problem.

I'd also picked up some bare root strawberries, which I'd never heard of before. They were on sale for $2/bundle, so of course I bought 3 bundles. As I untied the first bundle, I again read the label advice. "Plant 1 foot apart." It also said, "25 plants." What!!!! I had 75 plants that needed to be planted 1 foot apart? I looked around at the still-waiting patch of soil stretched out next to the new artichokes. Actually, no problem.

Ahimsa on the front lawn

Our farm is 2-1/2 acres. Of course, a healthy chunk of it is taken up by buildings and driveways, and most of it is in pasture, but there is so! much! room!

So we're migrating over from gardening into something larger: Farming. The thing is, I've spent 50-some years gardening with a trowel. And hand clippers, loppers, and rakes. I love the heft and power of a grub hoe, but that's as big and powerful as it ever got.

But you know what? It still works.

Our first summer, we tackled the overgrown blackberry briars, intertwined with hundreds of thistles and tall grasses that engulfed the upper third of our hillside. Our tools? A lopper and an electric hedge trimmer. Foot by foot, our little tools chipped away at the chaotic, waist-high thicket, and the contour of the hillside slowly emerged.

That was how we discovered that we had a pond. Who knew? But there it was, a full-fledged pond at the top of our property.

Dambara discussing calmness with the ducklings

It was an entire summer of discovery. The pond has a dam. The formerly inaccessible pluot tree is actually peacefully poised on it's own little plateau. Another plateau overlooks the pond and is a perfect place to linger, with an expansive view of our beautiful valley. We uncovered lemon verbena and an entire, miniature stream, gurgling along the lower edge of our pasture.

Our tools? Every one of them was easily held in our hands.

Now, if we were trained as farmers, we probably would have borrowed a tractor from the Ananda Center at Laurelwood and powered our way across the gentle contours of our hillside, wiping out everything in our path, tossing about new pasture seed, and getting the job done!

Big shovel Little shovel

 We have borrowed the tractor from time to time, for jobs that are mightier than our four hands. But for the most part, we wield scythe, lopper, rake, and yes, trowel to tame the chaos and nurture the beauty inherent in every inch of our hillside. By working with our hands, by using our own muscles and breath, surrounded by shining sun or drizzling grey, we feel a connection to the hillside that holds us on its flank. We become a part of all that is. We join the Whole.

Permaculture Usually Makes a Mess

Permaculture is an ongoing experiment.

We get an idea on how to make things work better, more simply, more in tune with natural flows, with less force from us. We set it in motion, and then watch to see how things turn out. It's a lot like the spiritual path in that way. Learn about something; gain an insight; try it out; see what happens.

And our experiments aren't always beautiful.

Our small farm is on a gentle slope overlooking Laurelwood Valley. It gets sun and rain, soft breezes and storms, visits from wild critters, and the wanderings of our domesticated friends. It's an ideal laboratory.

Autumn leaves are part of permaculture

We've built berms of all sizes and designs. Some are pond muck, clomped and ragged with crags and crannies; miniature Himalayan ranges. Some have chunks of tree trunks, carted in from the Ananda Portland Community, covered with pond muck or garden debris. Others are brush piles, some covered with rich garden soil, some uncovered, providing safe harbor to tiny birds, snakes, and scurrying creatures, the entwined branches slowly collapsing into a composted future.

And all of them are a mess.

Animals are part of permaculture

Our llamas are roamers. They migrate up and down our hillside several times a day. During the rainy winter, they churn up the sodden pasture, sinking up to their ankles with each regal step. We spread straw over the choppy thoroughfare, and wait while the llamas rototill the straw into the mud. We walk across the sloppy mess with our wide, muck boots, leveling the divots, restoring evenness here, then there. The straw breaks down, the worms get to work, we spread some seed, and our pasture thrives.

It's a messy process.

Composted kitchen scraps, fallen leaves, chicken straw, and landscape clippings cover the garden soil, their nutrients seeping down to bring worms by the score, each one a tiny rototiller, leaving castings in their wake. I see eggshells and browned leaves, clumped and slimy from the rain. Despite the mess, I imagine what's happening in the soil beneath, and my heart sings.

The critters' wake is not always beautiful

Our ducks dabble through divots brimming with rain, along the edges of our chortling, seasonal streams, across their spring-fed pond, bringing up mud and murk, staining the pristine flow wherever they wander. Our chickens scratch and forage, scattering compost onto walkways, straw onto gravel, unearthing defenseless ground covers.

They all make a mess.

And yet our hillside is coming alive. After decades of overgrazing and intensive harvesting, we moved onto our crippled hillside to love and nourish it. We tromp around in our wide boots, talking to critters and admiring hearty growth. We delight in the ducks dabbling, the chickens scratching, and the llamas' regal migrations.

Tiny birds that I cannot name dart and flit, colorful and busy with their day. Orchard trees awaken and spread their limbs. Pasture grasses flourish and spread. Chickens murmur and examine. Llamas wander and graze, stand firm to gaze out across our valley, heads high, watchful. Ducks waddle and call, dabble and float, a graceful armada.

I see past the mess, and all I feel is beauty and peace.

Daily Rhythms

Every morning I check my favorite weather forecasting app to see what the day will bring to our peaceful hillside. Then I plan my day. I choose my indoor hours and what will occupy them, and my outdoor hours, pondering the tasks on my wish list.

My outdoor wish list is wondrous to behold. There are things to plant, prune, compost, harvest, scythe, feed, train, water, blaze, repair, trench, bolster, and watch. I've learned to do the things that need to be done soon, to save me the ultimatum of needing to be done NOW.

Last night, a friend informed me that an ice storm was on its way, descending sometime mid-afternoon, today. I realized that the two small citrus trees that had grown enthusiastically all summer might need a bit of protection to come through this storm intact. I also wanted to mulch the four rosebushes that we'd planted last week, since they were fragile and not feeling entirely at home yet.

Early this morning, I dutifully checked my app, and there it was, cloudy all morning with snow starting at 3:00 pm. I lazed a bit, checking email, finishing up various computer tasks, still in slippers and fluffy sweater. When finally the persistent tap-tap-tap from the skylight penetrated my awareness, I looked up to see snow slamming against the glass. The clock did indeed claim 10:23 am, but my soon had unexpectedly become NOW.

I could easily imagine my poor, fragile friends out on the hillside, trapped, with their feet firmly anchored in the freezing ground, blinking their many eyes against the whipping snow, silently whimpering. I chomped down a fried egg sandwich while I changed into thick, winter overalls and woolen sweater and gloves, boots, and a thick, knitted hat.

In the 11 minutes it had taken me to go from skylight-gazer to insulated winter woman, the weather changed. Snowflakes drifted lazily; the overcast sky gazed innocently, pretending indifference; quiet hung across the valley. My NOW had become soonish. My tasks reordered themselves.

I led the ducks up to the pond and poured grain on the bank, their urgent quacking transforming into contented gurgling, reminiscent of nursing babies. I popped open a fresh bale of hay and stuffed the feeding barrels for the llamas. I swirled the grain tower in the stable, to bring bountiful morsels out for the chickens. I checked water and nesting boxes. Everyone had what they needed to wander comfortably through a stormy afternoon.

The citrus trees were soon cocooned inside layers of clear, plastic sheeting, securely pinned in place. Dried leaves mounded around diminutive rose twigs, secured with coffee bags and cardboard, those multi-tasked, wonders of permaculture. I easily imagined the tiny beings nestling into their new covers, snuggling down, out of the wind and snow, drowsing peacefully as winter raged around them.

My NOW and soonish had become done.  The gentle beings that had come to live with us in this valley were fed and sheltered.  The snowfall might turn into an ice storm in a few hours, but everyone entrusted to my care would remain safe.

And then I turned to the most important task of the day. I stood and watched the day around me. I felt the gentle hillside, the trees peaceful in their winter rest, the pond frozen in anticipation of spring, the pastures crammed with grasses who were sending their roots deep into the soil, steadily readying themselves for sunshine and warmth, which was surely, surely just around the corner on this first week in January. I let peace wash over me, as the breeze dipped and danced and the snow flurried and swirled, standing warm and impervious inside my insulated armor, wondering at the beauty of our world.

Joy in Our Hearts

When Dambara and I moved to our beautiful valley three years ago, it was a leap of faith for us.  It’s a challenge to leave the familiar.  Mostly, we were escaping the high prices of the Bay Area, but also, I was escaping the frenetic energy and the dry, brown, heat of California.  As we drove away that last day, at the close of Dambara’s farewell concert, my aching heart asked how could we be leaving all these dear souls, these wonderful friends?  By the time we passed Mt. Shasta, my heart was singing, “I’m going home.”

Now, we are once again surrounded by the familiar.  We’ve become close friends with a new group of people.  We’ve found the great grocery store and lovely bike paths.  As we drive around, checking errands off our list, we move past green fields and thriving, family farms, gently rolling hillsides.  Our daily routines — meditation, cooking, connecting, strolling amongst our animals, doing chores, preparing for classes — everything is at a softer, gentler pace.  We’ve found peace.

Almost a year ago we returned to the Bay Area for a week, simply to connect with friends.  Each meal was an outing with yet another well-loved cluster of people.  We chatted.  We laughed.  We told stories.  We heard stories.  We watched each others’ eyes.  We felt each others’ hearts.

And then we climbed into the same, little RV that had carried us away three years earlier to start the long drive back to Laurelwood.  And my heart sang anew, “I’m going home.”

Big changes.  Big decisions.  How can we possibly know when we're doing the right thing?

By the joy in our hearts, our singing hearts.

Why Berms?

Our small farm sits on a gentle hillside overlooking the Laurelwood valley. Having recently moved here from the Bay Area, we’ve had lots of visitors curious to see our new life. They’ve trickled up the coast, landed on our doorstep, and amid glad greetings, we’ve shown them around our farm, discussing plans and options for our simple hillside.

Several people recommended building berms.

I just didn’t get it. When it rains here in Oregon, it rains off and on for months. Keeping moisture on our hillside is not a problem. Helping it get off our hillside without taking the topsoil with it was working pretty well, so why did we need berms?

We’ve had two long, hot summers in a row. Everyone assures us that it’s quite unusual for it to be so hot for so long. It didn’t rain at all, for months. It felt like California, only prettier. I looked out over our dried hillside, watched our llamas wander here and there, grazing the grass down to sub-inch frailty, and still didn’t quite understand how berms would help.

Then we visited the Ananda farm on Camano Island. They had been building swales and berms for two years and were suffering through the same drought that strangled our hillside. We stood and looked out over their lush vegetables, prodded the deep mulch beneath our feet, and finally understood berms.

So we committed to adding berms to our hillside. They would help retain moisture through the dry season. They would soften the impact of the long rainy season. They would add nutrients to their downhill shadow. They would increase the surface area of the pasture, providing more forage for the llamas.

We committed and the universe responded. Friends from the Ananda Portland Community called and asked if we had any use for a large stack of old tree-stump sections. Yes! We suddenly had the base for two entire berms. Could we use the mulch created while grinding out some large stumps from Living Wisdom School? Yes! A beautifully mulched, previously bare stretch of pasture.

Our neighbors asked if we wanted the old lumber from a rotted tree house, old enough to not be pressure treated. Yes! More berm material. Could we use a gigantic pile of brush left over from a fall clean up day at the Community? Yes! Three more berms.

Another neighbor dug out our marshy pond and the marsh muck formed several more berms. Digging out the overflow trench for the pond gave us another two.

One neighbor cleared out an overgrown path across the front of his property. He obligingly dragged his brush into our lower pasture, giving us the material for three more massive berms.

Gardeners cleaned out another neighbor’s yard and dumped all of the cuttings onto yet another berm. Another load of firewood laid the base for two more.

And we have barely begun our fall and winter pruning and trimming.

Our hillside is covered with berms. The chickens stroll through the maze, murmuring to each other, scratching the softening surface, aerating the soil. The llamas add their rich manure pellets that we sprinkle along the berms. The rains have started, the organic matter is starting to break down, the nutrients are trickling down into our soil. Our hillside is drinking deep.

We made a simple commitment, and solutions came from every direction, each one completely unexpected and unplanned. It’s only been two months, and our hillside is wonderfully transformed. It will take some time for the berms to melt down to the point that they can support plants themselves, and in the meantime, they slowly, generously, continuously feed our hillside.

The simplicity of the concept of berms, the simple act of committing to build them, and the simple solutions that presented themselves, one after the other, after the other, leaves me with a deep sense of peace and joy. The llamas, the chickens, the rain, the sunshine, and the berms will work together, creating a healthy hillside that will flourish for decades. We will watch the transformation, breathing in the deep beauty of this simple life we live.

Global Connections

I’m a scientist by temperament and by training. For many years, I worked as a biologist in a pharmaceutical company. Our research department had a sister department located in Japan. Because of this partnership, our lab had a series of visiting scientists from Japan. They were always young people, with a spouse and perhaps with a fledgling family, trying to fit into this foreign place. Since science is internationally interwoven, we had visiting scientists from other countries as well: Australia, Brazil, England, France, Spain, Switzerland, Sweden. They would stay here for perhaps two years, and then return to their own labs in their own countries.

Halloween is a traditional American holiday. It can easily appear silly to people from other cultures. They just don’t quite get it. So every Halloween, my housemate and I would invite the visiting scientists and their families to our home to carve pumpkins. We’d also invite a couple of Americans and their children, to create a balance of experience and bafflement. We’d all sit on the floor throughout the house, newspapers spread in front of us, fresh pumpkins at hand with more on the lawn outside, and tea candles ready next to the front door. We’d start to carve our first pumpkin.

You know, if you’ve ever carved a pumpkin, that it can be a gooey mess. If you’re from another culture, like Japan’s, where food and body are kept very clean and very separate from each other, pumpkin carving could appear completely puzzling, intimidating even. But all of our guests politely started, regardless of inner turmoil, watching nearby friends for clues. The experienced carvers would offer witty advice wherever necessary, and generous encouragement to cautious skeptics.

Imagine the surprise and dismay of opening your first pumpkin and looking down into all that pale orange mess, the strings, the seeds, the oddity of it, the slippery randomness of it. Imagine reaching your hand in and feeling the slime and the endlessness of those inner curves. But looking around, others are doing the same thing, talking and laughing, so you bravely move forward, scooping out the seeds, scraping out the strings, cleaning out your hollow. Okay, now what?  Draw a face??  A scary face???

The first set of jack o’ lanterns are simple and a bit awkward. Two eyes, a mouth, sometimes with teeth, maybe a nose. As each person finishes his pumpkin, he stands up, carries it to the front door, inserts a tea candle, sets the pumpkin in the garden outside, and lights the candle.

Night is falling, and slowly the garden fills with jack o’ lanterns. The candles softly glow, brightly, then even more brightly against the darkening backdrop. The Japanese eyes fill with delight.  The French man grins and scurries off to get his next pumpkin. The Australian scrutinizes the others’ handiwork and tackles his next globe with blooming creativity. The carved faces become haunted, or lecherous, or jeering. Carved flames leap from mouth corners; carved eyes glower. The jack o’ lanterns are no longer consigned to the lawn; now they’re lurking behind rocks, gaping up from under a bush, cackling down from a tree branch.

The transformation is complete, for pumpkins and humans alike. We gather with hot apple cider and wander around the garden, delighted. My Finnish friend puts her arm around my shoulder and says delightedly, “Now I understand Halloween. Now I get it.”

So here I am on the spiritual path.  I have arrived at the party and understand portions of what I’m encouraged to do.  I look around at people I trust and admire, and pay attention to the example they set.  I’m learning that the way to learn is to do.  I’m delving into my pumpkins, each and every one of them, creating the most magnificent jack o’ lanterns that I can.  And I trust that by the time I’m standing in the garden, sipping hot apple cider, watching the glowing faces around me, I will understand why God is expending so much energy to create us, waiting for us to search for Him, and then helping us to find Him.

Seasons

It's mid-October and the world is changing. Greens are blending to golds on the trees outside my window. The sun is lower in the sky, sending softer light onto our hillside. The days are shorter, the nights longer. Rain falls regularly on our summer-parched pastures, soaking the llamas backs, and sending the chickens to hunker closely under their overarching tree. The season is changing.

I spend most of my days outside, working on this project or that, and I find that I'm more aware of the season's change than ever before. For one, it's more pronounced than in the Bay Area, so there's more difference to note. But more, I'm blending with my surroundings now, watching the sky and birds, the trees and wind. I'm learning about our hillside, the pond, the new orchard, our llamas and chickens.

The fruit trees are bringing life, an energy of their own to the pasture above our house. I'm taller than them still, but their aura is bigger, richer, softer. They've learned the sun's pattern, and have built their leaves to match, drinking in sunlight to fuel their hard work of growing up. Their roots have taken hold and explored their underground neighborhood. They've discovered water pockets and mineral caches, sending massive supplies of materials upward to the leaf factories breathing in and out, in and out. I spread wood chips and llama droppings in a lake at their feet, gifts to help them thrive.

The chickens murmur softly as they wander about their chores, checking this, pecking that. They scurry to meet me, as I open the gate, running, flying, calling out; I'm an exciting event in their day. I might bring treats or fresh water or mounds of grain. They follow along around me, remarking busily, ready to be a part of whatever I might have in mind.

The llamas watch intently and gather close in, sizing me up, looking for apples or pears. After a leisurely greeting, they turn to graze alongside while I dig or lop or rake. They clomp gracefully along, with an occasional cavort, gleefully snorting.

The pastures are turning green after the summer drought while the trees are turning golden in preparation for the cold; a changing of the guard, trading dormancy for robust vitality and vice versa, a biannual handoff amongst hillside companions.

I wade through this rich tapestry, watching the sky, the clouds, the sunset, and I say to myself, what a wonderful world.