Hand Sown Revolution



Morning coffee finds my mouth and its hot invitation of day slips through, opening the eyes of my fleshy body. My alarm sounded at 4 AM with distant thunder rolling off from the night with clouds parting into the day. Light rain could still be heard dappled on the roof with the rooster crowing still sheltered in the coop. Wiping my eyes and losing thought in the kitchen I stopped in the middle of the counter, beneath the tapping rain, picked up my shears and began to build a bouquet.

My kitchen litter of the seasons is the most beautiful in its own right. Artemesia leaves sprinkle the counter next to large, beyond palm sized peonies. Anthers tower out of the first lilies of the year, petals ripe with a pale apricot center which fade out into a dusky pink of sundown. How you can see an entire sky in a flower, I think to myself as I strip the stem, thinking of how I will give the arrangement to my mother. My rule is that the first flower of each type is for Mother Earth and left alone. The first cut bloom goes to my Mother I hold so dearly, to whom I owe my life to – the one who gave me life. Trimming the stems of the drumstick alliums to size I fit them in to tower slightly above lemony irises and coral peonies half opened. Sweet Williams sing their unfurling of spring hugging the limbs of the lily. When all feels good and right to me, I stop, ending with another hot sip of coffee as dawn comes on.

The early preparation was for a local news segment who invited me to come on and talk about flowers. Two channels caught wind of a class I am teaching tomorrow on how to grow flowers, but I told each of them that I wanted to focus less on the promotion of the farm or the class, but instead to reach people and talk about why growing flowers is so significant independent if they can make it to the class or not.

Uncertain of how political they would let me get I forged ahead regardless. It turns out the news folks were just as surprised as I was to know that 85% of flowers sold in the United States are imported from South America. Flowers are a source of beauty used for all of our steps of life from celebration to grief and they have been a staple as such in all cultures dating back in the far reaches of time. Sarcophagi were draped with collars of cornflowers. We celebrate life, all the same, when we bestow flowers upon one another when a baby is born, or we make it one more round about the sun. Flowers are nourishment for our pollinators who help to secure and increase our food yields, and in essence, we need them to live. The ephemera and cycles of flowers mirror our own ephemera and it is perhaps for this reason that they are the symbol present for all life cycles and therein their presence is never unappreciated. Even when we say, “In lieu of flowers…” we still expect, desire, and appreciate the presence of the flower. I like to think that flowers are where we come from (the earth) and it is where we will also return to. In essence, we will become of the world again as compost to press up more flowers and organic matter. It is no wonder then that our fascination and need to addle our lives with flowers persists. We are Of the Flowers.

I agreed to the two news interviews to encourage the connection that growing your own flowers is a compassionate choice that spills love into the world because it disrupts a capitalistic, earth-blind cycle. Because the United States imports an inordinate amount of flowers from South America there is a chain of pain that persists impacting our environment and our global/common neighbors. We live in a place that feeds off of our disconnect (from one another, from the earth) and capitalism. Buying flowers from the grocery store seems like such an innocuous choice. The reality of that choice, however, is that it is a consumer vote that creates a demand for the unsustainable. The places these flowers are grown foster chemical laden work environments which compose a workforce where 20% of them are children. The men, women, and children who work in these environments are prone to neurological defects and myriad other health issues which are severe and life threatening. Those same toxic chemicals seep into our ground water, again threatening the health of the earth, its people, and all species who depend upon this place to live and proliferate.

Unfortunately, television blurbs only allow for so much time and only so many facts could be squeezed in between the same questions like, “How did you get into farming? Which flowers are good for bouquets?” I am happy, however, that I was able to speak a little bit of my gospel which is that the world is in trouble and needs our help.

A long walk through the countryside yesterday after a news segment it dawned on me how powerful that voice of reason is, and to fully embody that voice of reason to the best of my abilities. When I was a little girl that voice of reason came into me from another adult who cared a whole lot and I was deeply saddened when I found out that we had holes in our ozone layer and one day it would contribute to the end of everything we love, including ourselves, if we did not do something to help the earth. I remember crying at the kitchen table to my mom saying we had to do something. What we settled on that day was getting out my rainbow stationery and I was determined to write to the person I had already learned had the greatest power: the President. “Perhaps I could illuminate some realities for the president,” I must have thought, because I knew that anyone with that much power would absolutely do something about the crisis if they were only aware. (Later would come junior high and the awareness that the Holocaust existed, and how could NO ONE DO ANYTHING?!)

“Is growing flowers easy?” they’ve all asked. My answer, across the board, has been YES. I am a novice, at best. I am just a woman kissing bulbs before I set them into the soil and kissing the flowers when I harvest. I am a person with bare minimal knowledge of what I am doing or how to make a flower fruit. I invite children to plant alongside me, and we haphazardly scattered wildflower seeds into the soil last year just to see what would happen. Seeds are determined to grow. All they beg of is soil, sunlight, water, air, and some hand of motion to lay it to the ground (a wind, a bird, our hands, the defecation of another animal – truly anything in motion that will allow it to drop to the ground and unfurl its magic).

I realize my job now is to continue sowing the seeds and helping empower people to be the renegade flower planters, too. It is as though my purpose, as a more learned adult now, is not to write to The President but to write to all of the Many Presidents which populate this earth. The biggest problem is that we have lost our sense of agency to create direct change ourselves. Such a profound problem has been socially cultivated to disconnect from one another as humans and disconnect from the earth to perpetuate thick intertwined cycles of capitalistic culture which functions to keep certain populations of people down and elevates a select few into the heights of monetary riches, despite the risk and harm this places on human nature, real people, and ecosystems. We see ourselves as powerless and we accept the powerlessness of where we are as the place we are and will always be. It does not have to be this way. We think that we have to Be Somebody to plant a flower or a garden, that we have to have a green thumb or a background in biology, a farmer, or that we need the help of chemicals that are the antithesis of help and are more so a long term harbor of harm and will prevent the fruits of our desire (whether it be a flower, a fruit, a vegetable, etc.).

“Making changes is sometimes as simple as doing the doable thing,” a sign near me reads. We won’t be able to immediately unbraid all of the ills that have been instilled, and continue to thrive, world wide based on a sick chain that prizes money over, quite truly, ALL living things. But we always have choices in this life. I understand that not everyone can always make the most ethical choices because our world is built against the most moral, good ethics. For instance, it can be really difficult to abstain from purchasing goods encased in plastic, or non-recyclables like styrofoam especially if it is housing a product that we really need. But we still have agency. The most we can do then, is to try and be more careful consumers and use our consumer vote towards what we believe in, or rather, what we don’t believe in. Too, it is not to be underestimated the things we can do to offset the capitalistic chain we do not believe in by doing what we can to benefit our communities and environment in the ways that are accessible to us.

Sow the seeds and see what happens. You don’t have to be anyone but YOU to make a difference in this world. The world is your witness. Please, never underestimate your personal power to make a difference in this world. You need the flowers and the flowers need you!  You can participate in a revolution beginning with one plant.


Written by Abby Juanita Rodriguez, May of 2016.


By The Skin of My Teeth



The sump pumps churn in the basement alternating forceful, consistent blows of water from the concrete foundation, up and out of the house. Ten inches of snow melt seeped into the November soil followed by two days of consistent rain, asking too much of the ground below to hold. Freshly emptied water buckets under the dripping roof have been poured into the sink and returned to their kindred tile homes eager for new collection of earth which spills inside. I boot up and take a light to the basement examining the streams that press in from the walls, remembering salamanders dwelling there during flooded days of early spring when the water ceased to keep from the walls. One half brick and two lengths down in the corner on the north wall is a mental note I make to myself where water pours in. Under the chimney boiling up from the floor. Another hole high up above one sump pump where water cascades down the wall, three holes apparent building a stream, and one room of the basement ankle deep with too much water to assume there is only one culprit spot allowing in the flow.

The kitchen is filthy and frigid, my belly hungry with cold in my bones. I take a hot shower first so that the water will warm my fat allowing me a more pleasant mood to cook a hot egg and warm some bread in a pan which will warm me from the inside. My skin begins to cool the longer I cook, but thoughts of the hot yolk slipping down my throat are promising. There is still no insulation in my ceiling, and when the heat kicks on part of me sickens visualizing dollars I do not have evaporating out of the cracks and through the roof. I part the blanket separating the living room and kitchen to get under blankets and a heating pad to eat my steaming egg and rosemary bread.

There are moments on this farm where I feel like I have the help of the world, and this is a truth. It is also a truth that I am a single woman, and all of these trickles of water and slips of heat are burdens all my own. There is no one beside me hustling pastries, sewing goods, planting for spring, making soap, or caring for babies to make an income to put into the roof or the walls. My saviors are my two hands, my hurting legs which still allow me to move and walk, and a sense of capable self worth and gratitude which prevents me from wallowing in disbelief in the power to accomplish and provide for myself.

This is no plea for pity. It is a truthful analysis of my days. They are both sweet and tart. “Three things of joy, one of grief, that makes a living thing,” I keep this statement alive in my brain when I feel simultaneous gratitude and truthful pangs of struggle. I am alive. My shower curtain is weeping with hard water, stained from the family who lived here formerly, and never replaced new when I moved in. Lady bugs cluster together on the ceiling in the bathroom where there is still insulation and the steam of the hot water enlivens them again, and they start to skate around the ceiling resurrected. Who am I to kill them when they cluster for warmth as I would if there was a belly to my back? Seeing their shells meet I feel an affinity to them as though we are in this together. I thought to myself how to so many people this house is unsavory and gross with its many issues and the wildlife it tends to harbor. To me, it is my home.

“As long as you’re in no hurry, it doesn’t matter how much work your house needs,” a neighbor once said to me among a corn field. With certainty, there are many accomplishments that will come in slow time. In the meantime, it is imperative that I fight for each dollar in the jobs I take on because my time is worth it, my skills are worth it, and my heart is pure in every job I take on. If I make you food, it is with a yolk colored of the sun down, rich, and labored by a hen who mustered what she could with the dwindling light of the season. If I care for your baby, I give them my heart and my hands, and if my body was willing I would lend them my breast. When I give you my time, I give you my life. When I give you my word, I give you my heart.

Just now, I am supposing I simply wish the world knew. I wish that all of our employers, all of those in positions of power with dangling dollars, could see what our individual lives hold, and how hard we are working to put those dollars into warming our walls. And in so, perhaps those employers would limp their wrists and let down the dollar easy and say, “I see how you love my child. I see how cold your kitchen is. I see how your work is the earth’s work. I see how you nurture life among the land and life among our homes. I see you are trying. And because I am in this position of power, and because I honor what you give to my family and what you give to the world, and how you honor your word, I, too, will honor my word and will stay true and giving in the reciprocity you provide for my family and the sleep I collect because your hands and heart are at work in my home, in the heart of my child, in the heart of the earth wherein I am absent. I cease the negotiation of your time.”

But what more to do, than to speak the truth, illuminate what we can, and move on where our light is not seen. Praise be for strong friends who remind us of our capacity and our worth. Praise be that I live among these lady bug companions who remind me that all I ever wanted were simple walls that I would enliven into a Home, and land wherein I could be free. So be it that the sump pumps wanted one more workout before the coming again of spring rains, and so be it that the kitchen has yet to keep its warmth. I am grateful for all I have, for I have much more than I have not. I have life, freedom, mobility despite pain, a warm bed, myself and animals fed, my praise of days, loving friends and family, capable and hardworking hands, and a heart so full that it only continues to multiply in love for all the earth harbors.

I might be making it by the skin of my teeth, finding it difficult to ask for what I need, but I am asking for what I need, and by the skin of my teeth, I am making it and fully alive, a living thing.

Abby Juanita Rodriguez, November 2015.

In The Morning Light



When I walk into the morning light of the field, the grasses below are soft and succulent, of green. Hundreds of grasshoppers shimmer a flash in jump as though they are peeling the seas as I amble through the pasture. Their scattered hops sound of rain as they land newly leafed elsewhere. Ragweed leaves sag with new found jumping companions and blades of grass are made iridescent with the winged creatures weighing them heavy.

There is a persistent purr of chirps orchestrated by all of the bugs of September. The sound that is here today, with errant cricket songs, is the one that will be blanketed by the white of winter. (And there will be joyous rest in that silence, too.) I am taking note of the fertility today as I feel the seasons changing, and I am writing it as a reminder that I reveled in these seasons. I drank the nectar day after day and I continue to sip from the well of great fertility and grace.

A buoyant field of goldenrod gently bounces with the breeze and with the sun it makes gold layered upon gold. This morning I woke to the proud stalks of goldenrod and sunflowers and I wept. A human could not dream a more beautiful life than what is presented here in our days on this beautiful Earth.

The trees are changing ever so slightly in color, with the cottonwood seeming the first to layer its yellows and lose its leaves, gently shedding each day. Much else is still lush, green, and giving. Warm pears are plucked from the trees and in so a bowed branch is released upward again. Worms are delighting in each fallen fruit that comes to them sooner than to my hands and they rejoice in the plenitude, as do the chickens. My kitchen smells of homemade apple sauce and simmering pear, and my grandfather’s concord grapes scent the September air, sending me back to my youth and I am waist high all over again. Except this time, I am taking steps in becoming my mother and grandmother. Each gift in the grape they have instilled into me I practice now to pass onto another, waist high or otherwise.

I will be singing of the morning light and the evening light long after I have returned to the soil and come again in the golden morning. Each thread of day, of year, of season, of moment, is a golden bath unto its own. And here we flicker in the jubilant seas like the grasshopper iridescent in the rays, shining long into the day, pretend alchemists to the already gold.


A Drink of July


gladunique butterflyparty

Morning rain weaves through my braids, soaking in to the forgiving cotton of my dress. I step through pathways and crags of Earth split by two forces out of balance: days of asking the soil to accept unending torrents of water followed by days of asking the soil to accept unrelenting heat, accompanied only by the moisture of dew manufactured in the night.

A toad steps with me, setting off my balance for a moment, my eyes wild as though the ground is slipping from beneath me. I laugh and say hello, upon realizing. Though the sky continues its wet release a bee dives its face deep into the inner wreath of flowers, the crown of the Cherry Queen Zinnia.

Sensing my gaze, she removes her face from the flower and reveals a mustard dust of pollen upon her mask.

There was a white season where her wings were silent and suckled stored honey for survival, the season before I had sown the seed. Perhaps even in her winter she had hoped for me.

And today great pleasure washes over me as though I have been sap sipping through the morning to see her arrive at the floral breakfast.

And yesterday, to see a hummingbird stop at rest upon the tip of a blossoming gladiolus, moving ever minutely in the breeze before wings were again a flutter as she beaked downward into each white cove of the flowers, missing not one on the stalk, before her liatris flight.

My hands are felt in the visual splendor,

And I can see my mind is healthy and persistent

By measure of what grows among me.

Zinnias reach just below my breast from seed that once took size in the fraction of a fingernail.

A myriad of kindness

And Good Work

Has brought the fruits of my marvel today.

A gracious interweaving of miracles brought these gifts to my earthen brethren despite juxtapositions in weather and thought. There has been Just Enough of all elements:

Of water, sun, hands, fertile soil and mind, of will, heart, and surrender. Faith.

And in so, we have arrived. If only for a season – a moment –

In Abundance.

Abby Rodriguez – July 28, 2015

Notes From a Rainy Market Day



They predict an inch and you are in for three. Or more.

The Earth decides the way of the rain, and whether the gladiolus will rot or bloom,

If what is planted will strive or shrivel,

If fungus will be the final word.

If there will be enough flowers for the wedding, and which will be the surviving variety upon which celebration rests.

No one can prevent the course the Great Mother takes, though we may pray for healthy crops, we cannot demand that hand.

We can hope next year is better. Or next week, or month, or weeks until the frost comes.

There is comfort in the camaraderie of fellow farmers.

Everyone is in prayer and a furrowed in-flexed brow wears upon each forehead.

At least I know my sheep has a break from the mosquitoes and heat in the shelter from the downpour.

And though adaptations prove difficult for humans and animals to move from 70 degree weather to three sun’s heat over 100 degrees, we will find our adjustments.

And though the roof leaks, and the basement floods, and the field (in places) holds water –

I have a roof. I have a basement. I have a field.

And, thankfully, the weather and seasons flux with the ephemera of a flower.

May the elements be on our sides.


If you walk through life with one eye wincing, consider all you may be missing.



Basking in a now cool June evening, pale pink lengthy silk night gown, bedded chest of lace, and a long slit thigh. Feeling pretty to see my curves, and the way the silk follows. A stained glass lamp is stuffed between pillows to keep the light tall to see to write. Though as I scrawl my pen hand makes a still significant shadow.

The sump pumps are churning their fourth evening after massive amounts of rain. In the field and home this week I have begun to feel a farmer’s fear of rain, in recognition of its great capacity lying in the flood plain of the Rock River. The force of weather rang its reality like the winter day I learned wind is an equal force of fire, and oh, how not one can control her will.

Though still I sit with a good belly and chest of breath. Breathing is easier, comfort from within is True, and to feel so is hopeful and secure. How much more calming to breathe in and say, “Things are good and will be good,” than to meander in the mire.

To look myself in the mirror without judgement and see and say…

This is where you are.

Right now.

And it’s beautiful.

There comes a smile felt from the heart, knowing it is true. In that space of contentment we feel it is useless to pine for any moments that are not yet ours, draining from the moments that are ours. Right now.

Longing for future realities denies us of the ample abundance of current beauty. It can rob us of opportunities to learn, to recognize love as it is before us. What we commonly view as mundane or in the habit of normal, a commonplace act, is often a treasure in plain-sight. An every day event we have become accustomed to can be rippling with beauty should we turn our vision towards it.

The statement does not have to be, “I feel better now that the bathroom is blue,” with a swift motion to eradicate the the task from the list.

What lead the tincture to happen upon the wall was quite a glorious moment, a gem of the commonplace unfolding unto its own lush existence.

A hot and humid Sunday brought a dear friend to town for a visit. She wanted to see the farm, share friendship, and help me in any way she could. We decided against field work due to rain, but we would paint inside the house for certain.

She would do the cupboards in the kitchen and I would adorn the walls of the bathroom. Dividing and conquering, our work was cut out for us. We gathered our supplies, turned the music on, and began to transform the space.

The air was wet, looming with humidity, and we took our tops off. Our chests were free to catch the air below our breasts. I painted in an airy skirt with one side hiked up my thigh to further cool my skin. She was bare with laced underwear. Our breasts moved the most naturally and mine jostled to open the paint can. There was no cloth to limit the truth of their movement. I saw the curve of her back, A Woman’s Back, which in a glance sent me further appreciating her strength and my own. We were not too much, or not enough, but two whole women, creating atmosphere.

We went to one another’s painting zones checking on progress, commenting on different room feels. I was surrounded with sisterhood and freedom. I resounded gratitude that I left this activity to accomplish with a dear friend because it made the making of my home much more rich and memorable, texturing the hue a color specific to my eye.

And so considering our riches comes with a tuned lens. The wall blue, the chore complete. Or the wall is ripe with kinship of sisterhood, Good Love, Good Will, hope, inspired hands, and a refusal to hold back.

The desire to make a difference and the execution thereof lies in strokes upon the wall.

Should we desire for abundance we have yet to encounter, may we only steep ourselves in the present and begin to lose track of our primary source of pining as we see, with the glory before us, illuminating the otherwise monotonous, task-checking mindset we can fall prey to.

And that feels Life Full.

No need for more.

The greatest dangers lie in the resistance and lack of recognition of where we are. For in doing so, we demean our presence, the gift of our current days. We undermine what is to be gleaned on our path and we belittle the inherent knowledge of nature’s truth of change, becoming, and the cycles of our own seasons – how there is a time for everything, be it not now, or be it some other time.

If you walk through life with one eye wincing, consider all you may be missing.

Abby Rodriguez – June 16, 2015.

The Land, She Provides.



Scrawled in many-a-journals lies the repetitious message that each In-Between merits authoring. I can be prone to mulling in my days, wondering what is worth it to mark with words with a document that will last throughout time. The fact of the matter is that each day we go through is significant because it is a place where we have never arrived before. The day might be wrought in pain, but it is a different pain, or confusion, or celebration unique unto itself.

Now is the time of a great In-Between for me, filled with a plethora of unknowns, frustrations, surprises, insurmountable gratitude, hope, and faith that is growing from seedling to solidifying sun grown stalk. I am the sunflower with its seed hat still cusping the tender small leaf and it is no doubt we mirror one another right now. The sunflower may be asking itself in the field, “Am I going to grow? Seriously? What if I don’t? What if my flower is weak? What if I never get a flower? And if a curious and derisive wind pummels me in a snide fury?” and the ever popular follow up question, “…then what?!” is the caboose of each question mark. And the flower says, “I don’t know. This is my first time being a flower. I still have my seed hat on. In the meantime, I’ll just get some sunshine and water, and we’ll see how it goes.”

And likewise in my own days follows the internal dialogue that of a self questioning seedling. A litany of uncertainty followed by self mentoring that this is my first time farming by myself and I will just have to give it my all, give it lots of sunshine and water, and see what happens above all else. I spend a lot of time in my own company and lately I have been instating mental laws like, “If you wouldn’t say it to your best friend, then you can’t say it to yourself,” knowing that if I am going to accomplish anything flower farm wise or creatively, beating myself up and questioning if it is all going to work out or not does absolutely no good, and is in fact energetically combative.

The last two weekends have brought me my first solo farmers’ market experiences as well. I have been selling bouquets and sewn handmade goods. I have included hyacinths in many bouquets, alongside muscari, and the errant non deer chomped tulip. I coupled those flowers with some apple and cherry blossoms, newly budding branches, phlox, lilacs, sprigs of evergreen and cedar, and elements of dried grasses that still linger tall in the prairie. I felt those bouquets resembled the true world of spring. The last couple of weeks have exemplified that glorious sweet spot of spring where the whole world is in bloom and nearly each specimen in nature is first a flower before a leaf, before all else. There are pent up buds moments away from unfurling at any moment. What seems so compact and days away from emerging its wild show of color and true form only takes hours, an evening, a piece of day. You forget to check on something in one day and the following day the world reveals more of its natural progression and surprises.

Now is an especially exciting time because this farm home of mine is new. Though I visited the place contemplating buying it last summer, much was already green and leafed out. I never got to experience each living thing blossom and become. And indeed, there were many features of this land that I knew nothing about and have made themselves known to me only now. Not until spring began to thaw the fields did I know that there was a huge strawberry patch out in the field. Tonight I had the pleasure of weeding the patch of still green berries and flowers as the sun set. Two geese flew by sounding the pastel melt of night on the horizon, Venus a’glow from behind. I stood tall with old daisy flea bane stalks in hand and a clump of rogue grasses plodding soil below from its hanging stance. “Some great force is on my side,” I felt. Overwhelming peace was among me in the strawberry patch, thinking, “The land, she provides. Don’t be afraid.”

I turned to look back at the house and could see the reflection of the lingering bits of orange cream sun pastel and milky in the windows, warming the view. My ram stood silhouetted in the distance, watching with quiet. I stood awash in a gratitude resounding in my body. There in the strawberry patch lied no need for fear. “Everything you need to eat will come from this soil. Sow seeds each day, and you will be okay.”

I have not mowed any part of the land since I have moved in, and in doing so I have found many surprises that would have been dormant, unknown, and destroyed had I taken the shears to all that grows in the name of “keeping a nice lawn.” Last week revealed lamb’s ears and salvia. Today revealed many tiny maples, the beginning sprigs of a rose bush, and an entire peony eager with buds! With glee ridden bones I smiled and hollered a pleasant “AWWW!” aloud. The raspberries and blackberries are getting bushy bottom leaves. The apple and cherry blossoms are long spent and now preparing their fruits. And since many of the trees are fully leafed the air lends itself to a percussive sound that was absent in the hanging winter silence. The breeze hushes a new tune between the trees, soft harping among the leaves. I rise with dirty paws, bulbs in tow, and watch the beauty spread through the pasture with a praise that never tires my eyes with old. I could watch the silver backed leaves chime the live long day and never cease of its unexpected silver, nor would the sheen that rivers in the wind ever reside predictable.

Sunny was also sheared for the first time over this past week. He was so round appearing to have no neck. As I clipped his jacket off he appeared youthful and relieved to be unburdened by a year of wool. The wool closest to his body was a deep, silken black, saturated with a musky lanolin that I would put my nose to over and over again. I massaged the lanolin into my skin and repeatedly brought my hands to my face, breathing in. The large masses of wool clipped were placed into a bag and the smaller pieces attempting tumbles and release in the grass were tucked into the top of my summer dress for collection. My chest was coated in lanolin, grit, and bits of wool sticking to my sweat and oiled skin. It was a day that warranted a good shower at the end but I refused simply so I could go to bed smelling myself and rolling over catching scents of lanolin and sweat in the night.

sunnyball sunnysheared

And so here I am, writing in the wavering depths of the unknown, with a sometimes alarming sense of peace. There is fear, oh there is fear. But fear has no space allowing its rule of me. I am feeling the love and support of my friends, family, and new community members I am meeting through the farmers’ market and feeling there is no option other than for good things to come on this farm. There will be trial and error, there will be failures and successes, good weather and the poorest. There will be everything, because that is living.

And to be living is so, so good.