Some thoughts...on plant magic, miracles, and religion

I'm pretty biased, in my love of plants, towards new, green growth. Seeds germinating, tender leaves unfurling -- it's all breath-taking. Perhaps I'm just a product of the culture around me in New England, the culture that impatiently awaits the visible re-birth of nature each Spring as the snow melts, the green tips of crocuses push their way up through the frosty earth, and the tree-line becomes dotted with chartreuse.

In any case, I've found myself thinking a bit about my shifting attitude towards the plants we're tending to on the farm. Why is it that I feel less like a caretaker when it comes to the sturdy cabbage plants taking shape and thriving in the field than I did when they were tiny plant-starts in the greenhouse? And does that translate into lesser appreciation? Shouldn't I feel more in awe of their growth now as they take root in the earth and fend (more or less) for themselves? This week I've been awakening to the realization that it is a miracle in its own right to see our formerly fragile seedlings in the fields, growing stronger and larger each day, basking in the nutrients provided by healthy soil. They are beginning to resemble the vegetables they will ultimately provide for us. Which, after all, is the whole point.

You'd think it would be a given for me to appreciate this -- and I do indeed appreciate! It seems like pure magic, a miracle, to plant a seed and later harvest pounds and pounds of fruit. What I feel is a different type of appreciation though -- the first is for the beauty of the plant itself, whereas this other is for the the fact that it gives us food. There's a tension between my desire to see a plant as a beautiful mess of greenery that I partly understand and partly leave up to the whims of Mother Nature, and between the reality that this plant is a cabbage. And that we need the cabbage to eat, more than we need the plant to look at. Eventually, we'll behead this plant.

Although these large vegetable plants are now much less in need of our help in terms of their survival, it's not to say that there's no work to be done. We still have to weed around them to provide ample space for their growth, give them water during a dry-spell, and for some crops, give them an extra helping of nutrients. It is at this stage that it feels less like human hands are in complete control, and more like the whims and guiding hand of something much more powerful. It's at this stage that a farmer has to use everything he or she knows about each crop and various farming methods to make the best decisions. But, there are always twists and turns in the road, and questions that remain unanswered. For example, why are the husk cherries being ravaged by beetles? How can we stop the voles from tunneling under the heirloom tomatoes and chowing down at the base of the plants? How on earth can the radishes get this large and still not split or get pithy? There are always challenges and unexpected gifts.

Needless to say, I am in awe of everything going on at the farm right now. Everything seems miraculous in part because of my inexperience as a farmer, and in part because life is teeming with beauty and energy. This energy is the same life force, prana, that a yogi channels in his or her yoga practice. It's amazing.

When I went to Israel this year, I felt similarly awe-inspired and infused with spirituality. It was an eerie feeling to realize that after thousands of years, after diaspora, after generation upon generation of my family had been praying for Israel, that there I was -- smack-dab in the middle of the holy land. But also striking was Israel's connection to the land.  Not just the political history -- the exhile, the diasporas, the formation of a nation-state, the shifting borders... the connection to land as necesary for religious and political survival. What struck me was the connection between Judaism and agriculture.  The state of Israel and the farming of its precious soil. And how that tied into everything else I just mentioned. It's not surprising that this connection is so strong given the kibbutzniks of the '60s and '70s, and even before that: without a means to provide oneself with food, no Jewish settlement from the 19th century or early 20th century would have survived. Agriculture in Israel is crucial. For a country with so many enemies, with such critical water issues (it's the desert, after all), and with its location making it expensive to import foreign goods, an agricultural system that works and makes good use of the country's resources is a life or death situation. It's no wonder, as I found out while I was there, that Israel is on the cutting edge of sustainable agricultural practices. With such little water, it must be protected and used wisely! With little arable land, soil quality must also be protected and used wisely! (We U.S folks have to adopt these practices on a large-scale too...)

I could go on. But the real reason for my ramblings is because of something I read this week that made me think about farming in Israel in the first place, and connect it to the fact that we're beginning to ramp up our harvest on the farm. I somehow stumbled upon the website of Ganei Beantown, a Boston-based Jewish group focused on food and sustainability issues. In one of their workshop listings, I read that ancient Jewish farmers provided a portion of their harvest for the poor through the practices of Peah, Leket, Shechicha. "Peah," meaning corner, calls for farmers to leave a portion of their harvest, in the corners of the fields, for the poor.  "Leket" refers to gleaning. Produce left in the fields will be left there for others to glean. With "shechicha," produce accidentally forgotten in the fields will be left there for others to glean. Multiple ways to carry out mizvot, some planned, some not planned. Tackling the issues of poverty and food justice from multiple angles. There are numerous other rules relating to agriculture in the Mishna and Tosefta, Jewish Oral Law, as well.

And of course, we have to ask: Why? In asking the question, we are able to learn more about the world, human nature, religion, and ourselves. Why was this done, and how can we translate it to our current food system? Why did ancient farmers do this, and how can we adopt the principles behind it into our own practice of tzedakah? Why were these rules, and not something a farmer could choose to do through his own good will? Everything in Jewish law and literature is fuel for hearty discussion. In the Jewish tradition, you cannot study alone. In fact, you are required to study (and pray) in a group. That in itself is a beautiful thing.

Making sure healthful food is given (or made more accessible) to those in need is obviously not just a Jewish practice, but it makes for an interesting analysis when something like this is Law, religious or otherwise. And I also have to mention that quite a bit of the harvest from the farm I'm apprenticing on goes straight to the local pantry.

For more information on the connections between Judaism and farming, check out Adamah in Connecticut or the Jewish Farm School in New York. I am feeling inspired to learn more about Judiasm, ecology, agriculture, politics, and social justice, and to continue asking: Why?

There are so many ways to farm, and so many philosophies!

Everything is falling into place

This past week was a turning point in my apprenticeship. In what felt like a matter of days (but was actually a matter of weeks), we made the shift from plant production to vegetable production.

No longer are we working in the greenhouse all day long. No longer are we planting fast and furiously for the early season crops. No longer are we wondering if nature will be kind to us and turn our hard work into a bountiful harvest. Vegetables? They're here, baby!

This past week was also the first week of our CSA, which meant that individuals and families from the community were driving out to the farm on Tuesday and Friday (our distribution days) and bringing their enthusiasm for fresh vegetables and summertime along with them. CSA stands for Community-Supported Agriculture, which is a way for members of the community to invest in their local farms and, in turn, receive a share of the bounty. This type of arrangement gives the farmers some steady financial ground to stand on at the beginning of the season, and also strengthens the farm's community ties.

For the first CSA distribution, we harvested quite a bit in comparison to the previous weeks' lettuce and radish repertoire. If you're wondering what was in the first week's share, here's the list: (click on the picture to enlarge it)

We also opened the pea section up for members to pick their own:

But as wonderful as it was to be harvesting a variety of vegetables and start up the CSA, the week wasn't without its bumps in the road. After a week of storms, we realized that some of the lettuce had been damaged by hail. It hurt some varieties more than others, and all in all it wasn't horrible. It was most noticeable on the heads of Boston lettuce. On the bright side, the weather plumped up the radishes and -- amazingly -- didn't even cause them to split! The result? Huge (read: gigantic, baseball-sized) radishes that tasted sweet and juicy. Definitely not your average supermarket radish.

We also brought a variety of vegetables to sell at the Saturday Farmer's Market. That large leafy green on the bottom, to the left of the pints of sugar snap peas, is basil. HUGE greenhouse basil, with velvety leaves that have never been exposed to heavy rain (or hail, thank goodness). They love life in the greenhouse!

And perhaps the most exciting of all? TOMATOES! Our greenhouse tomatoes are on the way to red, ripe, juicy deliciousness. Can you spot the red ones in this photo?

Mmmmm tomatoes...

Peonies

In my family, we accept (and expect) the following to be true:

1. Whenever the dog is groomed, it will rain.

2. Whenever the peonies bloom, it will rain.

While my folks and I might not be the best meteorologists this side of the Mississippi, the peonies outside my home bloomed this week, and not hours before a storm hit the farm with such force -- with all its thunder, lightening, and hail -- that I was let out of work early. While this means that our rule remains steadfast and true, it also means that I have some lazy-looking (but still beautiful) peonies near my front porch. With their chins resting on the wet grass, they look as if they spent all their energy in producing a magnificent bloom, and then proceeded to take a nap. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I did during the storm.