Next week I will be learning about how to cultivate sacred practices for working on the land at the Rudolph Steiner College in Sacramento. As I have farmed, I have become increasingly aware of how our consciousness and our intention affects the quality of our food and our environment. I plan to offer more opportunities to explore these dimensions throughout the coming season at White Rose Farm

This year, our focus will be on raising consciousness about how to promote wholeness and health, much more than a narrower focus on growing food (what is food anyway? What feeds us?).  We expect to offer educational programs and rooms so that people can spend the night at the farm, either to learn more about  gardening or to have personal retreat in a quiet, safe setting.I will be posting more information in the month of February, but in the meantime, let me say that we will have a

Full Moon Celebration, this Sunday, February 5 at 4234 Ruggles Road. We will gather at 6:00 p.m., share a meal, and then Leah Ruzek will lead a program starting at 7:30 p.m. The program usually lasts about 90 minutes. We will ask for a free-will donation.

Our next delivery to Catonsville and College Park will be on Sunday, March 4.

While I am away, friends will be tending the farm. If you are interested in picking up pork, please call the farm phone (410-756-9303 and make an appointment.Thanks and happy February!

Sally

A strong west wind blows clear, crisp air across the farm, the sun warms the land.  My cat has pulled chicken bones out of the compost pot( I forgot to put the lid on it); my dog sits outside looking at my neighbor’s newly-arrived pregnant heifers. Earlier in the week, he chased the cows across the field: I chased him.   Now he is tied up until I can get obedience training for him. The chickens are clucking, pecking and still laying about a dozen eggs a day.

I am half-way through a process of discernment to find a clear focus, the right structure and enough support for the next chapter of White Rose Farm.  After the extreme weather of last year, I wanted to reflect deeply on what the farm is meant to be.  

The discernment process has been rich and telling--a weaving of inner and outer dimensions: dreams, emotions, healing, chance encounters, planned activities, ideas and conversations.  I have felt tremendous support from friends far and near.

Over the last two weeks, several people have suggested that the farm may have been used by the native peoples as a sacred site. My father may have disturbed the site when he built the house at Ruggles Road.  This raises questions about how we Westerners, relative newcomers, honor and acknowledge places that native people held sacred. How do we or can we, with our different foundation of faith, acknowledge and respect these ancient foundations? I do not know; I do not know how to know—except through an inner discerning—and an opening to new dimensions.   

Marko Pogacnik, in his book, Touching the Breath of Gaia, wrote that “Past peoples sought out locations where, by the nature of the landscape, conversation runs freely between the inward space of earth’s centre and the universe of the stars.”

For a specific location, he suggests that we reach our hands deep into the earth, find the ball of perfection and bring it to the surface of the Earth.  We used that exercise in our meditation on New Year’s Eve. The ball did not want to surface for me, but I did have a sense of connecting with an inward space. I was reminded of the closing lines from the set of Qigong exercises that Renee led on Friday, a set developed by Master Li Jun Feng:

          There is only consciousness, a deep profound stillness
          The seamless silence that is both empty and full

I had experienced such seamless silence in the events hosted at Ruggles on December 30 and 31st. Could it be that the farm is meant to be a place where one connects with such silence? A place that is both empty and full? What a magnificent, mysterious possibility as the New Year dawns!

Happy New Year!

Sally

The day after Christmas, my neighbor, Mark, walked the fence line of my pasture with tremendous focus. He was preparing the pasture for his newly-purchased heifers due to arrive that afternoon. He arrived just after dawn on his large ATV(All terrain vehicle). Its small bed was filled with barbed wire, a small chain saw on the end of a long pole for trimming branches and other farm paraphernalia. This will be the first set of heifers he has had in my pasture for nearly two years.  

“I raised my best heifers in this field,” he had told me earlier in the season. “They do well out in the pasture. They will be fine because of that.” He points to the thick hedgerow of cedar trees that shelters the pasture from harsh northwest winds.

Two other farmers joined him. Together, they installed the solar fence charger on a post behind the equipment shed; they drove a long copper pipe into the earth to ground the charger; they nailed boards on part of the fence where the metal mesh has sagged. 

One of my volunteers had chided me for asking him to help me on Christmas Eve. “Christmas Eve is a time to celebrate, not a time to work!” he had asserted, though he had come to help me prepare a wood shed for winter.  

Mark had worked hard and steadily in wind and mud. His face is weathered; his eyes clear and warm. He consulted with me: “I want to spray a little under the fence to keep the weeds down so the fence will hold a charge.”

I gave my consent--I would rather have Mark and his heifers than make it too difficult for him to have cows in my pasture. Mark loves cows; Mark knows cows. He sold his dairy herd several years ago. Recently, he decided to start a beef herd. Mark and his wife went to see these cows. They were out in pasture and had a gentle temperament. They are Herefords—red and white cows—that are stocky and short. Mark may already be able to imagine what the new calves will look like grown; he may even imagine what he hopes the new herd of beef cattle will look like in two years.   

He worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day because the cows could be delivered Monday afternoon. The magic of farming is in some ways like the magic of surfing—one senses a wave of new life from a long way off, and one works to catch that wave and bring new life into the world. One can feel it even before one can see it, and one does what one needs to do to bring that life in—including working on Christmas.

I am reminded that the story of Christmas is about bringing new life into the world—new life that was long anticipated. This year, the story that has touched my heart is the story of my neighbor and his pregnant heifers. We may have calves by Easter.

Merry Christmas!

Sally

A poem by my friend, Gwen Marable:

This is the longest night
Embrace the darkness
Wrap yourself in the presence
Of your life
Sit with your wisdom
Witness the past year
As you would unpack your suitcase after a long journey
Find forgotten treasures
Joys and extraordinary blessings
Unexpected kindnesses and miracles
Take out the day to day experiences
The lessons learned and relearned
Shake out the unhappy feelings
Letting go of remembered bitter words
Hurt feelings
Pain
Look
With eyes grown used to darkness
Let your hands reach into the corners
Find all that has been hidden and forgotten
Turn over the suitcase
Empty it
Now look inside again
Regard the emptiness
What will you carry with you
Into your new year?

Snow began falling before day break, the sky and earth merging in a haze of soft white. I sat at the dining room table writing and gazed out the window.

The previous night, I worked hard and long, moving the compost pile before the storm, knowing that the area might get too wet and muddy to work after the snow had fallen. We plan to build a hoop house this weekend and put it where the compost pile had been. My friends just built one according to plans in Elliott Coleman’s Four Season Harvest. The unheated greenhouse will let us grow more plants in cold weather.

As I gazed at the snowy scene, I remembered a scene from years ago. I had been looking out the front window at my home in Elkridge. My son had the flu. I was feeling homebound, stretched and stressed as heavy snow fell. No one stirred outside. Then a UPS truck drove to my house and the driver brought a box to my front door. My college roommate had filled the box with games her sons had outgrown and sent them to me. That unexpected kindness warmed me in the midst of a hard winter.  

“That reminds me of my mom,” says my friend, Janet. “She had a rainy day bag that she filled with new toys. On rainy days, we each got to reach into the bag and pick a toy without looking. They were simple--a pair of jacks--nothing special--but they were new. Maybe that is why we all like rainy days.”

Rainy days, snowy days: days when we can notice the small details and follow their trails.  A red fox, tail outstretched, picks his way across the hay field, then disappears. Where did he go? Alpha, my big male cat, comes tripping down the farm lane on his way home from his morning outing. Where had he been? Had he walked to the farmhouse as we suspected?

I follow his trail as I head to my morning chores. His prints lead to the top of the pond, circle the hen house and then disappear into the barn. I slip and fall on a patch of ice, hidden by the new snow.  I pass it every morning, but this morning I did not notice it.

In the hen house, one rooster is tinged red, bloodied from a fight with another rooster. Three days ago, I found two young gobblers beating each other with their wings, grabbing each other with their beaks. They fought hard.Spring is coming; their blood is rising. I carry a rake with me and position it outside the door, ready for my next visit.
 
My older friends notice birds and buds on trees. They sift through papers and photographs, remember times gone by, and ponder invisible connections, subtle patterns, unforeseen consequences, the trail that we leave behind….

“You are the only person I know who loves January!” my friend Margaret said. We spoke after she drove to work in sloppy snow and ice. I had spent the day inside and warm, my compelling chores done for the season. January is to a farmer what July is to a teacher: a month when one dawdles, drifts and dreams. The gardens are sleeping; the pork in the freezer; the final market finished; the holidays over.

I have only one job I need to do daily: I must feed and water our chickens and turkeys. I usually walk to the chicken house, throwing sticks to my new border collie as I go. When I come home, I write letters, visit with friends, redecorate the house, file papers, hem curtains, read or write, and enter numbers in my computer. Most tasks can be done today, tomorrow or next week,or not at all. It is so unlike the summer when I work hard and focus each day.   

While Margaret went to work, my friend Janet poured a big cup of coffee, sat in her favorite chair and watched the sun rise, her cat lounging in her lap. She enjoyed her soft, slow wake-up, deciding on whether to make egg custard or bread pudding as she looked out at the snow-covered fields.
 
In winter, I enjoy long lunches with friends and trips to town for cultural experiences. I also take yoga belly dance class with Karen Boger.  It starts with yoga poses and stretches. Then we roll hips and arms, swing and sway, shake and shimmy. We cool down with more yoga. At the end of our class, Karen leads us in relaxation: “Imagine you are soft, “she says. “Every part of your body is soft….”

I breathe deeply, relax and enjoy just being. The farm is just being too. Biodynamic leaders talk about the time between January 15 and February 15 as an intense period, a time when the Earth is most interior, a time when the farm has breathed in fully—the period a pause before the out-breath begins and activity starts again.  

Some mornings, I step outside and hear no distinct sound, just shimmering stillness. Mist hovers over the frozen pond; fresh powder fills in the crusted footprints of previous snows; tree limbs stir, the setting moon casts a sheen across the snowy fields. A drop of water falls from a tree; the wind stirs the pine branches; the first bird sings.   

 I remember how it felt to wake before my husband and lay there deeply satisfied,  taking in his essence, him just breathing next to me, or when my son sat in my lap and I drank in his smell. I have that sense now-- of feeling the land’s essence—quiet and still-- a living presence with me.  

By February, we will begin planting seeds in the greenhouse and the pace of the farm will accelerate. Now, I am savoring January, sweet January. Spring will come soon enough.

“There’s a kind of hush, all over the world, “I sang to myself as my neighbor, Tom, and I headed back to the farmhouse. We had just tromped along the fence row at the northern edge of the farm, stopping every fifty yards to fling drops of the Three Kings preparation toward the farm’s boundary.

I had learned about the Three Kings Preparation from Lorraine Cahill, our biodynamic consultant. Two years ago, I ordered my first kit from the Josephine Porter Institute in Woolwine, Virginia.  The preparation provides a “magic circle” of protection for biodynamic farms. On December 31, biodynamic farmers grind together frankincense, myrrh and Aurum metallicum D2, a dilution of gold. We add rain water and vegetable glycerin. On January 6, we dilute that solution in two gallons of water, stir it for an hour, and then walk the boundaries of the farm spraying the solution outward.   

This year, I invited Tom and our farm apprentice, Michael, to join Janet and me. We split into two teams. As Tom and I walked across frozen fields, the lights from neighboring farms and towns reflected off thick, lowering clouds. I felt an occasional snowflake. We could just make out forms, sense substance—though I knew the paths and lanes--how the fields lay.

Oue feet broke corn stubble as we walked. Then we followed a deer trail through the woods and into the hay field where a fox trail tracked close to the fencerow. We climbed over a fallen hickory trunk, through brush and across a frozen creek to get to the top of the pond. These were parts of the farm that are most accessible in winter when the ground is frozen and the brambles mere stalks. The trees cast silhouettes skyward; the air smelled seemed lively and clean in the mysterious night.

Tom, a master gardener, spoke, ”I think it was (Louis) Bromfield,” he said, “who  said that the best fertilizer is the feet of the farmer.” He added later, “I usually put my garden to bed and stay inside in the winter. Now I think I may go out in my garden even in the winter. “

As we had walked across the fields, he said how much he liked giving to the land. He closed our evening with a prayer—praying that the preparations or our intentions and actions bless the land, our farm and its crops. His prayer summed up our evening.

For me, the practice gives to hidden spiritual dimensions that need our care. Using the three gifts that the magi gave to the Christ child acknowledges the Christ dimension on earth.  I experience the kind of a hush that happens after communion or in a cathedral—an opening to sacred space and time. It is a wonderful, deeply mysterious way to welcome the New Year.

May your New Year be filled with Spirit too!

Last year, I went to see my acupuncturist on December 21, winter solstice. He said that at winter solstice, water turned—not physical water, but its essence. It reached into the heart of the heart of water and then turned.

Did I understand it? No. Was I captivated? Yes: turning in the heart of the matter. Turning is the heart of the matter. How can I turn? How can we as a society turn? What if we are meant to turn in the heart of our matter? How would that feel?

I remembered the work of Viktor Schauberger. He and Rudolph Steiner, both Austrians working in the early twentieth century, had insights that flowed from close touch with the land and its peasants. Schauberger focused on water.

I reread the section of the book, Hidden Nature: the Startling Insights of Viktor Schauberger, that talked about the maturation of water. If rain falls on cool earth, it said, it moves deep into the earth, releasing electrical charges and trace elements as it goes, until it reaches “the anomaly point” at 4 degrees Celsius. In the cool earth, new water molecules can form. The juvenile water rises, acquiring new information as it does, until it becomes mature and contributes to life instead of seizing it. Does the water turn?

Schauberger observed that water naturally creates spirals and vortices; it becomes livelier flowing this way. Life too flows in spirals and creates complex patterns.

We live and work, most of us in square boxes, and move in rigid boxes. Last year, as I originally wrote this piece, I sat in one warm room, looking at a flat computer screen, linked to a box of electrical circuitry that enabled me to write at a keyboard. I threw wood into another box, a wood stove that heated the room. I heard the sump pump and knew that it was pumping water out of my basement so the box in which I store my meat, the freezer, did not flood as the rain poured down.

Boxes inside boxes, inside boxes...what is needed now more than more boxes, is a willingness to journey into the heart of matter and to emerge on the other side with an insight, a way of connecting and a deeper understanding of how all life fits together.

This morning, I sit and think about turning in the heart of matter: how I can soften the edges of the many boxes on my farm—how I can connect the farm to the larger life that dances, turns and swirls and lives abundantly.

In this heart of the darkest time of year, I ask how we can step and move into the stream of life?

Often my friend, Janet, and I run farm-related errands on Wednesdays when the farm is closed. We chat as we tour country roads; we take ourselves out to lunch. This week, we went to the American Seed Company to buy more seed for winter cover crops.  

“Oh, the SEED store!” Janet exclaims. “I’ve been to the FEED store; now we’re going to the SEED store. I love seeing all these places!”

And she does. Last year, when we planned who would take our chickens to be dressed;; the team, mostly vegetarian, seemed despondent. Janet walked in. “I’ll do it! I’d love to do it! “ She did. She loves to experience what she calls“full circle.”It makes her feel grounded and earthy. She often has to cross some emotional hurdle to get the full experience.  

“I have never been around anyone who is so jovial,” says her market partner, Michael.
I agree. The farm could not afford to pay her this year, but rather than complain, she decided to focus on helping me and the farm while she looked for another job. "Here and now is good, " she said, " I have a great quality of life."  

By mid-afternoon Wednesday, we were at my neighbor’s looking at a dog they had offered us. I had planned to visit, go home, see if I could get an appointment with the vetinarian and then return to pick up the dog. They were leaving to run an errand and had planned to lock the dog inside. I decided to take the dog immediately in the truck with us.

“In the truck? In the front of the truck? Do you want me to ride in the back?” Janet, my friend, asked incredulously. She reacts to almost anything icky, gooey, smelly or slimy. The dog had fleas; the front of the Toyota truck was cramped.
 
 “There’s enough room for all of us in the front,” I said firmly.   

She sighed and climbed in the truck. As I drove to the vet's, I heard a running account of her process, “Dog saliva! I’ve got dog saliva on my face!” she nearly howled. “Oh, I love the black spots on his white legs. Oh, look how he’s putting his paw in my lap. Oh, look how he is putting his head in my lap. Oh, he’s a nice dog. He has a good disposition. He’s a really good dog. I think he’s a mix—the perfect dog for the farm.”

By the time we got to the vet, she was in love with Bear. I was too.  

Janet had once again moved beyond her comfort zone and found that she loved where she was. Her mantra for the year held once again, “Here and now is good.”

And it is.

Today, I am sharing a poem from a dear colleague:

Pray for the land
Breathe with and for the land
Imagine the land flexible, permeable, lighted stardust
beaming its message to the universe
Pray in your own way
including the land in every breath you take for you love the land
It is a part of you and you are a part of the land
mirrors of love and light magnifying, intensifying
bring hope forward, bring possibilities forward, bring healing and wholeness
an image that can be sustained even as one is witnessing a devastation, a death
This kind of praying insists life is in the land in you
though the life you once knew and loved can be seen no more on the land
it is in the land, in you, in the memories that can be recalled, reshaped, released
To be seen, all that lies below must break the surface
like a fish emerging from deep sea waters
Send love to the land
to all that walks its surface and all that lies beneath the surface
Who has loved the land loves it still – calling to it, singing to it
inviting it to breathe deeply
to exhale a huge collective sigh of relief across the land
a balmy breeze that comforts and builds hope for all
Pray for the land
in your backyard and round the globe
It is all your back yard, familiar terrain
unrecognized in the fog of fear
Breathe deeply
exhaling a sigh of relief to clear the fog
revealing the land of the heart ever present
resonating with each deep breath
Love will clear the air
This is the way to pray
Only faith born of hope born of faith can see far enough and deep enough to know
The prayers are for all
The land, the Earth, breathes more easily when we do
 so we shall breathe our best
for all

                                                                                                                                                          Jean Bryson Strohl
                                                                                                                                                              September 2010