Dear Lord, how has it been a year. Well, now. It’s officially been a bit more than that. I’m late to my anniversary.
Let’s take a pause and lay down an Ebenezer.
This year we wrote a forest management plan that was fully funded by NRCS. Planted and harvested from two small gardens. Put into the ground flowers and long-term edibles, also including some unsuccessful chamomile and lavender. We harvested apples and tended to last year’s four trees and watched the growth of my dad’s weeping willow. We raised twelve birds and butchered five (the rest were butchered by nature, may they rest in peace).
We applied for funding for high tunnels, pollinator habitat, and trees to be planted. We acquired mushrooms, learned about inoculation, and have experimented with all the tasty varieties. I completed two semesters of beginning farm courses, wrote a business plan, and was prompted to download tax software and log income and expenses. Dear Wildflower products are now in three storefronts and also available at farmers markets.
I work three jobs–well four, kind of– and keep my hands and mind busy making lattes and selling ski tickets and also stocking the shelves of a little store. Somehow I’m a farmer, too. I crochet in my spare time.
I made two trips down to Arkansas and nearly went broke on the last one, happy to dip into savings to see the people and places I love.
I got a scar on my leg from an old nail, and drilled a bit into my palm. I nearly froze my fingers off ice fishing, and got several eye infections from dust and garbage. (PSA wear gloves and goggles. But also maybe don’t? John got a hot ember stuck inside his goggles and sure wishes he had nothing over his eyes in that moment.) I ran a tree debarking tool into my shin, and my dad ran over a chain with the lawn mower.
I apparently eat ice cream and cheese and a lil nibble of bread here and there. I don’t get sick like I used to anymore, but sometimes I eat like a raccoon and deeply (eh, mildly) regret it later.
I have a pot of chicken (It could be Karen. Why did we name the chickens?) soup on the stove while my nose is a little runny and my body a little achy. There’s some of our mushrooms in there too. I’ve found a lot of joy in caring for myself through pain and discomfort and sickness. And I’ve also found a lot of joy in being cared for by my John and my Jasper.
I lost a tooth (an event significantly less exciting now than in the first grade), but you already know about that. I’m clearly still grieving. You’ll keep hearing about it. But I did not tell you that the dentist covered the cost of the extraction, and I am beyond grateful for his generosity.
I’ve made new friends and am happy to know other farmers who share similar passions and visions.
When I wrote my first post On Celebration, I made a quick list of what’s ahead:
“In the months + years to come, I will plant my first crop. I’ll build my first structure. Raise + butcher my first critter. I’ll operate a backhoe. Learn to use a chainsaw. Learn to say backhoe without giggling. Harvest a tree with the aforementioned chainsaw. Build my house. Publish my book. Host a retreat. Book out the rental property for an entire season. Finally purchase the freeze-drier I’ve been eyeing.”
Crops have been planted. An experimental greenhouse was built and left for dead (sorry about it.) The chicken coop is in progress–that’s when I drilled into my palm. I swear, I took my gloves off for one second and that’s when I got injured. We raised and butchered chickens. I still am in awe at the whole experience. I helped butcher a deer. And I can’t lie to you backhoe is still a funny word. I tried my hand at the chainsaw, but don’t prefer it. I don’t have to do everything, and that’s okay. I can sometimes look really cute and be very grateful that someone else is there to do things that I don’t enjoy. The house, book, and retreats are all future accomplishments. As is the freeze-drier. However, there is a very full, very cold second-hand freezer on my back porch. And for that I’m grateful.
In the next year, we’ll see more fruits and vegetables and grants. We’ll see more critters, more connection, and more community. Our fingers will be dirty, our brows sweaty, and our hearts and bellies full. There will be farmer’s markets and farm stands and piles of firewood. There will be long days laboring in the sun and evening dips in the cool lake or very cold creek.
I’m very excited to look back on this list, on this Ebenezer, grateful to God for bringing us this far and for preparing a beautiful and bountiful way to what’s next.