making the way by walking

Space to think (Utila, Honduras)In a few short weeks, Anne and I will be relocating, once again.  But this time, chances are good that it will be for the long term.  We are in the final stages of buying a house, and I don't think we could be more excited . . .

It's amazing that this has come to pass.  Starting about four years ago, I began laying awake at night, scrolling through the real estate listings on my iPhone, dreaming of moving back to western Massachusetts.  But I couldn't see the path to getting there.  We had good jobs in NYC, but we hadn't really been saving.  For 15 years, I had been in love with New York, and because real estate prices are insane there, we never really put much effort into thinking about, never mind saving for, a future home.  I figured we'd just rent forever.

But then, all of a sudden, I was done with "the city."  I needed to move, but couldn't figure out how to make that happen; to complicate matters, Anne was pretty happy with our life as it was. There was quite a bit of anxious paralysis as I tried to figure out everything in advance.  Eventually I learned that I just had to take a step, and trust the path to unfold before me.

I've written before about a trip we took in early 2009 to Utila, Honduras, and how I had an awakening about myself, the Earth, and the cosmos.  As if that wasn't huge enough, during that same trip I met a bunch of expats whose life stories made plain that it is possible to radically change one's life.  I loved talking with Ed, a man in his 70s who had worked in the midwest in radio and in the insurance industry, until one day a friend took him sailing.  He realized that all he wanted to do was sail, and so he did.  He gave away all his suits, quit his job, and took a job chartering trips in Florida.  That was 40 years ago.  And I learned so much from the example of Dave, a successful architect from Los Angeles, who one day decided he had had enough.  Now he lives cheaply and happily, building structures for himself and friends near Rio Dulce, Guatemala.  These expats showed me that it is possible to just walk out the existing structures and narratives of your life, and do something different.  You can't plan out each step, you have to make the way as you go.

Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace el camino al andar.
(Searcher, there is no road. We make the road by walking.)

--  Antonio Machado, Selected Poems ( Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982)

Given our particular circumstances, Anne and I have made the way slowly, transitioning one step at a time, rather than leaping forward.  First, I quit a job in which I was finding little satisfaction, and moved to Bluestone Farm.  Anne and I adjusted to living on half the income we were accustomed to.  We started living more simply, and got used to seeing each other only on the weekends.  In the summer of 2010, Anne began spending more and more time at the farm, until she was mostly commuting into the city for work, rather than out of the city.  We happily readjusted to seeing each other every day.  Then, in early 2011, I took another step, finding a position at Open View Farm, here in Massachusetts.  As the months passed, Anne's weekend commuting got a bit tiring, and she began to work a few days a week from the farm.  Then, just a few months ago, she was able to find a great opportunity in Amherst, a new job with enticing challenges.  On February 20, we moved out of NYC--almost exactly 3 years after that fateful trip to Utila.

Our plan was to stay here at Open View Farm for another long while, saving money and eventually finding a place of our own.  I'd long dreamt of having my own farm, maybe even a small business.  Maybe in another year, we thought.  In preparation, in March I signed up to take a month-long course for first-time home buyers; Anne was scheduled to take it in May.  We had plenty of time to learn the ropes, we thought.  But you never know what's around the corner.

On March 17, we went to pick up some farm supplies in Belchertown, just south of Amherst.  I was feeling a bit under the weather, and was impatient to get back home, but Anne wanted to take the scenic route home.  A few minutes down the road, Anne saw a sign for an Open House.  I wasn't that interested, and rejected the idea.  But Anne was insistent; "What's the harm?  I've never been to an Open House.  It'll be fun!" she said.  So I turned the truck around and we went back.  Having no expectations, we were pleasantly suprised by everything we saw: a small grove of young fruit trees, well-established raised beds, a good-sized raspberry stand...a flat sunny 1-acre yard with lots of possibilities for small-scale farming.  A solidly built, clean, barn-red, 1500 sq ft Cape.  We could immediately imagine living there--it felt just right. Best of all, the house is right off the bike path to Amherst; 30 minutes ride to town.  Anne's commute would be just 10 minutes by car, or half an hour on the bike.

We chatted with the listing agent, and left with a bit of excitement.  And the more we thought about it, the better it seemed.  Although I had been imagining something more remote, and with more land, we couldn't stop thinking about the benefits of the bike path, and of the proximity to Anne's work.  We had been assuming that she'd need to drive 30 minutes each way, in order for us to find something reasonable in cost.  It felt like a really good spot for us, surprisingly.  And because the house is in such good condition, with a newer roof, replacement windows, boiler, and septic system, we would be able to start investing in the garden, rather than in repairs.

Over the next two days, Sunday and Monday, we talked about the house non-stop.  We drew pictures.  We searched the internet for any information we could find about life in Belchertown.  We applied to be preapproved for a mortgage.  We went to see the house again, with our realtor.  And on Tuesday we got a phone call from our realtor that two other offers had been made on the house--did we want to make an offer?

And we did, and our offer was accepted, and now here we are, a few weeks from closing.  We've done all the steps: the home inspection, the various water and termite tests, securing a lawyer, paying deposits, getting the appraisal.  We're waiting on the bank to approve the mortgage, and hope to hear from them in the next week or so.  The closing is scheduled for May 31.  I've already got someone booked to sand the floors in a couple of the rooms on June 1.

All that's left to do is wait, and try to be patient.  I'm not very good at being patient.  But I just keep reminding myself that soon we get to start putting down roots.  This has been my deep longing--to commit to some land, to settle into a home, to be in a place for the long-term.  I want to plant a tree, and be there when it begins to bear fruit.  Our lives have been in transition for so long, with so much uncertainty.  We've been moving, moving, moving, making the way one step at a time, and now, we will stop crossing distances and, instead, go deep.  I can sense that it will be a different kind of "making the way", and I can't wait.

It's been an amazing couple of years, and I'm so grateful to the sisters at Bluestone Farm and to Emmy Howe and all the folks at Open View Farm for holding me so well during these years of transition.  I'm incredibly thankful for all the learning I've gotten to engage in over the last few years.  I had never gardened before visiting Bluestone Farm in 2009; now I've got dreams of starting my own little farm business, and I feel confident that I can successfully grow vegetables, and raise chickens, and perhaps even goats and bees. 

And beyond all the practical gardening and livestock experience that I've gained, I've learned so much about myself--my strengths, my weaknesses, my true desires.  Here's what I know: I'm determined, strong-willed, and I've got a lot of physical stamina.  I can envision things in detail, making concrete snapshots of plans in my mind.  I can research a great deal of information quickly, sift and process it, and make decisions swiftly.  I learn fast.  I also am stubborn, unwilling to admit fatigue, prone to procrastination, and incredibly impatient.  I have very little mechanical or engineering smarts, and I get quickly frustrated in such situations.  I have a hard time slowing down enough to explain things to other people; I am overly independent.  And I want to create something of my own, something beautiful, something complex, something that lives and evolves, something I can grow with.

Knowing all this, in the visceral, embodied way that I do now, is powerful.  I feel like I'm coming into my own, and I have a level of confidence in myself that I don't think I've ever really felt before.  The anticipation that I'm feeling right now is about much more than just buying a house--it's an eagerness to get started on this new chapter of my life, it's knowing in my core that I'm ready to start.  Maybe this is part of being in my 40s: having a deeper sense of self-knowledge, and feeling the assurance and empowerment that comes with such knowledge.

I don't know yet, for sure, if I'm going to start a farm business, but I am leaning in that direction.  I've been researching a couple of possibilities (goat milk? specialty peppers? seedlings?), and will be writing more about that in the future.  For now, for this summer, I'm planning only on planting as much as I can as soon as we move in, building garden beds for fall crops, and designing a permaculture garden plan for the longer term.  I'm reading two great books:  Gaia's Garden and Edible Forest Gardens.  (For the home-scale gardener, I'd highly recommend Gaia's Garden; for those interested in landscape design and professional work in permaculture, Edible Forest Gardens is indispensible.)

Stay tuned--I hope to be updating this blog much more frequently as I continue making the way, diving into this new creation.

Rainy days in the seed room

First of the seedlingsWhat a relief.  It's rained a little in the last couple days, bringing our monthly total rainfall up to an inch.  Usually we get between 3 or 4 inches in the month of March...it's been a dry winter and it's been looking like a dry spring.

Which sets me to worry.  (Not that that's very hard to do...I seem to be prone to fretting.)  But I do worry about the impact of such a warm and dry couple months.  Especially when driving past the rivers, at such low levels.  Seeing no snowmelt streaming down.  Reading the forest fire warnings of recent days.  Witnessing the apperance of mosquitos in March.  These are not good signs.

But what is there to do, but go forward?  I'm thinking about all kinds of rainwater catchment--rain barrels off of gutters, improving the soil to be able to absorb the water when it comes, planting rain gardens with water-loving plants.  I'm thinking about reducing the strain on the well, about conserving water, low-flow showerheads, remembering to shut off the water while washing dishes.  I'm thinking about people who've lived with drought for years, who walk for miles to get fresh water.  I feel lucky, grateful, and still worried.

So today I'm going to soothe my soul by planting some seeds.  It's finally time to start the peppers and the eggplants, and next week, I'll start the tomatoes.  I love these little guys.  Who knew you could have such love for a whole family of plants?  But I do love the solanaceae, or nightshade family.  Those sun-loving plants that are so colorful and delicious.

When they are just the tiniest of seeds, it's hard to imagine them growing into a 3 wide tall eggplant, or a 5 foot tall tomato plant, or a pepper plant with hundreds of chiles on it.  But they do, with a little tending and attention.  And some water.

So let's give thanks today for the rain, whereever we are.  Think of the tomatoes to come.

my bacteria and me

We are not alone. . .  

As long-time friends know, I was for a time quite smitten with the TV show "The X-Files."  Smitten enough to videotape every episode off of network TV, in the process amassing a large collection of VHS tapes.  (Which are now in storage.  Can't seem to throw them away, even though we no longer own a VCR.)  In the show's opening sequence, text flashes across a gray-blue dusky sky, reading: "The Truth Is Out There", an allusion to Agent Fox Mulder's quest to prove the existence of extraterrestrials.  Well, I can't say whether there are aliens out there, but I do know that we are not alone in the universe within.

We are populated by bacteria--100 trillion bacteria by current estimates.  These bacteria are the main actors in our digestion, affecting not only the breakdown of our food and how much nutrition we gain, but are also implicated in the workings of our brains, including feelings of anxiety and depression. I've spent much of the past couple of years being fascinated by the outside world, the life in the soil, the cycles of the seasons, the impossible grandeur of the Universe.  What a joy to discover that there's a whole other, equally complex and beautiful ecosystem inside, what scientists call the "microbiome."  Wired magazine has a succinct breakdown of the different bacterial communities of our bodies--check it out here.  And if you're interested in reading more, I highly recommend the book The Wild Life of Our Bodies, by Rob Dunn.

So how did I get interested in bacteria, anyway?  Last summer, I started feeling like there was something wrong with me.  I woke every day exhausted, no matter how many hours of sleep I got.  My joints were stiff, arthritic.  I ached all over. 

I didn't want to talk about it to anyone, because I was embarrassed . . . and worried.  Here I was, a new farmer, and I was afraid that my body was not up to the task.  I should have felt healthier than ever--I'd been eating healthy, organic, home-grown food for more than two years, eschewing processed food altogether.  I'd been regularly working outside doing strenous manual labor, and I had improved my strength and endurance.  I'd given up cigarettes and alcohol years ago.  Yet I felt worse than ever.

At the end of July, I read a book review on BoingBoing.com about Gary Taubes's book Why We Get Fat.  Taubes is a reputable science journalist, and had reviewed thousands of medical studies in writing his 600-page book Good Calories/Bad Calories.  Why We Get Fat is the layperson's version of that larger, more scientifically written book.  His basic argument is that a diet high in carbohydrates means the constant release of insulin in the body, which leads to more and larger fat cells.  Cut out the carbs, stop the insulin flood, and the body will automatically begin to lose the fat.  (This is similar to the Atkins diet, but Taubes calls for a more well-rounded approach.) 

Feeling as awful as I did, this seemed worth a try.  I figured if I could lose some of the excess weight that has been my despised companion for many years, maybe I would feel better.  So I cut out all grains (wheat, rice, corn, oats, etc.) and all sugars, including almost all fruit.  Instead, I ate pastured meat and eggs, raw milk cheeses, and vegetables.  With lots of good saturated fats, like butter, cream, lard, and coconut oil.  After about 10 days of intermittent discomfort, as my body adjusted, and I suddenly began feeling better.  The near-constant hunger I had become accustomed to disappeared.  I became satisfied with much less food.

The discomfort felt in the beginning of reducing carbs and sugar is a result of "die-off", in which the bad bacteria in your gut that thrive on those substances begin to starve, and then die.  This results in headaches, fatigue, and sometimes allergy-like symptoms and irritability.  But getting these bad bacteria under control, and nurturing the growth of good bacteria, was worth it.  Within just a few weeks, the weight began just disappearing--no additional exercise, no grueling cardio.  And I wasn't ever hungry, because I was eating good fats that satisfy.  I felt so much better that I didn't even miss my old comfort foods: pasta, bread, rice, potatoes.

In the last few years, I've come to read a great deal of unconventional arguments about diet, ideas that go completely against the grain of most nutritional thinking.  Most conventional wisdom about weight loss says that you just have to eat less and exercise more, and eat low fat foods and more whole grains.  That's all.  But it turns out that that's not true, at least for some of us.  Over the years, I've dieted and joined gyms and paid for personal trainers.  And I always felt terrible.  Reading blogs such as Cheeseslave, Food Renegade, and The Healthy Home Economist have gotten me used to thinking about food in new ways, such as the healthiness of saturated fats, the presence of "anti-nutrients" such as phytates in grains, and the powerfully destructive effects of sugar.  Slowly these ideas seem to be gaining acceptance in more mainstream circles, perhaps as part of the rise in popularity of "Paleo" and "Primal" eating programs.  The best book I've found that explains the science behind "primal" or "paleo" eating--eating meats, fruits and vegetables, nuts and seeds, like humans have for most of our 150,000 year history, and eschewing grains, which only appeared on our dietary scene 10,000 years ago--is Primal Body, Primal Mind, by Nora Gedgaudas.  In addition to discussing insulin, leptin and other hormones that affect weight, this book describes how our psychological health is affected by the foods we eat.

There's a lot more to this story, which I'll write in bits and pieces in the coming weeks, including learning that I have a thyroid condition and an autoimmune disease called Hashimoto's Thyroiditis.  And, happily, that after 6 months of intense research, dietary changes, and new medicines and supplements, my most recent bloodwork shows that my Hashimoto's disease is almost under control.  It's been an intense bunch of months, since I first read Taubes's book in late July.  In that time, I've spent countless hours reading and researching, and experimenting.  I was lucky to find a good doctor on my second try, which has made a huge difference.

I'm also lucky that my life right now has allowed me to focus on healing from this disease and improving my health. It's been like a part-time job, sifting through all the information out there.  Our medical system too often creates situations in which the patient feels powerless and uninformed, and dependent on experts for healing.  Perhaps it's just in my makeup, or perhaps it's because I've been reading the things I have for the last few years, or perhaps it's because my disease is poorly understood by conventional medicine, but for whatever reason, I've been able to be empowered around my health.  Maybe my bacteria are naturally inquisitive too . . .

At any rate, I'm working hard to care for my microbiome, to think about how I'm nurturing those trillions of critters inside.  I'm eating homemade yogurt and sauerkraut, filled with good probiotics.  I'm taking a powerful probiotic supplement called Bio-Kult.  I'm avoiding all sugars.  I'm cooking with lard, and drinking lots of bone broths.  It takes some discipline, but I feel better than I have in years, and the weight keeps coming off.  As the Wired infographic shows, lean people have more than 200 additional species of bacteria in their gut than obese people.  More diverse and better bacteria . . . less excess baggage.

My bacteria and me--we are going to conquer this thing . . .

resistance

It's sunny, almost 35 degrees, and they say it will be climbing into the upper 50s later this week.  Yesterday I saw nearly 20 Robin Redbreasts in the kitchen garden, flitting about, apparently finding food on the surface of the snow. And this morning, while driving the backroads, I heard on the radio a warning about bears in the region, who reportedly are waking early and searching for food--take in your birdfeeders, people.

Last week we got about a foot of snow, which remains blindingly white, and hard-crusted.  Even though it disrupted some of my plans, I was deeply grateful for the snowfall.  Not only because it promised much-needed eventual moisture for the gardens, but also because it meant that it was winter, still.  At least for a few more days...

I do not remember ever wanting the winter to linger as I have this year.  I paced through the unsettling warmth of January and February, wishing for snow, snarling at the brown dead grass, and fretting about the unseasonable temperatures.  After the giant snowfall (maybe 18"?) in late October (and the devastating hurricane of August), the absence of snow this winter seems to confirm that our seasons are all twisted up, and that I should be prepared for another blizzard in May.  Wouldn't surprise me now.

It's distressing, this tumultuousness, this inability to count on dividing lines between seasons.  I worry about our being able to reliably produce food in an increasingly uncertain climate.  Bad timing to have a new passion for growing food, as it appears to be headed for an even more challenging future. 

In the face of this reality, I am chagrined to find myself resisting the calendar, trying to deny the fact that it's March already.  Wishing that somehow it was still January, that we had 8 more weeks of winter ahead.  I should be excited to start celery, parsley, and onion seeds, but I'm dragging my feet.  I'd rather sit by the woodstove and read a book.

I know that part of this longing arises from the sheer busy-ness of this winter--I want to hibernate still.  It's been an incredibly busy couple of months--December was consumed by a big vacation (learning to ski!), and the holidays.  January was also intense--I joined a writing group and began a new health regimen, and Anne was in the throes of deciding whether to take a new job and to leave NYC.  And then in the first three weeks of February, her decision was made, and we had to find a moving company and a new storage unit, pack, and vacate our apartment.  In the midst of all this, there were seeds to order, beans and corn to shell, and dried peppers to grind.  The winter went too fast.  And people wonder what farmers do all winter...

But, in the end, no amount of resistance or desire for rest changes today's date, or the fact that it takes a long time to germinate celery and parsley seeds, and even longer to get those little plants sturdy enough to be planted outside.  I've got to start now, even if I'm not ready to go.  At least it's bright outside, clear blue and shimmering white...

"what doesn't bend breaks"

We said goodbye this weekend to Long Island City, the neighborhood in New York where we've lived for 15 years.  We walked down to the piers (remember when they first started building this park?), and looked across at the city skyline (remember when we came down here and cried as the towers smoldered?), and looked back at the neighborhood (remember when there were no luxury condos down here?).  In the last few days we've been flooded with memories of friends who've long moved away, overwhelmed with gratitude for our wonderful neighbors, and delighted with the last of those little everyday interactions with the laundromat owner, Dulal, the young restauranteur, Elia, and all the folks on the street.

I remember now: New York City is a heartbreakingly beautiful place to live.

I am so grateful to remember this.  When I started going to the sisters' farm, back in the spring of 2009, I was so tired of the city--of the packaging, the garbage, the pollution, the noise, the incessant concrete.  I was tired, bone-tired, and feeling so unhealthy.  Getting my hands in the dirt, and breathing deep under an wide-open sky, I began to revive.  And now, three years later, I'm revived enough to appreciate the beauty of NYC again.  There is so much to love about NYC: the amazing density of so many life stories, the limitless ability of people to live alongside and to befriend those who are unfamiliar, the skillful street art of countless hands, the unfathomably deep human drive to build and build and create.  I love New York.

But it's no longer home.  Something shifted in me some years ago, when I felt called to get close to the land, to get close to food, to simplify.  And over the last few years, Anne and I have learned so much--about growing, harvesting, preserving, and preparing food, about the Transition movement, about the New Cosmology, about permaculture, about natural building, about prayer and meditation and being deep-down quiet.  About being creatures of this world.  And as we learned, our center of gravity kept shifting, slowly, slowly, but inevitably away from the city.

Sometime during the last year, Anne began to feel called to work on environmental issues once more, as she had done many years ago, with me.  The Universe works in wonderful ways:  In April, Anne will begin as the national staff development director for the Public Interest Network (TPIN), and will be based here in Amherst, MA.  TPIN is the umbrella organization of all the state public interest research groups (PIRGs) and related organizations; Anne and I met each other nearly 20 years ago, working as campus organizers for the Massachusetts PIRG.  In the last 14 years, Anne has been blessed to have truly enjoyed her work with the Episcopal Church Foundation and she will miss her great colleagues there.  But we are both thrilled that her work will now focus on staff development, one of her true talents, and that she'll be based in Western Mass.  We'll be able to live together full time, again.

You know, we have this idea in our culture that time progresses in a linear fashion, that we move along, inexorably, in one direction.  But I'm learning that perhaps our lifelines can be more curved, that they can circle back, arc and bend.  Perhaps more like a spiral, than a line.

While packing up all our stuff the last couple weeks, I've been listening to a lot (and I mean A LOT) of Ani DiFranco.  She's been my long-time favorite musician--scrappy, earnest, huge-hearted, and fierce.  Listening to her music these past few weeks was a kind of retrospective on my life, and I enjoyed remembering all her different phases.  Seeing her the first time in '93, alone on the stage in Somerville, tiny with a huge guitar and black duct tape securing her guitar-pick press-on nails.  Driving the back roads of Massachusetts with my friend Shannon, blasting Ani on the tape-deck.  Buying "Dilate" and playing it for Anne in our apartment at Union Seminary, saying "Wait, wait, you have to listen to this song..."  Waiting in line for hours for her open-admission concert at SummerStage, with Jeni and Ryan.  Seeing her at Irving Plaza, with Vince and David.  Driving to her concert in New Haven with Brian and Jim riding the whole way in the back of the truck.  Her band growing from one drummer, to drummer and bass player, to having Maceo Parker on the trumpet.  Her sound evolving, changing all the time.  And then going to her concert this summer, with just Ani on the stage again, alone, tiny, with a big-ass guitar.

The circle loops back on itself, but is not the same.  The empty room is not so empty after all.  I feel as if I am in love with the past and the present; I can hold them both in my heart.

While we were packing, Ani's song "Buildings and Bridges" came on the queue, and Anne remarked about how this song captures her love for the city, and for life:

buildings and bridges
are made to bend in the wind
to withstand the world,
that's what it takes
all that steel and stone
are no match for the air, my friend
what doesn't bend breaks
what doesn't bend breaks