After Covid restrictions lifted, people begin to travel again and some began reimagining their lives. Now Loretta and I find that many of our friends are looking for places to live that might seem easier, or better, or financially just a little lighter. We might consider this ourselves, except that we both love life here at Dancing TreePeople Farm. We are not ready to leave.
Not that I haven’t been dreaming like everyone else. From time to time, I peruse real estate websites to see what’s going on. Some places even seem enticing…like being on vacation, and are most certainly easier on the body than caring for twelve acres of farmland and a variety of out-buildings.
I try to imagine moving to a new situation. Especially given that each year, the walnut sacks feel heavier and heavier, despite the fact that we fill them only half full now.
Each winter, I feel the chill more deeply in my bones. This past winter brought moisture, damp and cold. Even so, when the clouds cleared between rains it felt a few degrees warmer than winter here should be.
The trees seem confused when it warms. Leaf out now or wait? Maybe a bit of both. Then a freeze takes out the early leaves and blossoms. I can see why the trees might be confused.
The frogs too. Every time the sun shines, the frogs begin their springtime song, and then the temperature drops once again and they go quiet. They find their new rhythm with the sun. The grass grows. Pauses. Then grows again. The frogs croak in encouragement then stop. Now that Spring is officially here, the frogs sing every night.
This Spring, the work feels a bit more daunting. Mowing is the way of things. My body lurches back and forth atop a tractor or lawnmower as I seek to create defensible space —anticipating the inevitable summer and autumn dangers. Last spring all this bouncing around gave me vertigo and got me thinking about my own ending.
I’m not getting any younger. While this may seem obvious, for each of us ages exactly one year each and every year, it hit home for me this year. I blame the vertigo. It taught me that I do, indeed, have an expiration date—I’m not indestructible.. Even though I’ve been careful this season my brain feels very tender. Vertigo is possible. I know that now.
I begin to mow the orchard as soon as ground is dry enough. This is the rhythm in a wet year. In dry years, the star thistle pops up first and the ground cements quickly making it difficult to pull weeds. Even though I mow the star thistle, it flowers anyway— ankle depth. Such a tenacious plant, determine to reseed no matter what. We all want our children to live.
A wet year like this one brings soft ground, and the whole orchard looks like one big green sponge swelling up to envelop twigs that fallen, leaves and any stray tool that might been left out. Everything is taken, even bones I suppose. If the whole process were on time lapse photography, it would be both beautiful and horrifying--imagine the ground rising up to swallow last year‘s death and turning it into new life.
If I were to collapse on the earth here in a wet year, I imagine that my bones would first be picked clean by the vultures, then no doubt claimed by the rising earth within a season. Everything comes to life in the wet years. Once the sun returns, dragonflies, bees, wasps, lizards, all manner of snakes and crawly things present themselves as if they’ve been waiting for just this moment.
I love all these creatures. (Except the wasps. No love lost there.)
As Loretta and I give to the orchard, the orchard returns to us: peace, solace, beauty, delight, and yes, love. A mutually beneficial relationship.
Is it worth the investment of life force to be here? Perhaps. Anyone who has felt the gift of these trees in this land has taken in the energies of not only my own life —but all the energies that the collective lovers of this place have put into caring for the land.
2011
2023
Some people arrive here and feel the love. And some are oblivious. It’s just another place. They don’t fully understand that such a beautiful place requires tending. And that requires love.
There will come a day when my relationship with this land will end. Maybe sooner than I’d like. As I face the prospect of moving on, I wonder: Who will know how to check the peach tree for curl or to clear the grass away from the irrigation line? Who will fill the ground squirrel holes next to the cob cottage? Who will repair the fence so the deer don’t decimate the food forest? Who will mow while the grass is low enough—before baby rabbits come so not to hurt them? Who will turn the compost piles or prune the trees above the pump line? Who will wrap the pipes so they don’t freeze? Who will raise baby chicks? Who will clear defensible space and remove flammable items from porches? Who will move the salamanders off the road or gather the branches that have fallen? Who will pull the star thistle or bind weed? Who will love the hummingbirds and plant flowers for them? Who will cut firewood and stock the stove? Who will love this place as I have loved it? Whoever does these things will also gather the apples and persimmons, cut the asparagus, and yes, harvest the walnuts. They receive the ample gifts.
When the time comes, surely, someone will step up. I’ll need to tell them about the rhythm of the orchard. I want to impart whatever knowledge I have for how it all works. How to gather nuts after the leaves fall in those unfortunate years where the walnuts don’t fall first. How to stay ahead of the weeds and ground squirrels. Where NOT to put a garden. How to protect the eaves from bats and woodpeckers. How to find and keep good workers.
if we are lucky this farm won’t draw those who intend to exploit the land with big machines or those who are too timid or softhearted to address the issues of feral cats taking residence, or ground squirrels undermining foundations. New people will learn to operate the tractor and they’ll know how to gently mow without gouging the ground. they’ll keep big trucks from driving on the land to preserve the soil structure. They’ll learn how to maintain and fix branched greywater systems. They’ll know how to repair a chicken coop and keep it clean. They’ll be handy with a paintbrush and adept with a chainsaw. They’ll divert water away from foundations and into gardens. They will create habitat for gopher snakes. They will celebrate the return of Hagatha the Heron and the grown deer who eat apple leaves on the lower branches, just as mama taught. They’ll know how to hand-harvest, sun-dry and weigh the walnuts and they’ll have a list of customers to whom they can sell them. They will love it here. Perhaps they’ll even plant perennial herbs like sage, tarragon and rosemary. Maybe they’ll mow around the poppies.
For now, I am here--loving the land and working it. And it’s Spring, so I’m mowing around the poppies.
Wow! When I decided to leave my treasured home that Phil and I built it was a very hard decision. Age got in my way. Being 81 and still tractoring started to feel like a chore and not fulfilling to me anymore. I miss it everyday. I miss my beautiful Koi. My turtles who moved in without asking. My lame duck who I fed everyday. What keeps me going is the wonderful memories I have living and building with Phil. He made it fun and interesting. On a hot day he would swim in the pond and come out covered in algae! Drinking a glass of wine while we floated around the pond in our little boat we rescued in the street culvert! The list goes on and on. For now I hope you and Loretta enjoy all that surrounds you. Hugs and love!
This is so very beautiful. I especially love the section about who will love the land after you and know all the little things that make it flourish. Tore at my heart.