on farming as vocation

A little journal entry from early August, as is, incomplete:

The thing that got me, as I worked on the farm last week, was the lowness of the tasks. Physically, I constantly found myself either bending or stooping, squatting or kneeling. And there was "getting low" on a vocational level, as I became purely functional--a human machine. There’s a tension in it, because I love the work, even as it pushes my body. But I also think—can’t help it—of how others would see this work. Trimming onions, hauling cases of heavy vegetables, and weeding are not skills well-esteemed by the world. They’re things people in general are glad to not have to do—and they’re happy with their soft hands, clean clothes, and impeccable fingernails.

Why would a talented and intelligent person choose to grow vegetables for a living? Is such work valuable? Is it as valuable as being an architect, a teacher, a road constructor? Why does it motivate ME so much after all the farmers I meet try to talk me out of it?

Farming is everything at the basis of life and of humanity, to me. It is work and rest; it is place. It is provision and dependence. It is now and a hundred years from now. Personal and intensely social. There is beauty and death in all their intensity.

I think of satisfaction: the moment you unearth a bucketful of glowing potatoes and then, days later, you send them off to a good home where they’ll come to a happy end in the belly of some hungry kids.

boys, boys...

Ferme de la Chabotte - Chatillon, France

Julien and Céline have been here for 7 years now. Having started out just the two of them and a yurt on 2 ½ acres of land, they soon had two kids and a mule and began to envision a house. Now they’re working that land with two greenhouses, animal power and tractor, permanent burms, 20 chickens, and a consistent flow of WWOOFers during the growing season. I spent ten days with them in August.

It’s late afternoon. I’ve come down to the house from the yurt where I’m staying, 100 meters up onto the hillside, tucked into the oak trees. As I go past the front of the house, I catch a beautiful sight: two boys, brothers, buck naked, basking in the golden light on the ledge next to the kitchen. Rémi, eight, has a clear gaze and seems to be missing half his teeth. There’s a sensitivity to him, a lightness. Raphaël, on the other hand, has some fight. He’s like a little Viking, in all of his five years: dark-eyed with blond hair, compact, and tough, with a raspy voice.

For brothers, these two get along well. Their mom and dad are careful not to compare them; they frequently encourage them to work out their own solutions to disputes. However, emotions run high—it’s busy season on the farm, and Mom and Dad are not so available—and there’s still a good deal of bickering, crying, and other high-decibel communication.

Early in my stay, I had the two alone with me at breakfast. “I have a game we could play,” I said. Rémi, the eldest, perked up. I went on: “I just got here and I don’t know either of you yet. How about each of you tells me something you like about the other. For example, I like that Rémi is joyful. I like that Raphaël is creative and comes up with interesting solutions to problems.”  I passed the baton to Rémi: “Your turn.” There’s a notable pause, then a wry grin. “I like it when he doesn’t bug me.” Ah, well, it was worth a try.

From the day I arrived, the freedom of nudity of these boys was notable. Accustomed to a home where the children are expected to be clothed at all times, it took a little getting used to to see little zizis and little buttocks here, there, and everywhere. “Wow,” I thought, “These boys really like being naked.” A day or two later, I was in the kitchen preparing a meal while the boys were in the swimming hole, just outside, with their dad. I had already become accustomed to gazing out the generous windows, which take in the view of the pond, gardens, forest, and mountains. But, that day, I learned to discipline my gaze, because what do you know but not only the kids were skinny-dipping! Their dad, accompanying them, was playing as free and naked as an otter, oblivious (or perhaps not) that this modest WWOOFer could see it all from the kitchen!

The family split during part of my stay; Céline and Raphaël left to visit Julien’s parents for a bit of respite from the demanding farm rhythm, while back at the ranch, Julien, Rémi, and me kept the house and farm going. In consequence, Rémi spent a lot of time alone. One afternoon, I sought him out, where he was playing on the ledge outside the kitchen. We sat together with a colorful array of plastic dinosaurs. It didn’t take long for Rémi to start telling me all the fun facts he knows about dinosaurs. For a good hour, I tried my darnedest to follow the conversation, entering into the marvel of it all with him. “Can you imagine?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “A brontosaurus would be taller than this hill!” He gestured towards the hump of land against which the farm is nestled.

Céline and Raphaël came back a day before I had to leave. The younger brother had been brusque with me, for the most part, for the first few days. I kept trying new tactics to win his little heart: from casual touches and hugs to words of affirmation, from building-block fortress-making to stories, he remained distant. Then, hope against all hope, I tried “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” with hand movements. What it was that captured him in that, I don’t know, but he was practically hypnotized. He insisted that, before I leave, I draw him a picture of the song with the words, then examined it carefully to make sure no part was missing!

It was Céline and Raphaël who took me to the train station. Having said my good-byes to his mom, I opened the back passenger door of the car to kiss Raphaël, a brief smack on his cheek. Céline and I continued chatting. “I think you forgot my kiss,” he said. I laughed. “I don’t think I did, but I’ll take another, avec plaisir!” Smack, again, this time with intention. I gathered my things. “I think you forgot my kiss!” he said. I couldn’t resist his raspy little voice. I embraced him and smooched him good, then I closed the door, gathered my things, and head on my way.

Animal Power

Ferme de la Chabotte - Châtillon, France

Julien and Céline have been here for 7 years now. Having started out just the two of them and a yurt on 2 ½ acres of land, they soon had two boys and a mule and began to envision a house. Now they’re working that land with two greenhouses, animal power and tractor, permanent burms, 20 chickens, and a consistent flow of WWOOFers during the growing season. I spent ten days with them in August.

9am. My host, Julien, is sending off his wife and youngest son for three days of vacation. Meanwhile, I head up the hill, calling the mule. “Mona! (Whistle whistle whistle)” I can see her, up in the trees, staring at me. She’s not coming. I squish and squash through the muddy pen and further up, still calling. Finally, she and Upie, the other mule, start down.

Once I’ve put the halter on Mona, I go to open the electric fence. I don’t know how to maneuver the animal out without shocking one of us. How does this work? Upie, Mona’s companion, a young mule, is eager to get out and work, but she’s not trained yet. She weasels her way next to the fence, and I see that if I lay down the wire, she’ll be easily able to hop it. “No,” I think, “She knows better…” I guess you can’t reason that way about mules. Of course, she hops it and goes happily trotting down the hill, free and happy as a bird, and proud of herself, too. Mona goes to follow her friend, and I’m barely able to detain her while closing the fence. I feel a jolt of panic and a rush of adrenaline. What if Upie runs away? What if Mona goes after her? At once afraid and ashamed of my small failure, I breathe deeply to keep calm.

One eye on Upie and the other on Mona, I awkwardly tie her up to be groomed—once again realizing that I don’t know the right gesture. It’s been years and years since I worked with horses. Meanwhile, I yell to Julien to alert him of Upie’s escape. He’s not worried, and arrives several minutes later with Upie. Soon, he’s at our side, reminding me of basic horse skills as he cleans Mona’s hooves. I respond, piece by piece: “Oh yes, I remember… Yes, that makes sense… Can you show me that again?” My heart is still beating fast.

I help Julien to put on Mona’s tack. There are long, leather straps and thick metal buckles. The smells and feel of the sturdy, dirty leather remind me of my childhood and adolescence, when I rode with my cousins in Nebraska and in the corral at summer camp. I always loved the ritual of grooming and saddling a horse, and I love it now, even though I’m frustrated.

Julien and I walk Mona down to the field below the house, where the towing equipment is leaning ramshackle in the grass just off the side of the road. As Julien toggles blades into place, his older son, Rémi, who is 8, joins us. Though he’d rather have permission to watch cartoons, Rémi agrees to participate in the work with the mule. He’s never done it before—therefore, Julien finds himself with two novices and a riled-up mule on his hands.

Several days before, I had worked with Julien and Mona in a different field. In my mind, working with an animal would be slow-paced, earthy, and peaceful. While it was a joy, I found it to be much more challenging than I had anticipated. Guiding her required me to be tuned in to her attention level and direction, to give clear and timely directives in the right tone of voice, and to quickly respond if she turned to snack. When it was Julien guiding her, I was responsible for holding the equipment, heavy and not set for my small stature, and so difficult to manipulate. In either case, I had to walk in between the narrow furrows, “like a dancer,” Julien said, one booted foot in front of the other. It had required a great deal of concentration and we nicked quite a few vegetables in the process.

So, this morning, as we begin, I anticipate challenge. We start with Rémi guiding the mule from behind Julien. He’s just one row over from me as I man the hoe, walking alongside. I am aware that he’s not concentrated, and that the animal is distracted. The next row, we try a different combination. Rémi is too close to Mona this time, and it makes me nervous. As I watch him, my balance gets off and I step on a lettuce. We go back and forth like this several times, and with each go my chest tightens. It’s too much to pay attention to. Finally, I say, simply, “I feel pretty stressed, here.” Julien understands, and sends Rémi inside. Rémi, deflated, lopes off, crying. 

Compassion wells up in me and melds with the stress; I know he will be bored, that he’d rather be swimming with his dad. But, as Julien reminded him, this is a job that must be done today. “The challenge of working where you live,” he says to me, taking back the reins. I set my eyes back on the row and my hands back on the hoe, and Julien gives the command: “Mona, walk!”

strawberry meditations

The walk to the bus stop has become a home to me, these last several weeks. About an hour long, my road goes behind the village, past fields and vineyards at its outskirts, and up into a forested hill. There it turns and continues back downwards, into a flowering hamlet with patches of gardens and limestone caves that make one think of hobbits. The last leg goes by a pasture of horses and donkeys, a field of onions, and a group of houses in various states of repair and disrepair.

It is incredibly rare that I come across any human being, in the two-thirds of the path that is in the woods and fields. On the other hand, I am making the acquaintance of new sights, sounds, and sensations. As one who tastes wine frequently and attentively experiences a deepened capacity to taste the subtleties of the substance, I am discovering new details I never imagined I could notice—details that burst and fade and are ever changing.

Just in the last two weeks, I have perceived a change from late-spring to full summer. The large clusters of elderflowers have faded, as the berries begin to form. Angelica flowers have opened their great white umbrellas to adorn the ditches and sides of roadways. Filling all of this in are zillions of varieties of grasses catching the light on their heavy heads. The wild blackberry bushes are in flower and have all the insect world in a busy tizzy.

While the bees and their colleagues frequent their generous table, I have found my own sweet spots at which to taste of this abundance. Wild cherries along my path have come into full color; I can manage to harvest a small handful, but the rest hang like tempting baubles on unreachable branches. They are more than worth the several minutes it costs me to stop—at once warm, tender, and puckeringly tart even at their peak of ripeness.

And yet the real delicacy is the woodland strawberries. As of yet, there are not many; I may gather ten in a trip. No wider than a fingernail, they form mostly hidden under dark-green foliage at the forest floor. They reward those who seek to find them: just one in the mouth is like the opening of a universe. Eating these wild berries is an act of meditation.

In learning the French driving code, I’ve been reminded that the faster you drive, the smaller your frame of vision becomes. When driving slowly, you can take in the countryside, letting your eyes roam back and forth. Moving fast prevents the details from sinking in. It gets dangerous, because some of them are too precious to miss.

I miss going fast, honestly. But, Psalm 19 says,

“The heavens declare the glory of God;
    the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech;
    night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words;
    no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
    their words to the ends of the world.” (vs. 1-4)

And I want to be one who listens to and can understand what they are saying. My paying attention, my going  slow, the tasting and watching, are this prayer:

“May these words of my mouth and this meditation of my heart
    be pleasing in your sight,
    Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” (v. 14)

walking the race

It’s a holiday Monday here in France. There are families out on their patios, lingering over their noon meals, and teenagers biking through the little village where I live. I’m in an empty house, my housemates having left Saturday for two weeks of vacation.

This afternoon, I sent off my good friend, Amber, who was here visiting for the weekend. What’s funny is that I didn’t drop her off at the train station. We didn’t load her backpack in the trunk of the car and go. Nope, leaving this little point on a map meant that we set out on foot to the nearest bus stop. Amber was laughing, because in Paris, where she lives, getting on a bus is at worst a five-minute walk. Here, it was over an hour, through fields, forests, vineyard, and hamlets of white-stoned houses and potted flowers.

It’s been—gosh!—almost three years now since my Honda Civic got mysteriously ill and I sold her for a pittance before heading to France to be an au pair. Since then, carless is the word for this girl. In city and utter countryside, in the US and here in the country I’ve adopted, I have been living the adventure of not owning a vehicle.

Easier said than done, let me tell you! Like many of you, I grew up in Suburbia, where each person comes and goes as she sees fit. But, as I have discovered, relinquishing the ownership of a car means giving up your independence. Where transportation is concerned, I have come to move to the rhythm of others. I can borrow a car from my (generous) housemates when the Papa comes home from work. Carpools are good for long distances, but their timing is up to the driver. The closest bus comes three times a day: early morning, just-after-noon, and early evening.

With all this, a person learns to wait. “Se patienter,” we say in French, “to patient oneself.” Once again, I find myself living slower than the people around me, a snail on a leaf watching my dragonfly friends buzz and flit. Where to find the sense in this? How to justify it?

What I do know is that I am learning the value of things and the meaning of distance. As I communicate with people about transportation and am helped, I weave and construct new relationships. Sometimes I have to wait for hours in an unknown location in between modes of transportation, and it gives me the opportunity to explore. I know back roads and woodland paths that locals don’t.

This scenery is becoming a part of me, and I a part of it. I am seeing fields, hamlets, villages, and cities in great detail. And I don’t just see; I also smell, taste, touch, and listen. It’s my great pleasure to know, now, where to go to renew my wildflower bouquets that both smell and look vibrant, and collect precious handfuls of wild cherries that make me pucker. I’m watching a patch of Saint-John’s-wort put out its flowers so I can learn how to steep it in oil for sunburn treatment once they are ready.

Recognizing a thing or a place, and knowing its name, is to honor it and bless it. Tracing the hidden bumps of the countryside is intimately knowing it, and I feel as if I am slowly earning legitimacy in this place through this knowledge.

All of this reminds me that the Father’s kingdom is topsy-turvy. You gain your life by losing it, as Jesus says.