Embracing the Winter Solstice, Finding Tranquility Amidst Farming Challenges

Winter farming

 

Amidst the heart of winter lies the customary respite for the farmer

 

The rhythm of life, my existence, decelerates. In the early stages of August, I commenced the cultivation of late autumn and winter vegetables, orchestrating the sowing every three weeks. The current occupants of the gardens are all resilient to the cold, seemingly content amidst the snow. By November, the garlic, onions, salad greens, and fava beans had found their place in the soil. The pantry is well stocked with the preserved essence of summer, both canned and dried. No seeds await planting, no formidable snail fleet to repel, no heat to bemoan... A few tasks linger, but they are scarce. 

 

 

The saplings destined for spring and summer gardens won't find their roots until the waxing moon of mid-January. The sun hesitates to grace us with its presence until 7:30. Tending to and cleaning the livestock requires less than an hour for the two of us, and we relish the interactions. My sole physical activity involves the handling of manure and the raking of leaves, a duty I appreciate. The majority of predators are ensconced in their burrows, their offspring are mature, and none are in the throes of birth.

 

 

I am released from the roles of local midwife, forester, and sheriff. Breakfast is a leisurely affair. By noon, the mist begins to lift, and I perch on the stone wall, letting the sun warm my face—an optimal vantage point for observing the valley's arboreal spectacle. Harvesting vegetables and preparing meals persist, yet I operate on my own timetable now. Darkness descends at five o'clock when we secure the barns, and the tranquil evening belongs to me. A stone hearth radiates warmth in our dwelling, surrounded by stacks of books that have patiently awaited exploration. At times, I feel as though I am nurturing a clutch of eggs, occasionally turning them, but the mystery of what is incubating eludes me.

Vegetable gardening in winter

 

Embracing inertia has unveiled delightful revelations about the mountain I have embraced, or perhaps that has embraced me

 

Deliberately slowing down was essential to discerning its winter allure. In the summer, grounded in the soil with my hands and feet, my focus is invariably on the earth. Yet, in doing so, I miss the wonders above. Bare branches waltz gracefully in the wind, mirroring the agility of young deer leaping across the field. The young oaks, clutching onto their leaves, glisten gold in the sunlight. My valley, though, remains resplendently green, even more so than in mid-summer. Moss blankets trees luxuriantly, and fields abound with fava and spinach. On gray days, Demeter's winter palette showcases a spectrum of hues. With deciduous trees stripped bare, the pines, cedars, and spruces revel in their grandeur. On chilly mornings of snow, I linger by the window with a second cup of tea, captivated by the overnight transformation into a frozen, gleaming fairyland, hoping the chickens will forgive my tardiness.

Yet, a shadow looms. It has insidiously advanced over the years

 

Gazing beyond the labor that structures my days reveals an unsettling truth. All is not well, and it hasn't been for quite some time. The wild predators are fewer, but those breaching our fences are fiercer and hungrier. Climate science is redundant for my neighbors; they keenly feel the delayed arrival of snow atop our mountain, the grasshoppers transforming from novelty to plague. Farmers transition to winter crops, allowing fields to lie fallow in the summer after June's wheat harvest. Summers are not merely hotter and drier; winters are colder and wetter, accompanied by a relentless wind. It's the wind that unsettles me the most—stronger than memory serves. I once believed I'd outsmart the north wind by planting laurel bushes as a barrier. However, dwelling on a mountainside, the wind descends in any direction it chooses, flattening crops and tearing limbs from trees.

Seasonal farming tasks

 

Gratitude and awareness accompany my good fortune

 

I sustain my livelihood and pursue my passion on this terrain, synchronized with the seasons. In the heart of unspoiled countryside, surrounded by natural beauty, I participate in an ancient farming and foraging ethos. Collectively, sustenance is within reach. Yet, even if I abstain from perusing the newspaper, the weather alone triggers concern. In past Januarys, with the nascent sun ascending, I envisioned the farm's next chapter materializing from the ether onto paper, assessing what worked and what didn't. 

 

 

By late February, the yearning to return to the soil would consume me. However, like many others, there are moments when the pace of our descent into the abyss overwhelms me and despair takes hold. The world beyond my serene valley eludes comprehension. Resisting the urge to dance hastily through this season or succumb to despondency becomes a challenge. I must delve inward to rejuvenate, seeking solidity and tranquility—following the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh. These, for me, epitomize the ideal approach to navigating the winter solstice.

Winter harvest

 

Now more than ever, my objective is to confront the darkness

 

I seek not answers but to create the space for them to manifest. While I continue to revel in the land's beauty, I am attuned to the ominous clouds, the prolonged nocturnal hours, the shadows, and my role within them. The birth of sunlight is now a reset—a departure from the routine, a fresh beginning. Whatever efforts we've exerted collectively or individually for awareness and change appear inadequate. If the message is spreading, it does so sluggishly and tardily. This year demands more than retreating within and starting anew; it necessitates a different approach, perhaps a wiser one. Wisdom permeates this season, and by immersing myself in the darkness, the seeds of my next course of action may emerge organically.