some days we joke about throwing in the towel.
and some days the joke has a harder, sharper edge.
(from La ferme des dinos, écrit et illusté par Frann Preston-Gannon aux Éditions Père Fouettard, 2017).
these past months, it’s been the ever-present financial worries; the life and farm infrastructure that keeps crapping out on us; the wet, cold summer that has left an important portion of our herds in less than optimal health; the marketing that we aren’t getting to and the inventory we have yet to sell.
it’s knowing that so many farmer pals are in the same boat.
it’s thinking too much about climate change (or the apocalypse), knowing that what we’re doing is part of a solution–that we’re not opting to tinker with a broken system but to offer up and create something that can be sustainable, sustained and sustaining. it’s knowing too that we’re building soil, practising animal husbandry, and selling meats and eggs in a way that’s deeply respectful but certainly not cost effective.
I look at photos of the kids growing up in this place, the knowledge and competence they carry and hone daily (and I know I’m learning too even if my growth isn’t so carefully photographed and documented).. and I see all the food and energy this farm can produce–with our market gardener and co-farmer pals here, with the workshops and free school we’ve hosted, with carving out time and space for political community engagement, and I know it’s worth it. I know it.
but the exhaustion is wearing on me. on us.
(farming with soul is a public service, damn it. it can’t be a struggle every step of the way.)