Your Friends Farm

If I’m lucky enough I’ll remember that this past year brought a recognition of true blessing through loss that would threaten to rip me limb from limb.

The breath in our lungs is blessing, not the things that we experience, the material found in flesh or plastic, weddings or babies; true blessing is found in the life that is within the breath that moves freely from inside out and back again.

This breath allows us to truly live and I hope that with what I’ve seen and what I’ve learned that whenever my last breath comes I will feel assured that I had plenty of them.

This breath allows us to love, to feel, to forgive, to believe, to be angry and sad, scared and brave.

This breath has no ability to lie or make us feel better about the complexities of this life, rather it begs for honesty.

I’ve held last breaths, in my life, on the farm, from far away and within my arms. It’s powerful, and often times wasted.

If I’m lucky enough I’ll remember that this breath is my blessing. And everything else that comes as a result of me holding it within my body is a gift.

In the fall of 2021 we began what would be a very long season of death. We experienced it, anticipated it, cheated it, wished it away, were surprised by it, and attempted to befriend it but not before we learned to live amongst it.

On one particularly dark day in October I sat behind the barn and I prayed, pitchfork in hand, angry, mad, and demanding in tone. I yelled for goodness, and a heart that I could trust.

I looked out into the fields beyond us and cried, and cried some more. It was a good cry and for good reason, most are. And out of the field flew a single bluebird. Way past its season, it caught me by surprise; it was my sign of good and I promised that I would trust, it as my witness.

The Western Bluebird has been sign of happiness, hope, and good luck for many different cultures for thousands of years. I’ve read that in some cultures they even see bluebirds as “hope beyond the grave” an invitation for joy in all things. This has been my desire for my heart over the last few years, that I would search for nourishment and joy regardless of the circumstances. In that October I had no idea how much death would come our way or just how much hope I would need beyond it.

Tonight I saw four bluebirds hop around behind the barn and as we were walking back to the house, Grace spotted a feather that they had left behind.

What a gift. 💕

Mud and dirt covering my hands and knees, worms and ladybugs to keep me company, the magic of an unexpected harvest to bring hope within reach; it’s a beautiful place the garden.

When I enter the garden I feel wonder and possibility creep into my bones, my brain free to dream as I complete the rhythmic task of weeding or picking or pulling. I get lost in the sounds of the birds, the chaotic buzzing of the bees, the snap of a freshly collected piece of kale or the sound of onions ripping from the soil; this noise represents a symphony of industry, my own and that of the other living things that share this place with me.

Tonight under the moon and the shade cloth my head lamp attracted every bug imaginable. As they bounced off of my forehead I was tempted to be annoyed but then I remembered that I was in their home, a place that they spend every evening resting, likely eating, and most definetly living out their lives that I know so little about.

One evening a week I come out to harvest, disturbing what is perfectly happy and healthy without me. I am in a world that I tend to but I do not control. A world that demands connection, always welcoming me to work alongside it and constantly reminding me that I’m never above it.

Some beauty for you today, friends.

I love the contrast of this electric orange calendula up against the dry grass and the blue sky.

My hands show the labor that garden requires, dry, dirt covered skin that doesn’t quite seem to match the effortless beauty of the orange blooms, and yet the two benefit from one another.
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Some days are harder than others, awestruck by the contrast of joy and pain, the beauty on the outside is a welcome reprieve.

Orange, brown, blue.

The Riches of this Farmer.

A full barn of hay and alfalfa means one farm sold what they had to grow while another has enough to grow something different.

A full barn of hay leads to full fields of full bellies, that will grow and flourish to support and fill the bellies of our community.

A full barn of hay leads to ease and comfort for the harsh winter, the animals will be well fed, and therefore be well prepared to withstand piercing wind and deep snow.

A full barn of hay leads to a content and confident farmer who can rest assured that there will be plenty for the seasons that lie ahead; it’s a feeling of abundance that will fill their minds and hearts as they pass that full barn.
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I felt rich today as the last bales of hay left the trailer. Not because we have more but because we have enough. We don’t plan for more than we need, as strange as that sounds, we aim for having plenty.

And plenty the alfalfa farmer had to provide for the plenty that this farmer now has, which means plenty for the animals and plenty for those that allow us to be a part of their tables.

Plenty is where the riches of the farmer are found.

Some nights look like a watercolor painting, soft and wispy, a careful placement of color, welcoming peace and calm.

While other nights the sky fills with fire, that builds an intensity of emotion, colors so bright they pierce your eyes and sometimes your soul.

I have seen more sunsets in the last 4 years than ever before in my life. I’m sure there’s hardly been a day that I’ve missed it, actually.

All of these sunsets have made me wonder how one thing can happen every single day and yet never be the same, not even twice.
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Yesterday was much like this sunset; intense, stressful, and begging for attention.

We worked from 7am to Midnight, it’s beginning very much matched its end.

We bounced between housework, work in the garden, and work in the barn. I managed to make it to an appointment, grab groceries, and make a feed run.every second of my day was full.

It was a day just like any other and yet so different from the one before. Not good or bad but there. I had more questions than answers and I went to bed with tension.

It was a day on fire.
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Today, I’m hoping for watercolors.

I woke up wiggling my toes with breath in my lungs. There is breeze outside my window and warm sun coming through the curtains. I can hear the dog breathing softly and birds in the yard.

I’m being invited to welcome this day fresh and new.

Peace and calm are welcoming me, they are here.
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There is no telling how this day will end but I know its beginning.

A day like any other but all its own.

Soft and wispy or fire, it’s here; I’m here.
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Yesterday the farm filled with who we call, friends. Car after car pulled in to retrieve the first gifts of summer from the farm in the form of poultry.

Out of those cars came mostly little legs that carry little bodies that hold hearts and minds full of curiosity and an ability to understand and absorb things far beyond that of any creature that stands above them.

They have arrived and you can tell. Excitement is seeping out of every pore, they want to see and touch and feel their way around the farm. They collect feathers and sheep hair, they squeeze baby chicks and let kittens crawl on their backs, they use a small voice to talk about the calf in the field, and live out ideas and dreams that they’ve had that day as the anticipated their arrival.

We talk about boundaries and food and eating baby animals. They take things as they are but they also aren’t afraid to ask a question.

And this is all being connected to their food story, a story that will accompany them as they travel through their lives. There will always be names and bodies and mannerisms and personalities attached to the food that they eat, whether they source their food from us or elsewhere. Abundance will be forever attached to this beginning and fun and joy will accompany it.

I am humbled. To bear witness to any of this, let alone be allowed to help to nourish them in any way breaks me, builds me, and fuels me forward.

To be a farmer that is able to grow food in relationship to the soil, the animals, and those that support us and let us call them friends is a true gift. To have a name in this oftentimes anonymous food system that we are part of is something that I don’t hold lightly.

Thanks for celebrating 🐓 i hope that you love it, that you taste the sunshine and the soil and feel joy for this place that we call home.

And thanks for calling me by name, I’m happy be your Farmer Jess, it’s one of the greatest joys of my life.

Attempting to prioritize self-care in my summer routine, ensuring I nourish myself as well as I do others.

Recognizing the need to take a break before 5 pm, knowing it’s up to me to prioritize self-care.

While many assume farmers eat well in summer, access doesn’t always mean abundance. Summers are physically demanding, with heat exhaustion a real concern. Staying hydrated isn’t as simple as it sounds.

Taking breaks is challenging when the sun’s heat drains energy, making it tough to muster up the appetite or energy to cook.

This summer, I’m committed to a change. Some days have been successful, others not so much, but I’ll focus on the good and learn from the bad😂remembering how much I value being kind and patient over crabby and ravenous.

Things that helped -

- Sitting in a cool space to eat. The garage kitchen with its bucket seats and all access pass to food and kombucha provide a comfortable atmosphere that allow me to bring my temperature down and focus on the one thing I need to do.

-Having food made, or at least parts of a preexisting meal that I can easily make into another.

-Kombucha in the fridge. I’m back on the wagon, brewing and drinking it at least once a day. I find it to be so refreshing and it’s so good for my gut and digestion.

-Liquid IV - I know that I could make my own electrolyte drinks, probably for cheaper and probably in a way that aids my health more efficiently but these drink sticks do the trick, they taste good, and they keep me drinking. They also don’t require me to do anything extra, I don’t have time for extra right now. So here’s your permission if you need it, take the shortcut if it means that you will drink the water, you’re worth it.

And if you know a hot farmer, give them a hug or better yet tell them that you love them and hand them a glass of water.

Just another dreamy night in the farm.

Bottle Baby Therapy, trying to figure out a way to provide it for the public ;) But really, these lambs know how to make you feel good.

Green grass, cozy lambs, moody sky; perfection.

Have you ever thought of the beauty that a storm brings along with its chaos?

Last night as we scurried around like squirrels preparing for winter, covering anything that was threatened by the ice that was predicted, the sky put on a show.

I couldn’t help but get caught up in the wonder that even the hardest and longest days bring here.

A backdrop and stage full of light-vast beauty- in a world that often seems too busy to notice just how marvelous the sky is.

We noticed.

Pictured 1- Amanda 2 and 3- Freckle 4-Alice 5- Peach 6- Koopa 7-Callie - one of these things is not like other.

One of the things I have taken note of since becoming a farmer is how much time I spend below the animals.

When I’m in the field with the sheep, I often get low to call them near, to watch their posture and their movement, or to take note of their condition. I can much more accurately tell how they are by being among them, rather than above them.

When I milk the cows, I sit on a stool by their side or squat beside them, below their bodies and toward their rear, this isn’t a position of pride but one of service.

When I’m helping with farrowing or lambing or calving, I am at the back end, rarely standing. In service to the bodies of the animals I’m caring for, watching and listening and responding to their needs over that of my own.

These are more than just tasks I perform, they are in fact services that I provide.
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As Celeste and I learn to patiently remain together for milking I am reminded that my connection to her is about a relationship, it’s about more than milk and what she can provide. In order for us to succeed we must work together, trusting one another. I am in service to Celeste.

Our one goal for our time together right now is that we finish the job that we start, morning and night. Cows are social and within the herd there is a hierarchy, I may be at the top of the ladder but I will always serve from below. We are learning to be herd mates, and I am proving myself to be the boss cow, this takes time.

Some see patience as a behavior, I see it as a posture that one learns to hold; it’s an embodied attitude, that’s real and felt - no matter the creature. Farming takes this kind of patience, and “milkmaiding” is no different. No matter how many times the bucket gets bumped or I get whipped with a tail I get to choose to remain, we are building a relationship.

I 💕Celeste and she 💕s me - it’s not all rainbows and roses but we are getting there; one bucket 🪣 at a time.

Not much to say but I love the truck, I love the man beside me, and this sunset brought tears to my eyes.

Happy to live in a place that allows me to soak things in at a pace that allows for a rusty old truck and heart that feels similar.

Happy to spend an evening swatting at mosquitos while digging a hole and drinking a cold beverage with friends who care and remain.

Happy to be a farmer who not only needs to be home but wants to be, who appreciates roots, and the pastures that grow from them.

Happy to live this beautiful life that reflects light and love and everything that comes with it.

I wore my grandpas hat to work around the farm on Sunday. He was a milkman, and a gardener, a farmer who owned the same tractor since the 50’s.

On days like Sunday, when the weather is less than and there are things to get done, I wonder about how many days he got up early to milk through circumstances and realities that he would have chosen to be different.
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Farming desensitizes you- in a way- to the weather. Bad weather only exists if you let it, animals need to be fed, cows need to be milked and water needs to be hauled, no matter if it’s raining, windy, snowing or a combination of the three. A bad attitude only makes the things worse, building resentments for the life you chose.

-Having a mindset of choice keeps you from feeling powerless, the one thing that you have control over is your showing up.-

I got started mowing and it started to pour, then I hit some twine which resulted in a broken belt and since the world doesn’t stock belts anymore 😉 I CHOSE to push mow a few acres.

As I pushed I thought about something that Farmer Brian always says, “Is it that you can’t or that you won’t?”

We have a choice most times to give up, finding ourselves powerless in our circumstances. Or we can simply find another way. This is true for our attitudes, our capacity and our capabilities.

Mowing, although I would preferred my cush life on my zero turn, was neither a can’t or a won’t; it was a do it differently with what we had available to do it with.

Yard work could have been a won’t had we let the rain decide what we could or couldn’t do, instead we decided to stick to the plan, strapping on our headphones to set to our tasks taking every opportunity to catcall one another as we went on our way.

At the end of the day we both felt accomplished, we stood back and looked at the yard and shared gratitudes for the rain and this beautiful work that we get to choose everyday.

It’s a privilege to be a farmer.

There are photos that capture elements of me, this one of them.

Kneeling in the pasture, with my arms around a lamb, reflecting on this season. Messy hairy under a hat, dressed in an oversized shirt and my favorite pants, likely dirt on my face. Perfect white clouds that fill blue sky’s, birds all around.

This is life on pasture, with animals that are encouraged to love and be loved, living their very best life in connection to their shepherd and the soil.

This is my very best life; the soil and the sheep have become elements of my very being. I feel at home here.

Taking in the views of our first few days on pasture for the sheep herd.

To me there is nothing more beautiful than seeing them enjoying life on fresh green grass.

Cheers to the weekend, friends. May you find an inspiring view of your own to take in.

Something that I’ve learned over the last few years is that our happy moments weren’t meant to act as salve for our grief or sadness.

Happy gets to be happy and sad gets to be sad and sometimes they happen at the same time but that doesn’t mean that one has to cancel out the other for either emotion to be true.
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How are you doing, is the worst question you could ask me these day because of this very truth. I am happy and sad, one moment I’m dancing and the next moment I’m weeping and sometimes I’m dancing and weeping at the same time. I don’t really know how to explain it but I can share that it is a beautifully exhausting season and I am inviting myself to show up and keep living no matter which emotion is presenting itself.
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I’ve been having a one song dance party in the stantion before I bring the cows in the barn for milking. I choose a song that makes me feel and and a song that makes me want to move my body, while taking a few minutes to intentionally release the tension that is created from the presence of the many emotions that call my body home right now.

This exercise is freeing, it feels familiar (I love to dance), and it creates a moment of embodiment that I have found to be so incredibly healing over the years. I take in the sounds and the smells, I feel the warm sun through windows, and watch the animals as they gather around their crazy farmer or flee for a space to watch from “safety”.
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The farm has been the best teacher about sad and happy, and their relationship. A fresh batch of babies and the loss of a tried and true member of the herd can happen on the same day, both can exist simultaneously without canceling the validity of the other out.
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Our happy moment weren’t meant to act as a salve for our sad ones.

What does it mean to be worth it?

We’ve been selling flowers from the farm since the beginning. I grew up with a mom who did the same thing.

I’ve noticed that most often we create bouquets to be given from whoever has purchased them to someone else.

You learn a lot about someone and how they love through making bouquets. Both happy and sad moments seem worth the delivery of a fresh batch of joy.

I was talking to a friend and they mentioned that they hadn’t ever bought flowers for themselves and that really made me think about the love that we have for our own hearts and minds in the happy and sad moments.

And so I coined the phrase, “You’re worth the flowers.”

Because you, my friends, are worth the fresh pop of color that brings wonder into a dark day or celebration into a happy one.

Today I picked myself a fresh bunch of tulips to remind myself of the same thing, I’m worth these flowers and what they bring to me. Wonder abounds in their texture and color, joy comes freely through the petals and stems and the reminder of my own need for light will come as I watch them stretch and grow towards the windows over the next week.

Wonder, joy,and light; I’m worth all three.

I look around the farm and I see and feel my Dad wherever I go. In my truck and tractor, while I sit on the side of my cow, in the barn and in the field. There’s nothing that we’ve done that he hasn’t been a part of, helped with, given advice on or rooted for; he’s everywhere.

Our second night here my parents came to help us move in and get settled. My dad looked at me that next morning and said, “I bet it feels good to be home.” He knew more than anyone just how much this dream meant to me.

He loved the farm and he loved me and I love seeing him here in all that we have and all that we do. But it is going to be so hard to do this without him.
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Today I was standing in the field, absent from my thoughts, caught in exhaustion and overwhelm when I felt Lucy paw at my leg. Last year I spent so much time grieving my mom with Rosie, my best sheep, and it’s been so hard to grieve this loss without her. I knelt down to check in with Lucy today and she immediately put her forehead to mine, just as Rosie used to do, pushing up the brim of my hat to touch.

Perhaps she knows, I thought, perhaps she could sense my absence and my need for a bit of companioning.

This is my heart and this is my home. I can hurt and I can heal, sometimes at the same time.

Peace to you today, in you and with each other.

Look for the good and you will find light and light will always signify life.

This light exists in all living things, animal or human, plant and soil.

In my heart I know that life requires a death, the farm is incredibly representative of that belief. For me to truly live something else will not. Sacrifices are made each day and life is sustained because of them.

And because of this all life must be honored equally to truly be able to honor our own, living ourselves with hope that is able to mourn loss and seek joy.

Today my heart was heavy for a myriad of reasons, obvious and otherwise. The older I get the more I am able to honor the life that we all share alongside the one that is lived separately with its many intricacies. The older I get the more I want to include the many stories of others that I love within my own, forming a larger story that speaks of togetherness and unity.

The farm teaches us this too as we see the symbiotic nature of all living things, that separately have their own specific needs for sustenance while also living dependent among one another.

For example, the lambs that were just born are dependent on their mothers who are dependent on the grass that is dependent on the soil; all of which is dependent on the life and death that is sustained through the sun and the rain, the well planned seasons and the many other animals that share in their need for the same things…including me.

This is a story of light and life, death and mourning, joy and sorrow, nourishment and love.

May you feel loved, like really loved.
May you feel included, as you have been, as you are and as you will be.
Truly.

A few days before we lost my dad I told Brian that I really wanted a Dutch door in the milking room. After three years of milking outside, no matter the conditions, surrounded by the sounds of the birds and the barnyard, the breeze or the rain, I had gotten quite used to feeling whatever it was that the day would hold.

Lots of folks don’t go out in the rain, in fear of getting wet or being cold. But as a farmer you learn to live in any kind of weather.

I’ve been asked time and time again what my favorite thing is about the life that we live and my answer is often in reference to the invitation that comes with the sunrise everyday.

My chores aren’t as much of a must as they are an opportunity to feel each day as it comes, instead of how I’d hope it to be. You don’t farm unless you love it, and you will never love it if you resent the contents of the sky.

Even a gray day can be beautiful if you allow yourself to get caught in the wonder of the clouds. Even a rainy day can be enjoyable if you to take a moment to recognize the life that the wet provides.

Farmer Brian shows me that he loves me through acts of service, often setting himself to the work of bringing a desire of mine to life when my world grows dim. Ive had plenty of opportunity to receive this over the last few years. This time it was dutch door to bring a bit of my outside in.

My heart feels full of clouds right now, there is wonder of the most beautiful kind and sorrow that can bring fear and anxiety if I rest there to long. But there’s also an invitation to simply be, no matter the clouds or the rain.

Spring and its little way of making all things seem a little bit lighter.

We’ve enjoyed the weekend, working together, tackling some projects and just generally catching sight of each other from across the farm.

I hope someday that this will be everyday.

But for now we’ve got the evenings and we are taking full advantage of the extra sunlight. The weekends come with a long list of things that we desire to accomplish, and together we do accomplish quite a lot.

Tonight he we sat down and I said, “I sure this life of ours.” And the other farmer said, “Me too.”

Brian has been catching these moments of me being myself. I can’t describe what I feel when I see what he sees. But if I tried I’d tell you that what I see is me.
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I’ve been described as strong, but I would never describe myself that way. I am easily hurt but not easily offended. I feel everything. I have not an inch of thick skin, it’s all paper thin.
The thin skin lets me feel the world around me, it’s enhanced my curiosity and allowed me to let things go more quickly, the felling even fuels me at times propelling forward to learn.
Most people are hurting, even when they are happy because joy and pain are synonymous.

I’ve been described as brave, but I feel fearful quite often.

I’ve been described as stubborn and that one might stick but I think that I would be more accurately described as a woman who has learned that there are just some things that are worth being firm about, no matter the cost. My own heart, my children and my partner in this life are worth cutting for 💕

I would describe myself as soft, my heart feels kind to me, I’m sensitive and I know what I need. I also knows what is important to me. My values are what are strong, and my beliefs although well rooted are always open to change, as I meet new people and experience things; this world and the creatures in it are beautiful and worth loving almost all of the time.
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My sweet sister was here this weekend and she said on more than one occasion, “I could never be a farmer.”

I know what she meant and I know for a fact that she didn’t mean that she felt that I was heartless, I know she knows all of the above mentioned traits that I carry.

The truth is, some days, I don’t know how we do it either, but I don’t rest there.

Those feelings are fleeting.

The feelings that stick are wrapped in my soft heart that tells me that I’m living a life that matters, my work makes a difference, my animals are loved and so are our customers.

I’m not an anomaly ,although you won’t see most farmers on Instagram, let alone a farmer crying over a sheep.

But farmers cry and farmers feel.

The hard isn’t enough to stop us.

My head laid on Hildie’s side and my body rested in the dirt as I felt the sun soak into the very fibers of my being today.

As I laid underneath the sky I thought about the beauty of this garden, the food that it’s grown, the bodies that it’s nourished and the joy that it brings season after season.

This past year it nourished the friends of the farm, the leftovers nourished the lambs in their final weeks and I left a batch of beets and carrots for the pigs to dig and eat throughout the winter.

With each season I did my best to make sure that we left food for the soil to soak in and absorb to provide for the next.

Roots from the cabbage, lettuce and marigolds, tomatoes, peppers and basil were left behind to make pathways for water and rain throughout the fall.

The lambs ate the leftover plant matter, leaving behind their manure to nourish the soil.

The pigs gently tilled the ground, eating the roots, the unwanted thistle, the beets and the carrots. They left behind spent grain from the brewery and spread out a perfect covering of straw that broke down under the wet snow and ice.

And the chickens joined in to spread the excrement, they are always faithful to eat the things that everyone else chooses to ignore.

Many see the soil as a source of sustenance and nothing more. But i believe the soil to be the source of my form and as a result I feel that I have a sacred responsibility to love and care for it; it has and will continue to give me life.

This year we will move the crops once again. Light feeders and soil enrichers will take the place of the nightshades and cabbages of last year. This garden will hold onions, beans, peas, carrots, beets and chard for the season. I will pick and harvest for our friends, for the animals and for ourselves; it will once again provide for us all.