Farm the heart. Heal the heart.
Farming can break your heart, and farming can heal your heart. I've experienced both, many times.
As long as I can remember, I have shared with others that I grew up learning farming through osmosis. Os-mo-sis. Such an interesting word. Besides its scientific definition, it is also defined as the gradual or unconscious assimilation of ideas, knowledge, and feelings. I like to believe that by growing up on a farm in the 70’s and 80’s, I absorbed all of that good farm stuff, in every cell of my being - the smells, the soil, the food, the love, the techniques, the know-how, the familiarity with erratic weather, the comfort with the outdoors, the passion and determination to try again season after season, and a deeper sense of belonging to the land and being cared for by the natural world. But with the good, I also absorbed the hard stuff - the seasonal disappoints and fear of failure, the stress of never enough money, the utter exhaustion and lack of self care, the benevolent neglect and infrequent attunement, the porous boundaries and relational struggles of my parents, and even the agonizing grief from the tragic drowning of my 3-year old sister Heidi in the farm pond when I was only a newborn.
My earliest memory as a child is crying for my mother and feeling utterly alone and helpless as she ran out the door of the farmhouse to escape her own crippling grief and feelings of helplessness. But even as a two-year old, I intuited that the land would still hold me and care for me, even if my parents couldn’t fully, and I believed so would the gnarly old apple trees and the spongey moss and the spruce forest pathways to the ocean. The neat rows of lettuce and strawberries, carefully tucked in with layers of composted seaweed collected from the rocky beaches, provided me with comfort and predicability, and tasty treats too. I learned to listen to the wisdom of the trees and empathize with the sad call of a Mourning Dove. I could always find solace and guidance on the farm and in nature. But my heart had been broken, whether I was aware of it or not, and I spent much of my youth pretending and convincing myself I was fine. I naively thought I could somehow protect the sensitivity of my own heart and avoid the pain of seeing and sharing its vulnerability.
I’ve done years of healing work since, and this is still hard for me to write about because I am conditioned to believe that no one wants to hear or talk about the ugly, painful stuff, which ironically, none of us can escape experiencing in a lifetime. We are told to desire the triumph, the redemption, the wisdom, the beauty, the learning, the happily ever after. I yearn for those things too, but I am acutely aware that they won’t come without the brutal honesty, the realness, and the unshakable recognition of the pain and loss we will all endure. Life on a farm, the land, and in nature just brings us all a little closer to that undeniable truth.
My farm in Colorado poked at all those old vulnerabilities in my heart too. Now as an adult, a mother of two young boys, and the primary farmer, I believed that in order to be successful and worthy, I needed to do it all, but I was constantly torn between choosing to care for my boys or care for the farm. At the end of each day, completely exhausted and worn down, all I could think of is there must be a better way to do this faster and smarter, without even taking a moment to reflect on the necessity of my own care and well being. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do it all perfectly without something being dropped or neglected. And when I finally accepted defeat, rather than readjusting my standards and seeking support, I felt like a failure - how could I possibly reconcile failing my boys? I couldn’t, so I chose them, but my heart still broke again to fail my own farm.
Returning to Maine, and years later to my family farm, felt like a second chance and new beginning. This was the land where I was born, where my mother had delivered me in the farmhouse by herself - this is where my farming story began. I believed I had come full circle and I could finally heal my heart. What I didn’t know then is that while my heart still felt broken, I wasn’t broken. And just like I used to believe I had to do it all on my own and be everything to everyone on my farm to be successful and worthy, I still thought there must be something I could do to ‘prove’ myself that would heal my heart as a farmer. But the heart doesn’t need any proof of its worth, it just is. And just as the land and nature have an incredible capacity to heal and regenerate if cared for, so does the heart. And through osmosis, my heart is healing.
Clara, it is so good to read your words and see you here! I've struggled with the idea and experience of failure in different ways, too. It seems like so often the failure we see/feel ourselves isn't seen as failure by others -- but it still feels heavy. And on the other side (or throughout it all) is the land holding us. Thank you for sharing. I look forward to reading more.