Greetings [:
I know it has been awhile since the last one. I hope this dispatch finds you all well, or good enough. These days, I’m finding that being able to observe the good-enoughs is quite celebratory in its own right.
It is not always that i’m able to spot the beginning and end of a month. May was easy — a peculiar month, bookended with memories of where I was and how we meandered into the month of June. And June? June’s the month that seems to have sped by. We are now in July (already!), temporally situated in the microseason of Shōsho (小暑), when warm winds blow, and young hawks learn to fly.
Our 20 ft by 3 ft garden is currently bursting with chard, and green onions. The cucumbers, too, have been extremely forthcoming. Their vines hang heavy, blossoms swollen at the base, pregnant with promise. We struggle to keep up. We've made pickles and salads, multiple omelettes, and down-to-earth sauces for dunking some noodles in. We're into our second batch of radish — these ones, we barely check on. Some say to thin them when they're seedlings. We didn't do that. I don't know another cultivated plant that encourages as much complacency and assuredness as radish. It's clear that they will come through.
We seem to have less luck with flowers here; we've tried growing marigold, poppies, asters, and calendula from seed and the results have been less than dismal. Dahlias are easily one of my favourite flowers and I got myself a grand total of 2 dahlia tubers. As a first time owner of dahlias, I cannot tell surviving from thriving. Though I'm keeping my fingers crossed tightly now that I am seeing buds on one of them. The lavender plant we salvaged is starting to put out some of those familiar lavender...flowers? Do people refer to those as flowers? Plums — now olive-sized — hang like precious ornaments off the tree. They started out like tiny crimson jewels and are just starting to lighten in colour. Beneath the plum tree sits a little pond, well-sheltered and often peppered with teeny plums that have come loose. Occasionally, Alfred the bright orange koi makes the rare appearance; J named him. I would have guessed ‘Gertrude’ but ‘Alfred’ is the much better name, we agreed and ended the discussion without much fuss. All around, flowers come and go, marking the passage of time.
We moved into this new place some 2 months ago, the same month I turned a year older. An old friend said Happy Birthday, I hope you are doing well, wherever you are. Wherever you are. That line bugs me, but I try not to be too bothered. I probably should take some responsibility for that. I have been moving around alot, not that much, but enough for others to feel the futility of keeping track. There was an intention to move closer to the coast from inner British Columbia, but expectations were low; we were not expecting to find a suitable place, without bending over backwards a couple of times, for a roof over our heads. I was without a job then, although J was a few weeks in. Like I said, we were not expecting to find a place. But we did.
Our current place of residence sits within an okay-sized park, one that is shared by some 20-30 households. If there is one thing I love about living in such close proximity to people, it is the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what's growing in people yards. And of course, I form conclusions about them in my head, supported by low-key commentary about who I could be friends with. That elderly man in the blue house, that one with the beautiful garden out front? Yea I could see myself sitting down over a cup of tea with him. The one who owns three well-pruned bushes sitting atop the manicured lawn....doesn't quite give me enough reason to strike up a conversation. Snarky and judgemental, i know…
We took a walk a few days ago, cutting through a field that is situated just by the backyard of some of these houses. Cutting through this field was a first for us; we always took the road that ran past the front of our neighbours' houses. Taking this new route spontaneously, I was delighted to chance upon humble pockets of edible gardens. These were not just little tidy herb boxes, but sizeable zucchini and squash plants. Plus, a couple of towering corn stalks in a hugeass pot. From a distance, we could make out another raised bed, barely containing the beans and squash which were all spilling over haphazardly. I love nothing more than getting a sense of the wildness of things, seeing leaves and vines being leaves and vines. Green things on the loose. More than knowing my neighbours by the front yards they keep — the relatively well-maintained flower gardens they present out front, I now know them by the food they grow at the back and I like them all the more for it.
It's interesting to think back to the moment when I learnt how to grow something, to be shown how to put seeds in the ground, to submit myself to a process driven not just by gestures but encouraged by keen attention. Tending to land has often felt like a momentous undertaking, a contract entered into after a fair amount of consideration and clarity. It is a question of belonging. I have written about belonging in the past and it is a theme I find surfacing frequently. Because of how often we have moved over the past 3 years, I hesitate to start a gardening project, as much as it is tempting. What if I move on from this place in a month? What about six months — is that good enough reason to start? As much as it is about wanting to be there with baskets for the harvest, it is also about the desire to see the results that seemingly flow from agency asserted. Sometimes, though, like this time, I stop asking questions and let the desire to grow take over.
Finding ground, honoring life, and reckoning with honesty
The instinct to grow is a peculiar feeling. There is a part of me that feels some confidence in recognising patterns. Observing these inclinations surface repeatedly over time is comforting for me. Reassuring, especially for someone with seemingly fleeting interests.
I like growing things and how honest it is as a process, as a medium. When I say honesty, I mean free of deception, manipulation, or exaggeration. The process of growing things is honest because all that grows and dies is a reflection of what is. Modern society is subjected so heavily to abstraction that teasing apart the real from the unreal can seem like a tall order. We are confronted daily with concepts, frameworks, and proxies...so many fingers pointing at the moon, so many names given to so many fingers.
When I consider what gardening and farming means to me, I often find myself returning to a few scenes in Food, Earth, Happiness — a delightful short film directed, filmed and produced by artist Patrick M. Lydon and editor Suhee Kang. Especially poignant is this one scene featuring Kazuaki Okitsu, natural farmer and teacher in Tokushima, Japan:
At some point, Okitsu goes on to say,
I am within the workings of nature. So this makes it possible to feel nature. It can be said that here is where one can also feel the ‘truth’. ‘Truth’ is what you feel in your own body…Truth is what you feel within yourself. It’s not something that can be asked, or taught to another.
The work, the toiling, the sowing and the reaping that in turn feeds the body…the cycle continues and the outcomes lend naturally from the process. There are no shortcuts. There can be no deceit.
I find that many crafts exude the same honesty and it is this honesty that makes the particular activity and process grounding. They are reminders of what is. One can certainly feel this in the process of pottery-making. From the kneading of the clay body to the shaping of the material while the wheel turns, each gesture leaves an impression. In the kiln, the nature of the material and the technique of the artisan comes together — both become subjects, acted upon, and transformed by heat.
As artefacts, food never lies. Have you bitten into apples or plump-looking tomatoes that look surprisingly good and are surprisingly tasteless? Well, that should be unsurprising by now. So much of the food industry is about pandering to a desire for aesthetically pleasing produce at the expense of nutrient density. Taste is a reflection. A reflection of terroir, and I should say, a reflection of societies’ priorities. All that to say, food is important and food growing is a process that should be undertaken with care. One of my deepest wish is that healthy, nourishing food can be made abundantly accessible to everyone. That every body amongst us is well-fed can be made a priority.
I feel deeply grateful — I think I always will be — for all the people who have taught me the things I know today about growing food, about natural systems, about diversity, and soil, and slowing down, and composting, and community. There is a sense of agency and empowerment that I now take with me wherever I go. Knowing that I can encourage the regeneration of soil, encourage life, and play a part in cultivating the conditions for that.
Recently.
Apart from gardening, I spend alot of time puttering around in the kitchen these days. Learning how to feed myself in consideration of the summer heat, what’s available in the garden, and what my tastebuds miss from “home” — these creative prompts keep the kitchen experiments going.
There have been many interesting changes in my life in the last 6 months, some more encouraging than others. A notable one? Stepping into a full-time role and applying myself once again to work I truly care about. I'm feeling like the spiritual task at this point, is learning to allow this work to nourish me. The fact that I am able to work remotely from the comfort of where we live, and having the rest of the time to enjoy the days outside has been really wonderful.
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Some notable things that i’d came across recently:
Obituary for a Quiet Life — on the death of his grandfather, a grandson sits down to write about what he calls the “sheer audacity of a quiet life”:
All around us are these lives — heads down and arms open — that ignore the siren call of flashy American individualism, of bright lights and center stage. I’m fine right here is the response from the edge of the room, and that contentment is downright subversive. How could you want only that? the world demands. There’s more to have, always more.
The House of Rust by Khadija Abdalla Bajaber — a wayfarer-comer-of-age girl navigating ominous watery depths on skeletal-boat + a speaking cat that spoke to me. I haven’t had the resolve to sit through a novel in a long time. This one kept me going, and so I feel compelled to holler about it. Perhaps some, too, among us have a thing for eloquent cats.
The Loneliness Project — feat. weekly stories of loneliness. The interface is a breath of fresh air. Comes with sounds of realistic city traffic. That aside, stories of people reckoning with loneliness take centrestage. I love corners of the internet like that. It makes the world feel more hospitable, more human.
As I’d written above, the short film Food, Earth, Happiness is one that’s really worth checking out.
I’ll end this off with a koan that’s been with me for the last few months:
A monk asked Yun Men, “What are the teachings of a whole lifetime?”
In reply, Yun Men said, “An appropriate statement.”1
𓇢𓆸
As always, thank you for reading this, it means alot to me to know that there is someone on the receiving end; as much as I write for myself, I also write for you. If you know another kindred soul who may enjoy this, do spread the word. There is much weaving to be done. As usual, I’m all ears — more than happy to hear from you, what you’re up to, and whatever else resonates or keeps you up at night.
I wish you deep okayness. I wish you enough.
xx
This koan is from The Blue Cliff Record, case 14.
That fleeting sense of belonging is familiar. We've finally been stationary enough to start a tiny garden again this year too. Feels good, yeah? I am in love with saying hello to all the plants morning and night. Cucs and tomato are doing great. Radish not so much. I think we are too addicted to nipping the leaves off for salads!!!
Also, a nice surprise to see Food, Earth, Happiness in here. The lessons from those farmers are still with us, even if we are not in the garden :-)