Slower Living

Seward

2010-06-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

Seward's right on the coast... FJORDS!!!

Glacial valley

The "toe" of Exit Glacier

We hiked through 2 miles of snowy slopes on the mountain beside Exit Glacier to reach Harding Icefield

View looking back on our way up

The ice field

From the top, looking back at my companions and a German couple I offered to break trail for, after they spent most of the hike making perfect steps for us.

Top of Exit Glacier

On our way down we came across this badass, who was climbing to the top of the glacier, spending two days crossing the ice field, and finally descending to a paddle in Prince William Sound.

Our rapid descent: we could actually sled on our butts!

2010-05-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

I haven't found much time for writing lately, but there's a whole lot going on here at the farm. Here are some pictures to give you an idea:

Two of our hoop houses, where we're growing early season greens and will later fill in with tomatoes and cucumbers

We got piglets this week! They are so cute, and it was fun learning a little bit about handling pigs (we got to pick out our ten and then had to catch them)

Here they are, happy to be rooting around in their new pasture home! We're going to rotate them all summer in a field that we're going to till for growing next year. Hopefully they'll do a lot of that work for us, and be happy pastured pigs int he process! We're also feeding them a barley mix. That awesome-looking movable shelter behind them is my pride and joy.

Our garlic looks good! Otherwise we transplanted our onions a week ago, direct seeded a bunch of things into the field that are just starting to come up, and transplanted some kales and celery yesterday. We're a little behind because it's been so windy and cold - we're trying to make sure our plants are decently hardened off before we put them through the transplanting shock.

Happy lettuce in the glass house. This was planted one of my first days here.

Happy salad turnips under row cover to protect them from flea beetles.

Flats of transplants getting used to the wind in some cold frames.

Another hoop house, part of the mountain view in the background.

First Hike

2010-04-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

2010-04-23T13:40:00.000-07:00

So what's my new home like? Well, I now live in the premiere agricultural valley of Alaska, which means people grow a lot of potatoes, carrots, or ostensibly marijuana. Our farm sits on a hill four miles outside of town, and is surrounded by fields of dry, matted grass that I want to name. Finger Meadow seems appropriate for the corridor of grass stretching from my cabin into the woods behind me. The next, accessible only by tractor paths through those woods, is totally surrounded by trees and the land dips into some wetlands beyond the field edges. I want to call it Moose Hollow.

“Town” is Palmer, population 8,000 (a number which interestingly has doubled from about 4,000 since 1990) whose most noteworthy characteristics, judging by the categories for the local Poetry Month haiku contest are: 1. Palmer Water Tower 2. Engine No. 5 (in front of the Palmer Depot) 3. Balto (Statue in front of the visitor's center) 4. Cabbage 5. Moose 6. Matanuska River 7. Glacial Dust 8. Break-up (spring time) 9. Breakdowns (mechanical) 10. Anything relating to Palmer. How revealing. I can't wait to get to know and understand the stories and history of this town.

Unfortunately, the deadline for the haiku contest has passed, the final opportunity for entry being April 15, my first day of work here on the farm. Had I known, I would have spent my otherwise idle “settling in” days constructing stacks and stacks of haikus (the number of entries was not restricted) illuminating the outstanding qualities of this quaint town. I'm sorry, a population of 8,000 in Alaska makes a settlement of humans worthy of the title “city.” Not quite a metropolis.

Anyway, my entry to this poetry contest would almost surely be an embarrassment, as I yet know almost nothing about Palmer. I would title my entry, “Palmer: An Outsider's Perspective” (they're probably looking for new and unique perspectives on this place, right?) and it would contain haikus like,

Moose here are like deer

Numerous beyond control

Still, they escape me

heretically undermining the moose category by admitting that I haven't actually seen one of these supposedly prevalent ungulates yet. Maybe I should pick something I actually have witnessed like,

Oh, water tower

Framed by blue muscle mountains

What makes you special?

Still not incredibly sincere. Maybe the irony would not be noticed? Maybe this water tower indeed does possess a sense mystery and intrigue amidst the local lore, making my haiku wholly appropriate and a possible winner? I do not yet understand how these ten categories represent the essence of this town (well, I understand the cabbages, since it has been explained to me that because of the long days here farmers can grow cabbages of legendary proportions), and so I cannot help but write semi-satirical haikus. I'm sure the judges would reject my entry without a second, hopefully muttering, “Hmph, must be from the outside,” in doing so.

Because that's what they say here: “Oh, so you're from the outside?” “Where did you get that awesome DVD player?” Oh, it's from the outside.” And though I'm uncomfortable with the thought of considering Alaska the inside, I have to say that it is a whole different world up here. People really don't have DVD players, evidenced by the fact that the video section in the library contains mostly VHS tapes. Normal household items, everything, is ridiculously expensive. Weird differences: it's hard to raise farm animals here because hay sells for $8-12 a bale, which is about 300% (at least) the price of hay in Vermont. There aren't enough grass farmers up here? The season isn't long enough to be sure of two or three cuts. They don't recycle glass here. Glass, people, the easiest thing there is to recycle. But they don't have the facilities here, so recyclables are sent to the lower 48 (excuse me, the Outside.) to be processed, which requires compression, making glass a suddenly difficult material. It's like a third world country in some ways: the economy here is mostly extractive and export based, and facilities have not been developed to process these raw materials, which would add to their value and bring a relative benefit to the local communities. This economy does not even make an effort to appear self-sufficient. Presumably the dominant attitude is that the communities here are not large or permanent enough to merit such investment. The last frontier. Communities seem to be temporary and transient, people are not here to stay. Anyway, every bottle of wine or beer I drink here will come with an extra pang of guilt. I've actually considered drinking beer from a can.

Alaskans are a different breed, too. Well, I've actually met only two people who were truly born in Alaska (I think?), and from what I can tell, they are total badasses. Trillium and Leila, ages 7 and 5, are the daughters of the APU professor who lives here at Spring Creek Farm. I saw them running around barefoot the other day on the near-frozen forty degree ground. I commented on this to my farm manager, Mimi, and she said that they run around barefoot when there's snow on the ground. These kids are tough. I saw Trillium take a spill on her bike into an ice-covered puddle, and in that moment where time freezes a little whenever something like that happens, I expected her to stand up crying. Instead she picked herself up, shook herself off, and ran to catch up with her sister for their morning horse ride, still soaking wet. There's definitely still a pioneer type spirit up here, a feeling that those who have chosen this place are living beyond the reaches and constraints faced by normal humans.

But it is beautiful and unreal. A little barren and exposed, especially at this time of year with strong winds sweeping across nearby glaciers and sending a constant gale up our valley. Austere, too. Though wildlife supposedly abounds, the woods are not diverse. A bird-guide devoted to Denali that I found in the book store was no more than thirty pages in length, I've spotted no more than four tree species in the forest around my cabin. Still, there is plenty opportunity for observation, wonder. My farm is surrounded by mountains except to the southwest, someday soon I will see a moose, maybe even a bear, and the northern sky still glows, the sun just under the horizon, at 11 p.m., reminding me that this world indeed is not flat, that I am spinning and small, that there is no edge but that there are poles, and that I am near one.

This is Where I Live

2010-04-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

2010-04-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

All good places are called “Kellogg”. The Center for Environmental Studies at my alma mater was based in a building called the “Kellogg House,” and it did not take long for my group of friends to make a home of it. What was so appealing about the place? In the parceled academic world of dorm rooms, quiet library carrels, and dining halls Kellogg offered a place where we could do it all. Professors held classes in the couch-crowded living room while students from their other classes cooked lunch in the kitchen next door. Later in the evening, some of us studied quietly in the library section of the building while others curled close to a fire in the living room. Thumping footsteps and loud voices upstairs betrayed some sort of merry-marking, explosive expressions of joy not possible in the enforced quietude of a library. Throughout my sophomore year of college (the year of discovery, I like to think of it as) I spent gradually less and less time in my dorm room as many aspects of my life literally moved into Kellogg House. I never slept a full night there (though many did), but it became my base – where I kept my books, where I returned after class, where I could be sure of bumping into someone I loved, and usually even nab a portion of the latest tasty culinary creation they had just pulled out of the oven.

At the end of my junior year the house was shut down to make room for a campus construction project. Before we left, though, we held a Kellogg Challenge: a contest to name which of us most embodied the place. Categories ranged from the expected (culinary, academic, stereotypical dress) to the more bizarre and scandalous (faculty encounters, romantic exploits, animal sightings). We came up with a list of activities performed in Kellogg that would win you points, and gave ourselves a week to tally our points, during which we all scrambled to do any of the activities we could not already cross off. The place meant everything to us simply because we could do everything there, in the company of good friends.

Now I am in Alaska living on a farm associated with Alaska Pacific University. My home is a 12x12 Thoreau-ian cabin (though I have electricity and even a wireless signal...) with a porch and views of the mountains on three sides of me. One-hundred yards away is a house, the kind of center of the farm, with a kitchen, a living room with a fireplace and shelves of books where APU students take classes in Environmental Education, offices and computers, and a basement where we are starting our seedlings. Sound familiar? It really is. This is a place where we will gather and eat together all summer, curl up next to a fire, keep each other company while some work and others lounge and read. A space quiet and home enough to relax in, but public enough to provide the constant availability of a conversation, friend, or some form of merry-making. That's what I hope, at least. It is called the Kellogg House.

Tulips

2010-04-10T10:15:00.001-07:00

Climbing Canyon Mountain

2010-04-03T16:35:00.000-07:00

Long Creek, OR

2010-04-01T11:06:00.001-07:00

In this place I am a tiny man in a staggeringly large world. Though mountains lay on the horizon, the space between is vast and expansive, and the space is defined not by its sharp edges, but by the plain, the desert really, that stretches between. Filled mostly with grass and sagebrush, trees here are confined to river valleys and wet hillsides, all of them gymnosperms, which possess specialized cell walls that make them more adapted to take advantage of harsh climates than their angiosperm relatives. Life here is tough, and human life is no exception. Never before have I felt so small, so vulnerable, so exposed to the elements. Never have I appreciated a house more for its basic sheltering function than its now-obviously-secondary role as a home. Everything here that is human seems miniature and insignificant. Land dominates – in this valley it is the openness, in the rugged ridges between it is the vast lava flows, ancient ash deposits, geologic formations. All tell of a world that was big and severe on a scale unknowable and unlivable to humans. Though we perch our houses and wind our roads amidst this history, I can not escape the feeling that our mark will never eclipse what was laid down here millions of years ago.

Yesterday, as Kristen and I climbed a steep hillside to take view of particularly stunning deposit of exposed blue ash, a surprising and entertaining impulse grabbed me. Tracks left by elk and deer covered the trail we walked, and my mind filled with the possibility of seeing these animals, or maybe even a mountain lion. In an instant I imagined all the animals that had climbed this same hill, the ungulates that had bounded effortlessly to the top, the stalking mountain cats, the jaunting coyotes. I imagined an elk stooped at the brink where I stood to munch on some grass and survey the surrounding landscape. This place is her domain, her reality. But here I was, witness to human passage upon this bluff, testimony that our world does not only exist in the valleys, roads, houses, fences, and power lines that baffle the wilderness. Absurdly, I wanted to announce this presence to the basin below me. “I'M A PRIMATE!!!” Those are the words that popped into my head, though I shared them only with Kristen, not the world. They may seem arrogant and aggressive, but I did not want to conquer. I merely wanted to participate in this natural world, not through construction or destruction, not through domination or mining, only through the sweat and breath it took me to reach that hill top. I am here, I am human, I can see.

My journey west, in photos

2010-03-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

The mountains make their first appearance...
Entering Glacier National Park
Outside Long Creek, OR
A hike in Malheur National Forest

It would have been one thing to encounter a fallen tree on the way to our hike. Alas, the road back was blocked...

Kristen is really strong.

2010-02-27T18:33:00.000-08:00

I took action. I needed to be outside, despite the below freezing temperatures, the wind whipping of the lake, and my tired legs. I wanted life, ecosystem, nature, anything that would continue to exist without humans. I found this, a living oasis within my cold and seemingly desolate winter desert.

It's watercress, I'm told, an aquatic or semi-aquatic plant with apparently high tolerance for cold temperatures. This natural spring flows into Lake Wingra, and while it always seems icy cold in the summer, the temperature must remain constant and above freezing year round, thus allowing plant life at the end of February. A quick internet search for watercress reveals that it's a brassica, actually quite edible, and is attributed with anti-cancer properties. How do I not know about this amazing plant? It is invasive in the Great Lakes. Why have I not eaten watercress salads?

My ignorance, however, created surprise and delight when I stumbled upon this stream. My day brightened. One of my favorite passages in all of literature was written by Annie Dillard, and comes just after a passage describing the struggle of dealing with the all-too-often tragedies inherent in mortal life. This struggle, she says, also implies a world of meaning, creation, and wonder. Miracles happen every day, but are often harder to see or participate in than the tragedies. "The answer must be," she concludes, "that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there." Amen to walking the path towards brilliance, to searching out the exceptional, to finding the beauty of this world. Happy searching!

Restless...

2010-02-24T14:55:00.000-08:00

I feel restless these days. My hands are not occupied, my mind runs the same thoughts in circles, I am not moving forward, I am a man in waiting. Ah, to wait, how sad and endless. There is always something to wait for. The weekend, vacation, heaven. My dog waits for her food every day for an hour before I feed her, though I never give a clue that I will feed her before exactly 5:00 PM. Why do we so insistently place our happiness in the future when the present has plenty of gifts to offer?

I am waiting for the snow to melt. I miss the soil between my toes, the fresh greens, the calluses on my hands. My mind and body cry to be productive, to make something, to create. The farming life is physically demanding; I haven't met a single farmer who isn't glad when November and consistent frost and snow finally arrive. I was glad, too, to have time to rest, sit by warm fires, read books, write thoughts and poems, plan for the next season. It's nearly March now, and I want to see the fruits of my labor again. Wendell Berry has frequented my winter bookshelf, and he makes me ache for the land even more. Berry calls himself an apprentice of Creation and the Creator. I am fond of this dual acknowledgment of the human ability and desire to shape and fill the world around us with meaning and the humility required to see our creations and interpretations as imperfect. We make studies in the Spirit, but never obtain the mastery of God. I think of "The Magician's Apprentice." It is foolish to believe that we have the power of this mysterious universe safely under our control. Before long we will trampled by a million broomsticks, drowned in the water we charged them with carrying. It is our instinct, however, to study those mysteries, to pursue the beauty we see in the world around us.

I am the happiest when I am creating, and this urge is a fundamental human characteristic, I believe. Why else do we have museums filled with art work, sheds full of tools, and written language to record our ideas? Of course, much is said to have been done in the name of economy, efficiency, and profit. I don't doubt it, but I challenge the much-held assumption that profit and the "leisure" it affords create happiness. It doesn't require a wise-man to advise high-school graduates that the only job worth having is the one that doesn't feel like a job. I believe that some form of occupation is necessary to live a happy life. I can't imagine living days occupied by nothing. It is ironic and sad, then, that the goal of "upward mobility" and the most prestigious jobs in this country, the unstated but assumed goal of our society, really, is to achieve a sufficient level of salary so as to eliminate the necessity for work. To fill our days with nothing, to live in never ending vacation, to escape the burden and drudgery of exerting our bodies and minds.

Delusions, I say! I'm not rich, but after a few days of sitting in my apartment I'm bored sick. I guess those with money fill this void with things: movies, Nintendo Wii's, xBoxes or whatever, diamonds, clothes, fashion, gossip, scandal. I watched two hours of The Office today. I have a headache, and though my urge for occupation was temporarily relieved, I feel even more restless now. I get these visions of molding something in my hands, filling the space in front of me with a sculpture, or painting the blank wall with words never before combined. I simply don't believe that I will find happiness in leisure alone. My mind will never stop thinking, and it needs something to think about. I want to make a small part of this world my own, not by possessing it, but by interpreting it. Maybe this is also part of the drive to pursuit prestigious jobs, to leave a mark, to create a place in history, to be known. OK, fine. I acknowledge that the urge and drive to become a successful business person fulfills the basic human necessity for creation. I still think it is egregious that our particular society measures prestige on a ladder leading to a delusional dream. I am lucky to know what I want and be satisfied with my own judgement of myself.

What if we removed the economic dependence question (which is indeed our society's goal, right? to escape all need to work?) What would I do with a million dollars? I'd buy myself a piece of farmland and spend the rest of my life working my ass off to grow food for myself and the members of my community. I would build a house, closed-loop energy and waste systems, a brick pizza oven, and a family. To what ends? To spend time close to the mystery of the Earth, to allow this mystery to inspire me, to do work that has a direct connection to my own existence and thus fulfill my need to create something admirable, to give my children and others a chance to see the same beauty that I do, and to remove myself as much as possible from a corrosive and exploitative industrial economy.

Maybe I am unique. Maybe I possess a preponderance for hard physical work. I don't view it as drudgery. Some of my happiest and most fulfilling moments come while or after doing hard jobs. Bringing in a fresh cut of hay on a hot day, digging potatoes by hand, herding a flock of unruly sheep. These tasks always seem to bring occasion for laughter, delight, fulfillment, and opportunity for truly restful leisure with good friends (and bad beer) afterwards. Oh how I long to return to the land. My restlessness also brings me comfort, though, in knowing that is seasonal. It is a wonderful thing to realize that I am eager to return to the job I have chosen. I will be there soon, and until then I will do my best to create in other ways.

Running blog?

2010-02-19T09:23:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone! I am back from Costa Rica, snuggled in my surprisingly warm Wisconsin apartment, unexpectedly enjoying the cold winds off of Lake Wingra, and definitely taking full advantage of those comforts I missed while away, namely, bread making and flannel. I'm sorry that I have fallen so far behind in my blogging, though I must say that I'm fairly proud of myself for removing myself from internet connection significantly enough to make the task impossible while out of the country. I feel more like writing now, thinking big and beautiful things, filling my body up to the top with ideas, mixing them up, and hopefully find some overflowing onto the page.

First, however, I am about to submit you all to a horror I hoped to keep you safe from. Yes, despite all original intentions and precautions, this blog will for one post become a running blog. Really, I apologize, but if you read my little blog description at the top of the page I'm PRETTY sure it includes running as a form "slower living." And this was an extra special run.

So I think I included in my last blog post that I began my Costa Rican travels in Monteverde. After traveling around the rest of the country for eight days or so, I actually ended up BACK there for my last five days. I couldn't resist, really. The community is so lovely, I had multiple connections there (Elissa Brown from Williams, Leah Boch from study abroad, Jacob Blessing's aunt), I was enticed by the prospects of a back country biological station, Quaker meetings, free housing, and...a 10k race that raises money for the scholarship fund of the school that Elissa and Leah work at. The 10k race was probably proportionately more enticing than it reasonably should have been. I thought I could win. Not that I'm a competitor. I mean...noooooo it would just be fun, right? For a good cause! Whatever, I'd just jog it! REALLY! This was not the main factor influencing my decision to go back to Monteverde!

Without questioning my motives, I'll just say that I DID return to Monteverde, I hiked to the San Gerardo field station and spent the night there and woke up with a perfectly clear view of Volcan Arenal, I became a little part of the wonderful quaker community (talent shows, frisbee games, english country dancing) and I was conveniently still in town for the Saturday of the race. I figured it would be good for my training in general to run something semi-quickly, and hey, Monteverde's a small town, maybe I had a shot at the victory, right?

Not so. I found out at 6 PM the night before the race how serious this affair was. There was prize money (not just medals and ribbons) of $250 to the winner.

This rose the stakes a bit. I ate a good dinner, went to bed early, and went through my regular pre-race routine. I was still caught in the delusion that there couldn't possibly be serious runners in Monteverde or maybe even in Costa Rica in general. Also, I needed money. The $25o excited me, but also scared me a little. Behind it all I knew the money meant competition; I had to expect some studs to come out. I decided I would put myself out there early in the race and see what happened.

Beyond the fact that I was not in racing shape, here are some of the factors working against my potential victory:

(1) Hills. There is no flat stretch of road longer than 200 meters in Monteverde. The town is on a mountain, a very tall mountain, at the top of this steep and tall mountain.

In racing hills can often be a blessing in disguise. What goes up must come down, and inexperienced runners often go up too hard. A smart runner can count on catching these runners by cruising effortlessly down the downhills. In Monteverde the hills are SO steep, however, that it is impossible to run them effortlessly; one must instead turn on some serious brakes for fear of toppling forward and somersaulting to the bottom (an interesting strategy that seriously appealed to me around mile 4 of the race...). Downhills on this course were therefore not a time to recover from the uphills or catch up with competitors, but a challenge in themselves.

(2) Wind. During my time in Monteverde there was only a single day (the day before the race) when wind gusts did not constantly rattle the tin roofs and window frames of wherever I was staying. Much of the race course was on exposed hillsides. Fighting up a hill

versus 20 mph winds is a challenge.

(3) Heat/Sun. Though Monteverde is not incredibly hot, a clear day reveals a brutal sun, and this combined with dusty roads (which whirled up in the whipping wind <-obnoxious alliteration) made the air scorching and harsh. There was not a lot of shade, and it was a clear day.

(4) Altitude. Though it's no Boulder, Monteverde sits almost 5000 ft. above sea level, about the altitude of Denver. I remember football commentators making a big deal of the altitude difference for teams visiting the Broncos, so I'm going to cl

aim this one as a legitimate handicap.

With all of this in mind, I started the race at what I thought to be a conservative pace. About a mile in I was in fifth place, I could see the two leaders, and one person in front of me was a barefoot gringo (ie not actually a contender- I was hoping for more of this type of competition). Others were close behind. My plan was to get past the first two hills in good shape and then make my move down a long, dirt back stretch about 2 miles into the race. I actually got to the top of the second hill feeling fine and moved into fourth place. I began cruising down the relatively shallow hill and actually gained on the 3rd and 2nd place runners for a while. But of all the factors listed above, the heat and sun really started getting to me. That and not being in shape. Don't try to race when you're not in good shape.

Most simply, I was not qualified to run hard for a period of longer than 15 minutes. My fastest 10k time is more than 34 minutes. Why didn't I think about this before the race? My downhill push lasted until about 20 minutes into the race, at which point I changed my aspirations from finishing in the top 5 runners to simply finishing the race. I could no longer see the leader, I was passed by someone, and all I could think of was the final two miles of the race, nearly all of which was uphill. I told myself that if I made it to 30 minutes I deserved to walk. If you think about this, it doesn't really make sense-if I didn't make it to 30 minutes I would be walking sooner!-which gives you an idea of how I felt at that point.

But I kept in it, urged on by a couple of kind and encouraging runners who passed me and whose backs slowly became smaller and smaller in the distance. I was breathing normally by the top of the second to last hill, but still concentrating on just finishing, not worrying about regaining any places. The course finished up a half mile hill that ended at the Cloud Forest School. It was an absolute brute. OH! I'll post a picture to illustrate this fact:

Seriously, who designs a course to finish up THAT?!?! I nearly gave up and walked, but I saw the two runners in front of me walking which made me feel stronger. I took one walking step, spat in the dirt, and toughed it out. I finally crossed the line at about 44 minutes, unfortunately being passed by a final person a few meters before the end. Finishing in 7th felt so damn good, though. I enjoyed the best piece of water melon I have ever experienced and made my way back to road to cheer on Elissa, Leah, and other friends and acquaintances I had made during my stay in Monteverde.

So I didn't win the $250, and I still have a credit card bill to pay. The winner ran 38:somethin'. Way out of my league, someone said something about him being a ranked runner in Costa Rica. To my surprise and delight I did actually win my age group, and Elissa won the same group for women! We got medals and $25 each! This officially makes us professional runners.

I guess I have to say the race was fun. More than anything, I appreciated the friendliness and sportsmanship of the competitors. At a particularly hard point in the race, one runner put his hand on my back and urged me forward. He did it again near the end with another runner:

After the race, I chatted with the other runners as much as I could in Spanish. I at least exchanged high-fives with all of them. I began to feel even more a part of the community. I spent only 10 days or so in Monteverde, but people recognized me and knew my name. A lot of good people live there, and I am so fortunate to have had the chance to transcend traditional tourism and really get to meet these people, eat their food, take part in their activities, and share their company.

!Pura Vida!

2010-01-27T14:31:00.000-08:00

To this point, this blog has covered mostly environmental topics ranging from genetically modified crops to...well, mostly genetically modified crops. Sorry about that. Some of you have pointed out that you began reading my blog to reconnect with the little joys of life, the nice little nature in the moment things observations (okay, who am I kidding, noone actually said that). Since the beginning (remember that post about the black raspberry wine? Those were the good old days), my blogging has become a little tyrannical and rant prone (also, sorry that I am not hyphenating those words that I should, I am using a Spanish keyboard and I can't figure out where the heck the dash thingy is(...Also, just about everything is the wrong place, even though the 8 key is labeled ( it actually produced a * when you hit it. dang). And when I'm not writing rants, I give you incomprehensible poetry. Not that I have a readership exceeding my mom anyway (I suppose this post is a good test of that...). Anyway, I would like to apologize for not writing about the good things more, since that was the original concept behind this blog. I became afraid, I think, of sounding too optimistic and too happy. Life isn't always full of rainbows and lemondrops, and I was having a hard time posting about only the beautiful things. My posts would have been repetive and unrealistic.

But the good news is that I have a whole lot of new material coming my way. I'm traveling in Costa Rica right now, and going to a new place makes everything seem new, fresh, exciting and wonderful. A little scary now and then, too, it's true. I was very worried about coming to Costa Rica because I don't speak the language and it is my first time traveling alone. I think it's impossible to not be a little scared when the tour books you read go on and on about taxi drivers ripping you off, every other person on the street being a pick pocket, and a con artist waiting for you on every corner. So far, I have met only nice people here. But my apprehension caused me to choose a hostel in San Jose that had an arranged shuttle service. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it only cost a few extra dollars. I wanted to make things easy for as long as possible. I knew, though, that I would have to jump in sometime.

I told friends before I left that I would be completely comfortable here by the time I reached Monte Verde. To get there I had to take a bus from San Jose, and yesterday, exhausted from about 20 hours of travel, the prospect seemed daunting. I managed to get the information I needed at the front desk of my hostel, finding out that the bus station was near by. Could I walk there? No, it was not safe. Can I buy the ticket tomorrow morning when I leave (What I was really asking here was, "How can I limit my rides with marauding cab drivers to one?)? No, you have to buy it today to guarantee a seat. OK the, I guess I'll just, you know, jump in.

I hailed a cab, that was easy. I told the guy that I needed to go to Terminal Atlantico Norte. That was the wrong place to go. Woops, my mistake. It was fairly obvious that we were going to the wrong place because I knew the direction to the bus station, and we were going in the opposite. Also, Terminal Atlantico Norte has trains, not buses. Only a minor mistake, though, as I managed to get the idea across to the cab driver that though I had no idea what the address was, I needed to go to the terminal where the bus for Monte Verde leaves. He looked at me incredulously, but my stupidity actually triggered some conversation. In the end, I paid aboutan extra dollar and a half for going to wrong way at first, but the way I look at it I was paying for a short spanish lesson and a nice conversation.

You see, I speak Portuguese, which is quite similar to Spanish. Basically, it allows me to form sentences if I am lucky enough and the Spanish verb roots happen to be the same as the Portuguese. Other times, I draw blank stares. I communicated quite well with the cab driver, but I definitely used a lot of muitos instead of muys, ta boms instead of esta biens (actually, simply saying "ta" is a way to agree with someone in Portguese, and I think that my generic conversation filler will forever more be this single syllable, whatever foreign language I am trying to speak) and almost an obrigado instead of a gracias. In the end, though, after discussing such wide-reaching topics (I found the - key! It was marked with a ? I used reverse psychology) as the beauty of Costa Rican women (I'm starting to believe that all Latin American men take it upon themselves to quickly point out the beauty of the women of their country to foreigners) to the comparative geography of San Jose and Chicago, he complimented me, saying that I must have studied Spanish. Not a day.

My other secret is that even though I can verbalize almost any idea, I cannot understand a damn thing.

I imagine the process of traveling in a foreign country as a hurdle race, but with the hurdles becmoing lower and less dense throughout the race. I have already passed that first dense part: I withdrew money, got a cab, checked into a hotel, caught a bus, and now have arrived in a place 4 hours from San Jose where I started. Most things that I do from here on out will be variations on the things I have already done. Sure, there will be more hurdles along the way, but they won't continue to come all at once, and I'll be more settled and prepared to face them.

Some beautiful things- Spanish. Trees that stretch and frame in a way not seen in temperate trees. Trees that are thin but taller than any I have seen, and whose branches don't start until the very top. Seeing the glow of volcanoes flying into Mexico City. Seeing cloud accumulation above isolated volcanoes in Costa Rica and realizing that these cloud formations could only seem isolated and fixed from above. The biggest agave plants I have ever seen.

Language

2010-01-19T14:40:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to learn Spanish now, one week before I leave for Costa Rica. I loved learning Portuguese when I spent time in Brazil a couple of years ago, and I'm loving Spanish now. It's fun that it's my third language - I often translate Spanish words to Portuguese rather than English when I try to understand them better. It makes me feel like I learned Portuguese quite well.

When I was at Heifer I had a conversation with a man named Pat, an older residential host volunteer, about why it was important to me to eventually be bilingual and hopefully live in a bilingual household. I tried to explain to him that speaking a second language made me think about everything differently, brought an extra deepness to things. He didn't quite understand, and I didn't do the best job of explaining myself further. On the simplest level, I said, it makes you really examine the words you say, what they mean, and where they come from. More than that, it brings a significance to everything you say. Learning a new language takes the casual and habit out of speaking. Each word is intentional.

What I was really trying to explain to Pat, though, was that the deepness goes beyond even language. After an hour of studying Spanish today, I felt happy. I was excited, smiling, and my mind was open and thinking more actively and imaginatively. Since that conversation at Heifer I read a New York Times article about aging brains. The article said that though the brains of middle-aged and older people are not as good at memorizing new facts, they are actually better than younger brains at processing, problem solving and creative thinking. As long as they stayed sharp. And the best way to keep this sharpness, according to the article, is to approach familiar topics from new perspectives. Do brain teasers, read opinion articles written from opposing view points, and yes, learn another language.

My time in Brazil was the most creative time in in my life to that point. I constantly came up with new ideas for poems, stories, essays, solutions to problems. I also felt more empathetic towards and connected to the people in my life while I was there. I was disappointed that this creativity diminished when I returned to the United States, and I've fought hard for two years to start to regain it. I never though until now, however, that this brain activity might be linked to the fact that I was learning and speaking a second language while in Brazil. It makes so much sense now! A different perspective on the way we say things surely must lead to taking a different perspective on our entire lives, things we see, and people we meet. I'm excited to explore this perspective again when I travel to Costa Rica!

Leaving/Winter Solstice

2009-12-21T22:39:00.000-08:00

Leaving

Once more astonished
at my ability
to hijack my own happiness
I am here with my head in my hands
sitting again on this toilet

(The lid is down and my pants are up)

A strange refuge, true,
but here I am protected by presumed privacy
as the party rages on outside
in a continuity of conversations
and events that cannot be perceived
in the context of the loneliness
and guilt that stare back at me from the mirror.

I am the judge of my own perfection.
Too harsh.

But I was ready long ago
and so it is okay to find myself
now sprawled in the darkness under my low bed
stretching to collect the scattered strands of my life.

Spin them. Spool them. Pack them
embark on a new journey,
perhaps finally arrive home

to myself waiting up all night on the couch
with the light on,
anxiously peering through the front curtains
every time head lights brush the front porch.

Winter Solstice

Through with broken spirits,
fragmented souls,
I am.
Done with this cloud of sorrow.
A good man. For you.
Everything I could I did.
Scared of myself only. No more.

Light of the world, Love,
hold me to your path.
Let me wander but not stray,
show me that tomorrow, a new day
will be longer.
Fill me with that one extra
minute of your warmth.

Amen.

Don't Throw It Out? Don't Buy It!

2009-11-30T14:52:00.001-08:00

I was recently leafing through a friend's book, Don't Throw It Out: Recycle, Renew, and Reuse to Make Things Last, and was impressed at sheer weight of the compiled creative ways to use materials to make them last longer. I was also a bit upset, though, when I read excerpts like: "Save those thin, plastic deli containers that you buy potato salad or guacamole." Nowhere, "Grow your own potatoes. Plastic is not involved." "Make your own potato salad. Reuse those few containers you do buy in the store, but don't make a habit of buying food in small quantities." "Store things in glass instead of plastic." In the "Golf" section of the book, I read how to use my old golf bag around the house (as a "cleaning caddy"), but I wasn't encouraged to pressure golf courses into using fewer herbicides.

I understand that this book was not intended to save the world. It was intended to provide convenient ways to make our day to day lives a little more sustainable. I don't think our day to day lives can ever become completely sustainable, though. How can we remedy the social and ecological consequences of our consumption by continuing to consume? Meanwhile, we're told that we can continue to consume at absurd rates and that the small sacrifices we make afterward are "green" enough to make a difference. Here's a question: Has the popularity of the green movement made systemic change harder? Or will change be gradual? By starting small will we continue to shift towards sustainability or become unable to jump to that next level?

Back to the Land

2009-11-30T10:47:00.000-08:00

Here's a Thanksgiving thought, pointed out by a friend.

http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/26/back-to-the-land/?emc=eta1

Adventures in Baking

2009-11-16T13:45:00.000-08:00

Here's some of what I've been up to in the kitchen lately. More substantial blog content is forthcoming, I promise!

FRENCH BREAD!

DANISH PASTRIES

Finished product

Patenting Life = Bullshit

2009-11-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

More GMO issues in the news:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/06/business/06corn.html?_r=1&ref=science

Hmmm, the next step in Monsanto's quest to own all food production? Though the EPA requires that BT corn be planted with certain precautions such as intercropping with with non-BT corn to prevent the accumulation of resistant pests, 25% of farmers crowing BT do not follow these regulations. It seems pretty obvious that a product marketed for its convenience, such as BT corn, will not be used with a lot of responsibility. Knowing this Monsanto probably predicted that farmers would not grow BT corn with the required buffers to prevent the evolution of insect resistance to BT genes. BT is a bacteria that produces a protein that kills members of the insect order Lepidoptera (butterflies and moths) by rupturing their digestive systems. The bacteria has been sold as a sprayable pesticide for years, and the cool thing is that it's completely organic. A lot of larger organic producers rely on it. Monsanto took the genes from this bacteria and inserted it into the genomes of a variety of crops, including corn. The problem with this is that it means acres and acres of monocrop corn with BT protein are being grown year after year in the same location. As such a strong and universally present selection force, those moth and butterfly larvae that by chance survive BT poisoning will have a HUGE competitive advantage. Their genes will be heavily represented in the next generation of agricultural pests which will eventually lead to butterflies and moths that aren't affected at all by BT. If insects develop resistance to BT because its genes are being abused in the growth of genetically modified corn (given that 57% of the corn grown in the US is BT corn this seems pretty damn likely, especially when 25% of that corn is being grown in a way that encourages pest accumuluation and adaptation), the spray form of the pesticide used by organic farmers will essentially be rendered obsolete. UNLESS of course Monsanto can engineer a new genetically modified bacteria that pests are not resistant to, patent the organism, and market a new and effective BT spray for organic growers. Which means, yep, pretty much anyone who wants to grow corn will have to pay Monsanto first.

Lakes in Winter

2009-11-03T08:37:00.000-08:00

I forget the dark beauty of lakes in winter.
Thirty-five degrees and still alive
with icy white caps;
the kind of hypothermic water
Boyscouts are trained to pull you from
remove your clothes
and share your sleeping bag for warmth.

Reaching cathedral oaks
stretch their bare arches
over yellow grass bed shallows
towards a pair of mallard ducks
bobbing in the waves.
Columns of light escape from dark clouds,
it has begun to snow.

Those damn ducks
always a part of this scene
refusing yet to find a warmer winter home.
Beaks turned against the wind and silent snow
flippers treading endlessly against the current
they are frozen in place by their own forward movements.
Here they have found a lonely restfulness,
churning the same familiar water
even as the edges begin to freeze.

Pie-off!

2009-10-23T06:19:00.000-07:00

Here's my first mostly original recipe (part of the idea, I must admit, comes from a rhubarb white chocolate tart my dad makes)! Raspberry Ruffian Pie (Rhubarb, raspberry, white chocolate, brandy), though Sarah contends that there's not actually anything rougish or lawless about it. I don't know...the rhubarb's got a bite, it's quite red (I'm not sure what that has to do with anything), and I mean there's brandy in it. Here it is step by step:

Basically I used a simple crust (Tartine cookbook), and filled it in layers. First I boiled about 3 cups of chopped rhubarb with 1 cup of sugar and a little bit of tapioca (in an attempt to thicken) and brandy. This turned into almost a paste, which I put in the bottom of the pie shell and covered with about 4 cups of raspberries. I covered those with white chocolate chips and put on the top pie shell. It turned out a little juicy, but I was trying to avoid using corn starch. I strained the rhubarb and raspberries, but maybe I should have done it more forcefully?

Anyway, the pie-off was a HUGE success! We had 10 participants and not a single duplicate pie. Actually, I think I would classify all of the pies as representing a different category. We had the berry fruit pie, the pomme fruit pie (Maggie's pear), the pumpkin-ish pie (Sarah D's butternut squash), the fruit cream pie (Ivy's), ok there was also banana cream but I'm calling that it's own category, a "shoe-fly" pie (molasses, not sure what else, made by Sarah C), a chocolate meringue, a ground cherry pie, a nacho pie (filling the classic main course non-dessert pie category, crafted by Emily Rose), and a snowman ice pie!

Pies, Snow, Simple Songs

2009-10-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

It's snowing globs outside. Well, gobs too, but the flakes are sticking together high up in the sky and falling to the earth like Queen Anne's Lace confetti. This isn't the snow I talked about in my previous post which means yes, this is the second accumulating snow in mid-October. It's strange but beautiful, especially because we're having a pie contest here tonight and the combination of everyone baking inside and the snow outside makes it feel like a holiday. I'll tell you all about the pie contest tomorrow (after I sample all the pies!).

On another note, I saw Mason Jennings play last night in Northampton. I was a fan before the show, but his live energy took the music to another level. His songs are simple but true. Here are some lyrics from a song he played:

Be here now
no other place to be
or just sit there dreaming
of how life would be
if we were somewhere better
somewhere far
away from all our worries
well here we are

Check out some of his music samples here:

http://www.masonjennings.com/music

Accumulation

2009-10-15T16:44:00.000-07:00

Just kidding, that's not all. Folks, we have ACCUMULATION!!!!!

2009-10-15T16:10:00.001-07:00

October 15. First Snow. That is all.

Roots

2009-10-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

It's been cold, but it has not yet frosted here in Central Massachusetts (I may have just spelled that correctly for the first time after living here for the last five years). Today was windy and clear; I could see the Boston skyline from the garden this morning.

The garden, where I haven't seemed to work much lately. It's that time of year when not too much is growing any more, and little remains to harvest. I'm trying to stretch the outdoor living as much as possible, though, and the root storage vegetables are helping. I dug a row of potatoes (100 pounds!) today, and I greatly appreciated the chance to get my hands dirty again. The beginning of the farm season involves lots of digging, but I've gone weeks at a time here in the late summer without sinking my hands into the soil. Potatoes are a chance to do just that one last time before the ground becomes cold and hard.

I've also been working on processing garlic and onions for storage, and built two cold frames in which I'm trying to extend the season of some leafy greens and carrots. Cold frames are essentially simple, mini-greenhouses/ Mine are five feet long and about a foot off the ground at the back, sloping southward and covered in Plexiglas (for now...I hope to get some actual glass over them because I think the insulation is better). There's spinach and lettuce just coming up in one of them, and they should grow enough before it gets to cold for me to harvest into mid-December! The carrots will grow this fall, go dormant (during which the starch will turn to sugar!) and be ready to harvest in the spring. It will be a good little experiment, and as Eliot Coleman points out, I'm damn lucky to be gaining knowledge without risking my own productivity.

Stones Collide

2009-10-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the stone wall above the reservoir, we took aim at the same spot on the water below, counted to three and threw our pebbles. The rocks fell silently downward, collided just before they reached the water, and fell to the bottom with a single splash.

2009-09-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

Issues: Industrial Agriculture

2009-09-23T19:37:00.000-07:00

Here's an article that interested me, as I thought Monsanto was pretty much on its way to owning the world. Well, maybe it still is.

"...Judge White said that the pollen from the genetically engineered crops might spread to non-engineered beets. He said that the “potential elimination of farmer’s choice to grow non-genetically engineered crops, or a consumer’s choice to eat non-genetically engineered food” constituted a significant effect on the environment that necessitated an environmental impact statement..."

That's a really important statement given the fact that Monsanto has actually sued farmers who don't intentionally grow GMO crops when the crops mysteriously show up in their fields. I'm hoping this ruling and the previous alfalfa one mentioned in the article open the flood gates for more rulings at least in protection of farmers who choose not to grow Monsanto's products.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/23/business/23beet.html?emc=eta1

Fly Fishing

2009-09-22T05:05:00.001-07:00

I sometimes like to believe that I can write at least halfway meaningfully. I cannot, however, even pretend to write artistically about fly fishing. Bibles have been written on the subject, and frankly my experience in both writing and fishing is such that most reflections would probably come out as a lesser version of some existing passage.

On the other hand, my description of the sport would not match previous odes to fishing, such as Norman Maclean’s, A River Runs Through It. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve only seen the film and not read the novella, but scenes from that movie have stuck with me as a quiet, spiritual reflection on fishing, family, art, and peace. Since my fishing trip last weekend I have felt the urge to read up on the subject in order to compare my own experience with the magic described by others. I imagine descriptions of the precision involved in placing a fly gently on the water, the humility of man in the face of a grand nature, and detailed accounts of the beautiful speckled patterns on sixteen inch trophy trout.

What I cannot imagine these authors spending much time on is the frustration of learning to fish. They probably don’t mention the bumbling awkwardness a new fisherman feels as he tries to keep track of his rod tip, his fly, the water, and his own feet at the same time. Norman Maclean writes, “My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.” While he admits it’s not easy, he writes from the perspective of mastery. Between untangling my fly from one sugar maple tree to the next I had little time to experience fishing as an art form, or even in grace. At one point when I was crouched preparing to cast, I instead lost my balance and fell backwards, landing on the rocky stream side. Jake just shook his head and said, “Benjamin, you are the picture of grace.”

Amidst the frustration, however, I did glimpse beauty. While fishing itself was not the easiest for me, I was never angry or upset with myself, the woods, or the easily spooked trout. I felt happy to be outdoors exploring parts of the woods I would otherwise not see. Jake and I spent four years in Williamstown but never once explored the Notch Brook trail. The trail head is five minutes from campus, and in a half mile hike you get to one of the grandest waterfalls I’ve seen in New England.

I even began to appreciate the worshipped perfection of fly fishing. The great part of the sport is that you can tell when you do something exactly right, and you are then rewarded with a beautiful fish. During a dry spell, I began to forget about the fish and instead concentrated only on my cast and fly placement. After a series of unsuccessful pools I approached a slightly more rapid deep section of water, and flicked my fly just where I wanted it. Before I could finish thinking, “Now that’s a good cast,” I had a fish on my line! And that’s how it’s supposed to feel, as if you didn’t even need to reward yourself with thoughts of congratulations when you perform perfectly because the fish gets there first. That moment, no matter how long it takes and whether it’s by grace and art or simply by chance, is magical.

Chasing Salamanders

2009-09-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

What people don't tell you about salamanders, except for Jacob Blessing, is that you can hunt them. Not hunt to kill or eat or outsmart or prove masculinity. No salamanders were injured on our search. In my experience, salamanders show up every once in awhile: rarely at the edges of a pond, in an aquarium, seasonally in hordes at vernal pools. I was delighted to find, however, that salamander encounters don't happen only by chance; they can be found in the woods in September if you give yourself to the task.

The best places to look are in damp woods. Under rotten wood is perfect. I started the hunt rather carelessly, but Jake corrected me: logs can be turned over, but must be replaced. Salamanders can be held, but only after you make sure your hands are clean. Soon after our hunt was declared we left the trail. Instead of following the dirt track, our eyes began to leap from one downed log to the next. For the first time in months I let the worry of the unknown fall away.

At first I felt the desire to become intentionally lost. A sudden recklessness worked its rhythm into my step, and I bounded down a muddy hill. I realized, though, that I could not get lost: I knew the boundaries of this forest and could find my home even after dark. It feels good to throw your fate to the wind on a regular basis, especially if you know your landing will be soft. I can't claim an adrenaline rush from such a safe adventure, so I think my curiosity also pushed me.

It is amazing how limited our mental map of the world is. I know the rises, falls, twists and turns of all the roads and trails in the area, but when I started to consider these lines in the context of the larger plane of the landscape I suddenly felt restricted by some sort of tunnel vision. Our world is spider-webbed with roads and paths, but how much can happen there? The road is a route from one point to the next. A deer may cross the road, a trail could wind it's way up a mountain, you might cross paths with a porcupine, but animals don't live there, the scenery remains alarmingly consistent, and entire ecosystems are not encompassed. Roads and paths can be sharp intersections between the mapped human world and the rest of nature, but the view isn't entirely accurate or overly interesting. The extraordinary lies beyond our narrow field of vision; if we want to know it we must seek it rather than wait for chance crossings.

Though Jake and I soon became preoccupied with finding our way back home before the sun sank, we did find some interesting beetle larvae (I think... ask Jake about the actual insect stage. I'm the botanist, not the entomologist), loads of asters, a natural clearing in the forest, two red spotted newts, and one red-backed salamander. Sometimes Jake makes anything seem possible, so maybe taking fifteen minutes to find a salamander is not normally realistic. Maybe they're rare, elusive, hard to find. I'm convinced, however, that we only need to take the time to look.

Poem: Outside of Richmond, Virginia, Sunday

2009-09-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's the kind of mid-January afternoon—
the sky as calm as an empty bed,
fields indulgent,
black Angus finally sitting down to chew—
that makes a girl ride her bike up and down the same muddy track of road
between the gray barn and the state highway
all afternoon, the black mutt
with the white patch like a slap on his rump
loping after the rear tire, so happy.
Right after Sunday dinner
until she can see the headlights out on the dark highway,
she rides as though she has an understanding with the track she's opened up in
the road,
with the two wheels that slide and stutter in the red mud
but don't run off from under her,
with the dog who knows to stay out of the way but to stay.
And even after the winter cold draws tears,
makes her nose run,
even after both sleeves are used up,
she thinks a life couldn't be any better than this.
And hers won't be,
and it will be very good.

Deborah Slicer

In the woods: White wood aster

2009-09-11T05:57:00.000-07:00

Fall in New England is announced by a clearing of the air. The falling of the leaves. The blooming of the asters. The trail from my house down the hill to the woods is surrounded by low white clouds of them: Eurybia divaricata, the white wood aster. But asters here are diverse--New England being the center of biodiversity for many of the genera in the family--and throughout the fall woods and fields alike will be covered with purples, whites and yellows of all forms and sizes.

Though the aster is the Latin namesake of the botanical family Asteraceae, the group is commonly known as the "sunflower family." The family is huge, and many common flowers fall within its reach. On a ride north of Williamstown last fall Daniel and I crested a hill and were met by a solid field of yellow goldenrod. While this member of the Asteraceae is not the most stunning flower individually, a field full on a crisp autumn afternoon is quite a sight. Some of you may contest the beauty of the flower; it is often blamed for autumn hayfever. The accusation is unjust! Goldenrod pollen is heavy and sticky, traits which make it easily transferable via insect pollination. The true perpetrator is ragweed (as in the Asteraceae family), which generally blooms at the same time but is wind pollinated.

Another common member of the Asteraceae family: the dandelion. And a fascinating one at that, despite its reputation as a lawn pest. Ever wonder why pesky dandelion seed heads pop up on your lawn as soon as the day after you mow? After the flower is pollinated the seed stalk gently lowers itself so that it is low and parallel to the ground. When the flower reopens to let out its seeds the stalk grows upright rapidly, presenting its white seed sails to the wind.

Asters themselves need no more of a reputation than they already have for their colors, abundance, and diversity. The New England landscape is dotted with more species than I can keep track of and they come from genera whose distinguishing characteristics I am yet to learn. I told someone here on the farm the little I know about asters and it's now grown into a rumor that I "know a lot about asters." On the contrary, I know almost nothing, though I plan on making an effort to distinguish and identify the different flowers I see this fall.

Black Raspberry Wine

2009-09-08T16:20:00.000-07:00

Purple red pleasure, sweet summer saturation. The scent of a thousand mashed berries wafts up from the vessel in which I've been crushing them through my fingers for the past twenty minutes. The berries are cold, frozen after picking until we could store sufficient quantities. The freezing also ruptures the cell walls, releasing the unique flavors that lie within. Cold, hard black raspberry seeds work their way between my fingers, and the combination of temperature and texture becomes almost too uncomfortable to continue. The slight discomfort is overcome by a sense of purpose and joy, however, and I give myself over to my other senses. To me, the smell of black raspberries is sweet but not sickeningly so. It reminds me of summers past, bike rides, church parking lots and other overlooked locations my family made yearly pilgrimage to, the time spent picking perhaps more sacred than the time spent in the pews.

This first summer of my independent life I carried out the family tradition alone and pumped it up with quantities of enthusiasm, dedication and bellicosity that I was not capable of in childhood, at least towards standing in the sun amidst prickly berry shoots infested with swarms of mosquitoes. At first I did not have a specific goal or use for my berries in mind. I remember after finding my first black raspberry bush on the side of the road that I vowed to spend the entirety of my waking hours for the next two weeks harvesting berries. I would eat them fresh off the plant, in my granola in the morning, sell them at market, and hopefully have enough left over to make jam. That was before I found the king patch of all patches.

My roommate Andrew showed it to me the rainy evening before he left town for a week. He found it a few days earlier while leading his class of science students through a field behind one of the houses on the property. At the time he told me that his kids had almost picked it clean. I don't see how this was possible. I picked one quart that night in the rain. I went back the next day with a half gallon container, filled it in thirty minutes, found a helper and together we picked an additional gallon. I went back the next day and picked another gallon. I began to wonder what I might do with so many berries. And then I went back a few days later with a specific purpose and picked a gallon more. I would make black raspberry wine.

I was and still am relatively unversed in the home-brewing of alcohol. Luckily, one of my colleagues, Ryan, has more than enough experience. Shortly after my introduction to the man I was made aware that he planned on eventually becoming completely self-sufficient. He made sure that I understood that his homestead plans included the making of his own alcohol. Beer, mead, cider, wine of any variety, you name it, Ryan's made it. With this in mind, I approached him about the possibility of teaming up on a batch of black raspberry wine. He took to the idea immediately. I told him where I had been picking and he looked at me in shock. "That's been you, huh? I left that patch to get really ripe, came back the next day and found nothing. I thought it was the birds!" Assured that the berries were now going to the same place anyway, we set a picking goal and went to it.

Three weeks later I'm crouched in Ryan's kitchen, still crushing berries between my fingers in our primary fermentation vessel. We're keeping track of the amount of water we add to the slurry, along with the sugar and yeast nutrient. We have nine gallons of liquid here, probably about six after the berry solids are strained out at the next stage. I will leave this room with the satisfaction of following a product from its growth to its consumption, the thrill of the unknown becoming known, the memory--brought to mind by the remnants of thorns still stuck in the back of my hands--of the evenings in the fading sun, my body traipsed about a thicket of edible joy. I won't drink my wine until March, when it will be fully settled, but until then I can dream of summers gone by. And I can stare into the purple vastness encased in the clear glass of my carboy and imagine the sweetness to come.

I Wanna Be a School Bus Driver

2009-09-06T15:16:00.000-07:00

I am currently struggling with the fact that although I feel I should tell my story day by day, I'm approaching my writing with a back log of experiences and moments that have brought me to where I am now. My posts will probably be a mix of current thoughts and past memories. Hopefully I'll catch up to myself at some point.

One of the most memorable moments from this past summer came unexpectedly and abruptly, as beautiful and instructive moments often do. During my first few weeks at the Smokey House Center a bunch of community members were getting together for weekly potlucks. I had attended my first week there, I admit a little reluctantly, though I thereafter used the experience as an example of why you shouldn't be reluctant to branch out. A couple weeks later as we drove towards my third potluck, I was on the verge of declaring myself a regular. It was a stunning evening; an almost surreal yellow sun lit the pastures and treetops as we sped through rural Vermont. Our destination was vague, but it was one of those moments in which you can consciously determine that the journey matters more than the destination.

After a few twisting roads and guessed turns we arrived at a town's central stop sign (that's right, the presence of many villages in Vermont is not determined by a school, a square, or church, but most distinctly by a single set of stop signs at the main crossroads). Upon coming to a stop at this particular intersection, we concluded that we had in fact not arrived at our destination, but instead in another town. Scanning our surroundings and ready to cast our fortunes to the wind, Andrew looked over his shoulder at the nearby house and said, "Oh, that's John and Joanie's place. Yep, there's John right there!"

Though the potluck was not to be located at John and Joanie's, the couple was a part of the community that often attended. They would be able to give us directions. First, however, they insisted on giving us a tour of their brand new home: a school bus. Now when I said that Andrew had seen John and Joanie's place, he also had pointed out their school bus. What I didn't know was that the couple were moving out of their nice normal spacious white house with green shutters into this presumably considerably less comfortable bus.

Flat-front style and stereotypically yellow, the plan for the outside of the bus involved painting it white and lime green, replacing the square headlights with old-fashioned round ones, and installing a functioning doorknob (this was already in place). The end result I imagined would look something like this (this isn't my picture, but you should check out the website I got it from, which describes neat mobile type modern homes, like yurts! http://www.designboom.com/contemporary/tiny_houses2.html):

Stepping up into the home (only after removing our shoes) gave me the feeling that I was entering a space that expanded beyond its give physical limits. We first entered the living room, complete with a wood floor, a couch, a fancy carpet, and a wood burning fire place. Beyond that I could see the kitchen sink and counter, the pantry shelves, and the bedroom. The bus was complete with a bathtub and toilet, sleeping space, sitting space, and decoration. John and Joanie were ready to live a life on the road, but determined to do it comfortably.

The tour was short, but I was impressed. We finally made it to the potluck that night, more than an hour late and the only people who ended showing up. What stuck with me as much as the engineering put into the construction of the bus/home was John and Joanie's determination, enthusiasm and spirit. For the first time in awhile, I felt inspired to beat a new track, rebel a little, and live life to its fullest. Take your crazy idea, that bus said to me, think about it a little, pour your heart into it, and just go for it.

A Return to Life

2009-09-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

This story should have been started long ago, when I first spidered my fingers into damp soil, callused my hands with hoes and baling twine, and stepped back from life as I was otherwise living it. Three months have passed since then: I graduated from College on June 9 and found myself immediately on a farm in Western Vermont. Since then, my qualms about farming have one by one been eliminated--first that the work would be simple and boring, that it would be too physically demanding, too many hours, not close enough to the city. I left Vermont feeling completely different about life. I wondered how I might fare without a local source of raw milk, farm fresh eggs, inexhaustible amounts of vegetables. I thought in disgust of buying new clothes to make my presence in a city more acceptable. Not having time or space to make my own bread, yogurt, jam. Returning to the fast paced Western reality. The words that have most come to mind in the last two months have been Thoreau's:

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."

I'm not looking to become a hermit in the woods. I crave human contact, in fact. I'm looking for interactions, however, that are based on the necessities and joys of real life: food, walks, art, mindfullness, generosity, community. Too often in the last two years I've been caught up in aspects of my own life that I do not derive joy from. I hope in the future to more deliberately choose what I spend my time thinking about and to what ends my energy is expended. The path to happiness, I believe, is found in the ordinary people you meet every day, the simple tasks of cooking, baking, farming, walking and talking, and the ability to take control of one's own life. The following will be the story of my quest, which is both personal and larger, to change the reality of modern life into a slower, more deliberate existence.