Good Morning!
The theme this week is leaning in. Today marks thirteen years since Sarah and I were married on a sunny, sparkling, crisp Autumn afternoon with our friends and family. We made a few promises on that day, all of which live beautifully printed and framed above our bed. The one on top is probably the one we invoke most often and I think it’s a promise that extends to our place in community as well as our place in the great throng of life that is Mother Earth.
”We promise to take care of ourselves so that we may take care of each other.”
These words are a good reminder that care for each other begins in our own hearts and minds. I feel so fortunate to share a life with a partner who, even when she herself is exhausted, overwhelmed, or in need of tenderness, is able to encourage me to take the time I need to feel grounded and centered and rejuvenated. I of course strive to offer the same presence and intention to her in return. Sometimes, when we prioritize our own health first, it feels like we lean away before we can truly lean in. That can be scary, but there exists a deep trust that we will continue to co-create this union with openness, with inspiration, and with gratitude, if we are allowed and encouraged to take space for self-care.
The farm, to that end, will always be our second marriage. It requires my presence and my trust and my devotion and my energy and observation and planning and care. There is so much LIFE on the farm that is there to be seen and held and shared. And it too asks that I remember to lean away so that I can lean in, so that my heart is fully open to the beauty and the potential. When I’m stressed and overwhelmed, it feels like burdensome work apart from myself, like a puzzle with missing pieces, like a mountain without a peak to reach. In this state, farming feels like a struggle and I cannot see all the abundance and beauty and miracles before me. I’m not living in gratitude for my good fortune.
But it’s a practice, right? Of course we are sometimes lost or overwhelmed, pulled by an ebbing tide into waters that feel too deep. But then I remember I can swim, that I like to swim, that swimming is actually incredible and the water feels so good on my skin. That I feel powerful and capable when I swim and that I don’t have to flounder against the current. I can turn and take another route, I can float on my back for awhile, I can switch up my strokes and dive for treasure and observe all the creatures of the underwater world. Then, i can touch the bottom.
The farm, though so small, sometimes feels like an infinite sea. There is so much that is unknowable, so much that we must allow to wash over us, trusting that it won’t hurt or carry us away. Sometimes we do need to let go, stop swimming, be carried for awhile so that we can catch our breath and our bearings. This is what winter calls for on the farm - sinking in, settling down, watching and listening to the Earth as it rests and transforms.
Then we lean in again, and again, and again, and again.
We promise to take care of ourselves so that we can take care of each other, so that we can take care of this land, so that we can live with the gratitude that this incredible gift deserves. The land, in turn, takes care of all of us, and all of our wild friends of soil and sky and forest and field. When Sarah and I married 13 years ago, we soon married again to this piece of land, and the promises remained the same. Now, life is as full and as complicated as ever, the world feels as if it’s shifted permanently under our feet in the past few years. Nothing makes a whole lot of sense anymore, except the love that we feel, the children we hold, and the earth we can stand on. And if we’re going to keep working for a future we believe in, if we’re going to keep seeking peace and justice, if we’re going to prioritize life and diversity and ecological richness. If we’re going to lean into those things, and into each other, we also must take some time to be here with ourselves, to breath and sit still and hold tightly onto those few things that you know to be true.
Your Farmers,
Conner+Sarah
P.S. I’m typing this on my phone while away (without the kids!) with Sarah for a night, so please excuse the typos! ;)
