October 29th 2022
Notes from a novice student in the study of Wonder, Humility and Tenderness.
“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment” -Rumi (Wonder)
The more I have learned the less I know for sure, and the less I concern myself with having all of the answers. There is a certain self-confidence that’s born of experience and time. No matter what area I focus on after a while I begin to see patterns, or with the horses, I can anticipate movement and pick up on their cues sooner than before. I can read things at a deeper level because it’s where I’ve invested my time, but I never want to take that for granted. I never want to be the person with all of the answers, and I never want to lose the sense of wonder that comes with learning. I want to be kneeling on the pavement studying raindrops on upturned leaves, looking for dung beetles in the fields, or standing awestruck at the gate when the horses run up through the field in the early morning light everyday. I want to find a lesson waiting in every week. I want to find that one moment of stillness, unexpected and undeserved, that seems to seek me out every single day. I never want to stop asking questions, and I want to spend my life sorting, and living, the answers.
“Teachers are everywhere, what is wanted is a learner.” Wendell Berry (Humility)
I want my love of understanding, and of observing to far outweigh any pride or ego I bring along. I want to learn from everything and everyone, because there is always a lesson. (Some just take a little more digging than others.) The horses are the best teachers. They’re brutally honest, feedback is immediate, and yet they are gracious, forgiving, and more patient than I deserve. But I also find myself just as often a student of the trees, birds and bugs, the pasture and crops, and the clouds, when I remember to look up. I am continually surprised by the things and creatures I learn from, and that in itself is a gift.
“I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts, and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing, and reaped, as I knew, by luck and Heaven’s favor, in spite of the best advice.” The contrariness of the Mad Farmer by Wendell Berry (Tenderness)
There is something an outside perspective will never hold, and it is intimate knowledge, history, and tenderness. Farming is scientific, but it is also an art, a craft, and when done well, it is gentleness, joy, and all of the other virtues we hold dear. That is something that can’t be accounted for, yet we’d be foolish to discount. Qualities that you can’t pay to employ and yet it makes all the difference. Understanding the history of a place can change everything. The larger the perspective, the longer the memory, the more informed decisions we make going forward. There is an aspect of farming that you just have to live, and that’s what makes it so gratifying to get right. It’s hard to truly show up every day, to bring your best, to bring your whole self, to give it all away and wait with baited breath and pray that it has been enough. And then the rain comes, the rye springs up under foot, and I rest easy, reminded that I’m not alone in any of this. Every time I pour myself into my work, into the earth, it always comes back around, and I walk from the field overflowing, my cup runs over.