Summer's Bounty

Sunset on the farm

Lettuce row

The warm weather may be gone, but the memories of this past summer are still as fresh as the veggies I spent the past few months growing (and eating, and planting, and weeding, and weeding, and picking, and washing, and packing.... there's a lot more work that goes into your salad than you might realize!)

The light on the farm was just incredible... every day was another glorious sky, changing from opalescent pinks and oranges in the morning to bright, buttery mid-day and egg-yolk yellow afternoon, all culminating in a glorious riot of sunset before fading to star-crested indigo as the last rays faded across the lake.

We held the last CSA pickup in mid-October, before the frost took out the last brave greens, and and held a beautiful bonfire and potluck to celebrate. Looking back at the photos Scott took, I'm struck by how generous the land and people and animal & plant friends were to us this year.

It was hard work at times, but it was glorious. What a wonderful, whirlwind, madcap couple of seasons - and there's just more magic to come!

Here are a few highlights from the archives:

Above:Houdini the Wonder Chicken,

Escape artist nonpareil!
Below: Making her escape...

Evening over the greenhouse.

clouds at sunset

the sheep

rotating the pasture

still wet kale...

The farm - my summer home-away-from-home

Farmer Matt (one of our wonderful 

employer-teacher-mentors)...

probably bringing treats to the sheep.

just one of the glorious pick-your-own herbs.

freshly harvested for the CSA pickup 

Blessings and love,
Blackbird's Daughter

Trying Times (Keep on Trying)

Thank you to everyone who spoke out against the deregulation of Roundup Ready alfalfa. I appreciate your support, phone calls, and shared outrage and concern. I can't help but feel extremely disappointed by -and in- our government at this time, and the short-sightedness that led to a decision that is so obviously dangerous to our environment, food supply, economy, and the health and well-being of not only Americans, but all our relations, across the globe.

At the same time as this is happening, though, I am encouraged by people's interest and creativity regarding ways to grow, support, sustain, and "green up" their local communities.

The paradigm is shifting; I can feel it. Not everywhere, and certainly not all at once, but it is happening, and in enough different and symbiotic ways that I remain hopeful and loving despite this calamitous setback. We CAN join hands. We CAN open our hearts. We CAN reshape the patterns that no longer serve us, welcoming in a new day of service, understanding, and respect for others and ourselves.
We are not waiting for change, we are changing. We are growing. And once again, we are holding the line of Light against what seems like the darkest part of an unending night; keeping the cold at bay with nothing but the warmth of our beating hearts. Yours in faith,

Blackbird's Daughter

Hey, Barry? It's us.

"...You know, the folks who elected you? Yeah, you too, thanks. Hey listen, we need you to save the world. Like, STAT."

(painting by Alex Ross, alexrossart.com)

Or at least, that's how I hope it works. Anyway, here's his number: (202) 456-1111.
Seriously.
You can also try the switchboard at (202) 456-1414.
Either way, you better call quick, because the vote that will obliterate organics worldwide is going down within the next 24 hours in favor of Monsanto, Obama's the only one who can stop it, and no, that's not hyperbole.
Here's the latest update according to Food Democracy Now!:

Since Secretary Vilsack’s decision last December called for either full deregulation (approval) or a plan for co-existence between GMOs and organics and left out the option to unconditionally reject Monsanto’s GMO alfalfa, the only person that could make the decision to reject GMO alfalfa is President Obama.
Unfortunately, the Obama administration’s plan for co-existence is totally unworkable as family farmers and scientists readily admit. Contamination is not something that is predicted to happen, it already has.
According to Don Huber PhD, professor emeritus at Purdue University and APS coordinator for the USDA's National Plant Disease Recovery System genetic contamination will completely pollute organic and conventional alfalfa.
"Just from the gene flow, within five years of Roundup Ready alfalfa, there will be no such thing as non-Roundup Ready alfalfa, regardless of restrictions government puts on it," says Huber, PhD, widely regarded as an expert in plant disease and biology.
Tell President Obama that this is unacceptable and that you elected him to take courageous stands to protect family farmers, our food supply and our environment.

If you click the above link, you'll find both numbers, as well as a script you can use if you don't want to use mine :) Please call!

From the Farmer's Mouth

Farmer Dave and his faithful friend Duke

My friend (and one of my favorite organic farmers!), Dave Dietz, had this to say about the effects of GMO alfalfa:

This is incredibly important to the integrity of organic foods, especially the dairy and beef industries. Because bees pollinate alfalfa, and they travel for miles, there is no possible way GMO alfalfa can be kept from contaminating organic alfalfa, and thus ruining its economic value. It is beyond belief that any fair minded person would even consider the possibility of allowing GMO alfalfa. Please speak out now.

Scott and I wrote a quick blurb about cross-contamination over at our newspaper blog Seacoast to Coast, but I'm embarrassed to say I'd forgotten to write about the BEES! It's always good to get a farmer's perspective on these things. 

For more back story on how I met Dave and my adventures last year in rural Pennsylvania, including my visit to his parents' Mennonite church, killing my first rooster, and meeting some truly amazing women, check out the "Wonder What She Wrote About..." sidebar to the right and click on "Dietz Family Farm." Enjoy!

Goodbye Organics?

Is this the end to small, organic, family farms, like this one, 

run by my friend Dave Dietz and his loving family in rural Pennsylvania?

Circle of Friends: an organic breakfast from -and on- Dave's farm.

Dave and his parents, Myron and Lois with their farm-raised, home-cooked dinner.

Or how about this one, in rural Mexico, where friends work together to keep a tiny part of the ancient Mayan rainforest from becoming another gated community for rich Americans?

A final fiesta with friends at El Alebrije, where Julie and Onassis teach themselves to farm ecologically while building their jungle tree-house, trying to avoid scorpions, and learning the ways of the jungle.

It almost certainly will be if the Obama administration approves Monsanto's genetically modified Roundup Ready alfalfa for open distribution. 

I don't usually get this political here, but this is an incredibly important, PLANET-CHANGING piece of legislation. It's also very personal, as it effects everything I and Blackbird's Daughter stand for, as well as many of my friends. Below are pictures of some of the wonderful organic people and places that I love. Scroll down, read the petition, and then decide whether this is something that we can ignore. Their - my - our - lives and livelihoods are on the line.

Please, sign the petition from Food Democracy Now HERE. Many thanks, and blessings,

Jessica

  Here is the letter to Secretary Vilsack and President Obama requesting that they reject approval of Monsanto's GMO alfalfa: Dear Secretary Vilsack and President Obama, I urge you to immediately reject the approval of Monsanto’s genetically engineered Roundup Ready alfalfa. The U.S. Supreme Court has already acknowledged that the economic risks from genetic contamination, as well as the risk to the environment of gene flow, are real concerns. The USDA has a responsibility to protect farmers and consumers and should refuse the biotech industry’s demands for deregulation. More importantly, the Secretary of Agriculture and President of the United States have a sacred duty to protect biodiversity and seed integrity for future generations and our planet.

If approved, the contamination of organic and conventional alfalfa crops is scientifically certain to happen. Once contaminated, organic and conventional crops will lose their economic value and this threatens the livelihood of family farmers who have responded to market signals regarding the valid concerns of the negative health and environmental impacts of genetically modified organisms (GMOs).

Already the CEO of the largest dairy cooperative has stated that approval of Monsanto’s GMO alfalfa “threatens the very fabric of the organic industry.” Once undermined, consumers will lose faith in USDA approved organic products. As head of the federal agency in charge of protecting farmers, any decision to approve GMO alfalfa threatens to destroy the fastest growing and most profitable segment of agriculture today and thus runs counter to the mission of the agency you are sworn to uphold.

And while I appreciate your admission of the serious risks posed by GMO contamination to organic and conventional farmers, it is evident that the USDA’s proposed remedies are not adequate to protect America’s farmers or our nation’s citizens who choose to buy organic products. Approval of Monsanto's GMO alfalfa infringes upon the rights of Americans to make legitimate choices in the foods that they eat and feed their children daily and threatens the rapidly growing $26 billion organic market.

The basic right to consume food that is not contaminated and for farmer's fields to be safe from genetic contamination that ruins their economic livelihood is enshrined in the Constitution. It is time that federal officials at the USDA, White House and Congress move to protect this right, rather than to continue to trample upon it at the biotech industry’s bidding.

As such, I strongly urge you to reject the approval of Monsanto’s GMO alfalfa. Sincerely, [your name]

Please, sign the petition HERE. Thank you.

June Update

Some people sit through their lives under fluorescent lights and buy their exercise at the gym. We have sunlight, a broad fork, and the wheel hoe in our favor.

Howdy folks! It's been a wildly busy few weeks up here in the gorgeous Champlain Valley, between farming and kidsitting and squeezing in some summer in between. I made a really fun Dancing Porcupine Bath Salts blend last week for the CSA pickup, and have some other nifty ideas up my sleeve for this week's market - like essential oil bubble wands for the kids. How cool will those be?!

The farm is so much fun - and so much work. Even though I'm only there a few days out of the week, my life revolves around that plot of land like it tends to do around good and growing places. And this is such a good place. When I'm here, I think about Dave's farm in Pennsylvania, and Julie and Onassis's place in the Mayan jungle, and I feel a joy I've only ever felt outdoors.

It seems so simple, so naturally obvious that this is the way to live. There's a satisfaction that comes from a day well-lived; a sense of rightness that coats your bones when you're earning new muscles honestly. Some people sit through their lives under fluorescent lights and buy their exercise at the gym. We have sunlight, a broad fork, and the wheel hoe in our favor.

The girls laugh at me every Thursday night when I come home because I'm too tired to do anything other than flop down and cuddle one or the other to sleep. Sometimes I have enough energy for a shower, but it's rare. It's an irony in my life that I spent months getting rid of my jungle calluses, only to start earning farm ones as soon as I came back to Vermont.

So what are us interns doing when we're not skinny dipping during lunch breaks, camping during thunderstorms, or eating fried chicken for breakfast? Well for starters, we're learning a lot! Our bosses are great, constantly explaining the whys and hows of farming to us, and patiently sharing their knowledge and experience through every new activity and chore. Unlike other folks who take on interns, they haven't quite figured out the whole "delegate the drudge work to your indentured minions" thing, and work side-by-side with us until we know enough to do things on our own. After the first group day, we all piled into their pickup, and they took us to the lake for pizza and beer. And when we finish a really big project, they're quick with praise, gratitude and a high-five or hug. They always welcome visitors, but do me a favor, ok? When you do come, please don't tell them they're doing the boss thing all wrong. We've kinda got a good thing goin', if you know what I mean.

Besides learning (or during it, I should say), we're busy weeding, hoeing, laying beds, shoveling pathways, sowing seeds, weeding, planting seedlings, watering, sorting, harvesting, washing, packaging, checking the new beehive, tending the sheep and chickens, moving fences, learning, and weeding. Followed by more weeding. And bringing the one Escape Chicken back to her coop.

All of this leaves me on the bank of the pond during lunch time, toasting my muddy feet in the sun and contemplating the blackbirds as they swoop, preoccupied, through the cattails.

"Best. Summer job. Ever," I tell them, but they're too busy nesting and feeding and singing to each other to respond. It's ok. If they weren't so focused on their own perfect lives, I'm sure they'd agree.

Living In Season (also, some nifty news & NOFA notes)...

...all brought to you by your favorite vagabond herbalist, who finally got some business cards printed up, just in time for this year's Northeastern Organic Farming Association winter conference. Also handy as I travel down to Mexico this Friday.

Did I say Mexico? I meant Mexico. Viva la aventura!

Let's do a little backup, catch up, "what the heck has Blackbird's Daughter been doing for the past month and a half, 'cause it sure as shooting wasn't running a blog" Q&A, shall we?

The quick answer is that Blackbird's Daughter has been trusting in the slow, dark, incubatory energy of the post-Yule, pre-Imbolc season, that's what.

The longer answer is that I've also been working incredibly hard to envision and craft what the next growing-cycle of my life will look like, while also striving to stay grounded and present in the here-and-now.

The tricky part of this late-Winter, early-Spring time (and yes, according to the Euro-pagan -for lack of a better phrase- calendar, it is now early Spring!) is that there's not a whole lot you can actually do, other than wait to see how all those bulb crops come up, tighten your belt, plan out your new plantings, and enjoy the quiet of the woods. Sure there's lots of stuff like missing buttons and old mail and the back of the refrigerator to attend to, and that's all fine and good and necessary, but it doesn't have the same feel of easy production as, say, a few months from now, when you won't be able to set foot outside without walking over parties of tender, delicious little baby dandelions and plantains and other weedy delectables, all popping their nutritious and impossibly green little selves out of the ground and shaking their little baby groove things in the wet and warming air. I don't even know what to call them, they're so many and cute and everywhere, like a blanket of tiny green rainbow gatherings with miniature drum circles and euphoric ant dancers all over the place. Those ecstatic, brave little plant-friends aren't just adornment for the lush and muddy soil, they are a full-on, plan-ahead, bring-the-kids Event; a not-to-be-missed Happening unto themselves.

But of course, that time is not this time, and this time is, by most accounts, pretty darn stark. Money's tight. The apples are wrinkled. There are only so many root vegetables you can cook in so many ways before you find yourself re-rummaging through the back-of-the-cupboard international cookbook pile, desperate for any legume-based culinary inspiration, and even those $5.99 boxes of insipid, pinkish strawberries start to look like a possibility.

Luckily for us, it's not actually that long a season. I know, I know, I can feel readers' polar-fleece-lined indignation from here, but bear with me on this one:
I'm not saying that almost six months of cold isn't a long time - I'm saying that it isn't just one extended limbo of non-growth and desolation. What we think of as "Winter" is actually comprised of multiple seasons: Winter (from November 1 through January 31), and Spring (Feb. 1 through April 30). This doesn't show up on the current American (political) calendar, but then neither does Presidents' Day on mine, so I guess we're even. (For the full and righteous eco-faith shebang, you gotta git on over to the Mystic's Wheel of the Year - go on, git!)
The way I've taken to viewing the year means that while lots of folks are bemoaning a dull and dreary landscape, I'm taking emotional refuge in a richly diverse series of gloriously minute shifts and soul-expanding beauty. Look at it this way:
When the year ends at Samhain (October 31), we have three months to reflect on and cast off the old patterns of the previous year before Spring is born at Imbolc (Feb. 1). Now that Spring is here and the castings of the previous year have fully sunk into the earth to fertilize the new one, we can look forward to the growth that is quickly working its hidden magic beneath the soil. The past few months have been a time to let go and relax into the greater cycle, acknowledging that we've accomplished all we could with last year. It's done. Let it go. It's time to allow ourselves to have faith in what's new.In the counseling world, this would be considered the Season of Closure, followed by the Season of New Beginnings. (Mumma, I'm giving this one to you- the "Mental Health Wheel of the Year" - see bottom of post.)

There's powerful medicine in this particular season of darkness, but if we're not used to living cyclically, it can be a time of great depression and emotional difficulty. We can remedy that by 1) accepting the Truth that nature, the planet, and our bodies are telling us, and 2) letting go of the rigid expectation that we strive for chronic consistency. This (often self-imposed) drive for uniformity & peak performance is akin to planting a tree and then expecting it to take root, acclimate to its new surroundings and climate, bud, blossom, bear fruit, produce sap, store nutrients for later, use those nutrients, photosynthesize, grow a healthyMycorrhizal network, interact with said network, grow taller, insulate itself from cold, feed millions of critters (both minuscule and large) etc etc etc....all at the same time. We wouldn't expect that of our plant allies, so why on Earth do we expect it of ourselves?
This sort of seasonal disconnect isn't just unrealistic on a personal level, it's incredibly unhealthy systemically, culturally, and planetarily, and it's a recipe for exhaustion, burn-out, illness, and a whole host of other unnecessaries.

So while it's true that I've been staying busy bopping up and down New England, selling my car, reconnecting with my amazing and talented sister-goddess (you can find her amidst the vanilla-scented cloud over at Life Is Short. East Dessert First.), planning for a spur-of-the-moment trip down South to explore the Curanderismo (herbal medicine) of Mexico, attending the NOFA Winter Conference, and planting seeds of possibility for this summer, I've been consciously working at respecting the fact that this particular liminal time in my life is both necessary and healthy. And you know what?

It's working.

I've been in Vermont for eight years now, and the longer I stay, the shorter the winter feels, and it's got nothing to do with global warming. It's the fact that I quit my jobs and got out of my car.

Seriously.
Here's what my old Winter schedule used to look like:
-Get up in the dark.
-Drive down gray city roads lined with gray, exhaust-covered snow to my gray and green place of employment.
-Stay inside for the entire time it was light out, with occasional breaks to accompany students somewhere or dash across the parking lot for a pre-meeting cup of coffee.
-Drive the same gray route home in the deepening dusk.
-Repeat.

Here's a sample of what it looks like now:
-Get up when I want.
-Work for someone else when I want.
-Work for myself when I want.
-Go outside when I want.
-Travel when I want.
-Repeat (when I want).

This new schedule leaves me very broke, extremely open to possibilities, intensely aware of my choices & challenges, and pretty darn happy. It forces me to be consciously vulnerable. It lets me be stressed out in way that I have control over changing. It teaches me to breathe.

And for the first time since I was a kid, it gives me the opportunity to really live with and in my surroundings, experiencing the climate and ecosystems the way we used to, from our feet on up.

On that note, I'd like to offer a huge thanks to NOFA and all the amazing agriculturally-minded folks that attended this year's Winter Conference.
Thanks for bringing the median age of farmers down for the first time in over 40 years. Thank you for revitalizing our soil and keeping our food chain real, healthy, and local. Thanks for taking on the absolutely critical role as the next generation of farmers, growers, bee-keepers, and more. Thanks for following your passion.

I guess the long answer to the question that started this all - What have I been doing? - is simply that. Following my passion. It's all I know how to do. But I do it well.

The Mental Health Wheel of the Year

In which Seasonal Affective Disorder is not an illness, but a positive sign of unconscious connection to our animal, place-based Selfhood; a "sane response to an insane world"; a 'symptom' of deeply-rooted wellness and an opportunity to grow and live in synchronicity and ease with Nature.

Samhain Season – active (act of) change making

Winter Solstice – closure

Imbolc Season– planning and readiness, new beginnings

Spring Equinox – new changes, skill growth, reflection on new needs

Beltane – big new change/awareness of possibilities/fertility of choice

Summer Solstice – maintenance/balance

Lammas – harvesting new changes

Autumn Equinox –reflection, readiness for change

For those who don't know, my mom is a pretty amazing holistic mental health counselor. She founded a practice called Liminal Therapy, where she references things like the hero's journey and helps her clients change "I should really..." to "I could really...". Here's a quote from her:

“Liminality”
Refers to the middle stage of change, the threshold between what was, and what is yet to be.
It is when we are forced by circumstance or choice to leave what is familiar; to journey into a place of uncertainty. It is a normal part of being human.

So inspiring! Anyway, I bet she does amazing stuff with this one :)

Beauty in my Mailbox

Today my friend Dave sent me a link to this article by Maira Kalman.
I love farmers. And I love writers. And since I was busy celebrating Thanksgiving with the Hare Krishnas and my wonderful host family down here in Mississippi (which I also loved), I figured I'd take a moment today to send out my gratitude to you all as well.
Thanks for reading, and for your warm emails and funny comments and for generally letting me know that what I do is interesting and of value in the world.
Thank you for being the kind of people I miss, the kind of people I can tell stories about, the kind of people that make me simultaneously want to stay -stay and hug your children, pick your plants, craft beautiful homes and meals and medicines and memories together- and go, so that I can learn enough, gain enough experience and common sense and direction to do so.
Much joy to you all - joy and thanksgiving!

Lazarus Rose Tonight, Right Down the Road. (or, How My Life Is Myth). Take your pick.

I interrupt this mythic retelling with a glimpse into my mythic dwelling.

I spent last night with the Haghighis, my newly adopted Iranian family (I have a godfather now! Hooray!), and was planning to leave for New Orleans tonight, but when they invited me to their bible study group ("All Iranian. Only 5 people come - you make six," said Mina), how could I refuse? So we all piled into their van, and off we went, not to the Jehovah's Witness church we'd been to last Sunday (fancifully located in a neighborhood called Sherwood Forest, which gave a whole different meaning to the concept of tithing), but to the gigantic, famous, three-giant-white-crosses-conveniently-towering-over-the-highway-next-to-Walmart Baptist church, where a small group of Spanish speaking folks met in one room, and the Farsi speaking folks met in another, and everything else was closed, and clean, and vast.

Mohammad, the leader of the group, explained to me that it's a study group for new Christians, and that they review different basic themes and pray together. He talked about the movement towards Christianity in Iran (largely underground, completely banned, heavily persecuted, and strongly funded by some US churches, the one we were in included), and what it means to be a follower of Christ, both in Iran and America. I mentioned a Pakistani woman I met after 9/11, when green cards were no longer freely reissued to folks from the Middle East.
A Christian, she'd fled her homeland under death threat, only to have her request for asylum denied by the US government. She'd hidden in her pastor's apartment for months before fleeing once again, this time to Canada, where she was guaranteed religious asylum - if she could get there.
A one-time volunteer with an organization that helps refugees resettle, I'd hosted her for the night before driving her over the border the following morning. It was an intense experience, both culturally and personally, richly resonant and harrowingly simple.
She taught me how to cook a traditional chicken and rice dish, and gifted me with some of the few things she had with her, gifts that held such obvious meaning that I couldn't refuse: A ring. A sweater. Half a bottle of perfume. And some, even more difficult to sidestep, though infinately higher in value: a good match with her pastor's son. A wedding dripping with gold and happiness and music. A chance to be like a daughter to her, forever close, for always...
I tried to calm her mounting panic, prayed with her and awkwardly hugged her, made phone calls and small talk and attempted to navigate linguistic barriers and cultural boundaries. (No, I didn't want to share a bed. No, I couldn't marry the stranger on the phone, but thank you, how kind, oh, thank you, but no...) Young and naive, I did my best, though I felt I didn't do enough.
I will always feel I didn't do enough.
Tonight, hearing again of the horrors people go through to practice their various faiths, I thought of her again; thought of how alone she must have felt, and how I still wish I'd offered to share a room with her instead of leaving her alone in the dark.
Tonight, I send her my prayers, wherever she is, and wish her well. I wish us all well.

After about fifteen of minutes of chatting, a few glasses of tea (I'm pretty sure I drink more tea than most Iranians, but Mina says "is OK", so I believe her), and a prayer in both Farsi and English, Mohammad turned on a DVD of hymns in Farsi, and the group began to sing. Behind the text, a background of beautiful scenery from the northern part of Iran scrolled by: waterfalls, flower gardens, forests, a castle, snowy hillsides, a small thatched church... and as they changed, and I listened to the few voices raised in prayer, I visualized the land that I've wanted to plant since I set foot on Dave's farm, and the herbal business I want to grow, and haven't stopped thinking about since I left Pennsylvania.

Only instead of wondering how I'll do it, or what my business plan will be, or when I'll even start, I saw it all clearly as the sanctuary that I've always wanted for myself, but expanded beyond my immediate circle (and wildest dreams) into a sanctuary for people of all faiths, from all over the planet. A small organic farm and herbal body-care business, the real magic of the place came (comes? will come?) from the fact that it's also a temporary home to those who need one, those who may have never harvested a flower or mixed a salve, but who are willing to work in exchange for a time of respite and peace, safety and food, new knowledge and the chance to worship in the way they desire, putting prayer and hope into products that bring joy and healing to the world.
I saw this, and it felt good, and tender, and possible. It felt beautiful, and important. It felt true.

The song ended, and I found myself praying, fervently, that I can take part in something that connected and useful, that I might use my life to craft a place with that much meaning. Just then, one of the women asked a question.
"Who is..how do you say..Lazari--?"
"Lazarus?" I asked, with a shocked sense of connection.
"Yes, Lazarus!" Mohammad smiled.
The song they'd been singing was about Lazarus. Mohammad translated a line for me, as I sat, reeling, suddenly close to tears.
"From the loneliness of darkness to the fullness of light."

Does anyone out there want to craft this vision with me?