Mid-Fellowship Reflections
Of all the things I’ve learned throughout this fellowship, it’s that the only constant is change. That may sound reminiscent of Parable of the Sower–which I did read thanks to the communal library at Groundwork–but it’s true, and has always been true, especially within the context of our relationship to the earth.
When we first arrived in April, it was snowing. We began these initial days hunkered in the basement of The Trading Post, our greenhouse, learning how to sow the tiniest of seeds into trays in the hopes that they’d germinate and could be transplanted in our fields one day. It was a repetitive task, but it kept our hands busy as we warmed up to each other and the sun warmed up the world, softening the ground outside for the plants it would soon inherit. So, as we waited, we’d seed away, day in and day out, asking questions, laughing, getting to know each other, adjusting to this new reality we’d be in for the next seven months with these strangers by our side. Our mentors, our peers, and soon our friends. In that time, we learned how to nurture growth through our shared work as the bonds between each of us took root and the seeds we’d sown grew roots of their own.
Then, just a few weeks later, we were in the heart of spring. The trees waved their branches, bursting with vibrant greens, the sun stuck around a bit longer, and the river in our backyard began to swell with snowmelt. It was a surprising revelation to a native Southern Californian such as myself–I never knew seasons could change so abruptly and with such whiplashing force–but I welcomed it because with spring came time outside. No more time buried under blankets, no more below 30°F nights, no more risk to the orchard’s blossoms freezing off: we made it to Paonia’s reawakening.
The ditch system we rely on to water our fields finally burst to life after months of hibernation, and after that, the frenzy of action began. There was a buzz in the air–you could feel it throughout the valley–as we and so many others began the hard work prepping the fields. Spring was a season of rapid transformation: fertilizing our beds with buckets full of chicken poop; learning how to use the Groundwork BCS–our all-in-one tiller, harrower, and mower machine; and finally, transplanting the trays of seeds turned sprouts into the welcoming soil. Before this, I never imagined the amount of work that goes into growing food to feed communities–it’s a nonstop, tireless effort.
Once the drip tape to irrigate the plants was laid, the plants themselves were in the ground, the row cover up to protect the sprouts from pests and the scorching sun, constant maintenance was required to ensure the crops thrived–mainly weeding. Even so, just as one set of crops was in the ground, there was another to plant, and eventually, the early crops began fruiting, and with that came harvest, just in time for the Arbol Farmers Market every Tuesday. Soon a pattern emerged: the beginning of the week was for harvest, to prepare for the market, and the end was for “field love,” the weeding, planting, and general tending to the plants to make sure they were happy. The routine was comforting, and not long after it was established, spring bled into summer, and summer brought an intensity I had never known before.
At 5600 ft above sea level, the UV index in the valley is “high” anytime the sun is out, which is almost always. Heat stroke and exhaustion are a real threat here. Too many times, dehydration and sunburns got the better of me, something I thought I understood back home, but not to the same extent. One thing I learned then: farmers are athletes. The skill, stamina, and demands required to harvest and maintain a field without the reliance of heavy machinery is brutal on the body. And to make matters worse, the rains we were promised in July to cool things off never came. Despite the monsoon that historically passes through this region of Colorado, Paonia–or the entire North Fork Valley itself–resides in what is known as a “banana belt,” so the rain that brewed above often missed us by just a few miles. It was devastating to watch the clouds drift right past us time and time again as the land cried out for water. And as the land dried out, the fires started. Smoke filled the valley from nearby areas going up in flames. Yet, the work continued, even in the haze of a world feeling the catastrophic consequences of climate change.
During this time, I learned about endurance and the importance of finding beauty in our work to keep showing up every day, even when exhaustion overwhelmed my system. It was made easier as the marigolds bloomed, the tomatoes ripened, and our team grew. Our community supported agriculture (CSA) volunteers began joining us every Friday, lightening our load and keeping us motivated–joyous even–to do our work.
Now, as summer slows and harvest blooms, we spend our days weeding the beds and processing seeds (a fun task for those who like to dance, since many require rhythmic stomping to release the seeds from their pods). There are more tomatoes than we know what to do with, while the zucchini and cucumber have to be picked thrice a week to maintain their quality over enormity–they get big, fast. Cherry season came and went, followed by the apricots. Peaches are almost past their prime, same with the plums and pears. And we pass by the apple trees every day, just waiting for their day to come in the not-so-distant future.
Though our work consists mostly of experiential learning in the field, another key component of the fellowship is diving into place-based activities to enhance our connection to the land. One of those activities was willow basket weaving with shoots we harvested ourselves back in April when we first arrived. Since then, we’ve made a soft-fiber woven basket; repaired our earthen toolshed using sand, manure, and local clay from the Paonia Reservoir; finished tanning a sheep hide and are working towards completing our buckskin hides; visited our honeybees being homed with Honey Mesa, where we learned how a queen bee is made (it’s a lot cooler than you think, and has to do with a royal diet!); and countless other activities.
Having the opportunity to deepen our relationships with the beings and bounty around us by taking the time to make useful things ourselves–essentially turning back the clock to understand what our ancestors did before Amazon Prime existed–has been a gift, and one I hope to share.
We also dive into articles, book chapters, and papers, asking the hard questions about our consumerist society. We learned about the Colorado watershed and the mismanagement of its precious water–how the powers that be prioritize profit over ecological health. We’ve learned about seed sovereignty and the beginnings of agribusiness after WWII, when chemicals from warfare were converted into pesticides and fertilizers to maximize output. Learning this made me appreciate our small-scale organic approach at Groundwork and at countless other small- and medium-sized farms. Even if it means “more work,” it’s work worth doing.
As the fellowship’s end looms, I’m not entirely sure what comes next. Well, I have a vague idea. We have plenty of food and seeds to harvest and process for the cold months ahead. We’ll learn the art of pottery during our “crafternoons” and continue going to market to provide our harvest to the community.
After that, who knows? I sure don’t.
What I do know is that I found inspiration in The Unlikely Peace at Cuchumaquic. In this book, Martín Prechtel insists that everyone grow food. It sounds difficult in our urbanized, modern world, and would likely be met with resistance—which I understand, yet…I can’t help but agree. Tending to plants is a practice in tuning in and slowing down. You’re able to build relationships with these photosynthesizing magicians that make life on earth possible for the entire food chain–a chain we are part of, whether we are in tune with it or not–and can fully appreciate all that it takes to make a meal.
Most of us don’t know where our sustenance was grown, let alone who grew it, what it would look like in a field free of plastic wrap, much less in the wild. Reconnecting this lost language with the land and all its living beings is vital for our home and our own well-being. And it’s the change I hope to bring to my communities.
Though I may not know exactly what comes next to make this a reality, I welcome the change. Change is inherent, and the best way to keep up with its pace is to lean into it and stay observant, listening, nurturing, and taking a moment every once in a while to appreciate its ceaseless, relentless evolution.