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!
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