The grower of tress, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout,
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
He thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
descending in the dark?
The Man Born to Farming by Wendell Berry
Here we are, in our winter greenhouse, on January first. Unveiling the hardy greens that have survived the cold nights. This is the perfect place to begin our year together. Side-by-side. Grounded in home.
stepping out of the arctic air
into the greenhouse warmth
welcomed by our dear farmer friend
who put these three little people right to work
planting ginger mothers!
as she and I talked
about the changing seasons
I looked around,
thinking how the seeds of my wedding flowers
were seeded in this very space
by Jenny’s hands.
how grateful I am
for our long friendship
and for roots of love
that grow deep
at Meadowlark Farm.
Sun in the morning.
Rain in the afternoon.
Outside and in.
Work and play.
A tiny slice of time when it all feels enough.
I’m looking at this beautiful wild land from the road, noticing how it stretches out and turns into forest, effortlessly. This is a farm, farmed so thoughtfully as to allow the natural world and the cultivated world to coexist side-by-side. Our farmer friend, Ben, has taken time to come to know this land and raise animals here with sensitivity.
We are grateful to be one of the families nourished by this place — nourished by the food Ben raises and also by his ethic in caring for the land.