Nourishing Bites | My July Paradox Part 2
Stillness: Our Gravenstein dressed in snow.
Part 2 of 3 (Read Part 1 and Part 3)
When my brother died, I worried I would forget the smallest things about him. I could not delete a phone message from him, for fear his voice would be lost. I kept hold of scraps of paper on which he’d written and a hundred other things he’d touched. I was so heavy, anchored by a sense that together, we had stopped growing, big brother and little sis. There would be no new moments to share, stories to tell, experiences to laugh about. I did not want this precious relationship to wither to a fuzzy outline- a vague sense of some distant past.
Just as now, with Samson, I recognize the same fear pushing in. I ache at the loss of all of the miraculous intricacies of who he was: delicate eyelashes, full moon eyes, perky questioning ears, even the click-click-prance of his breakfast-is-coming dance.
But as with anything, clasp too tightly and it will find a way to slip through your hands.
No matter how many baby chicks hatch or seedlings spring to life, no matter how many blooms stretch wide open or stars etch across the dark July sky, Samson is still gone. The house is too quiet, and the door to my heart has once again flown open without regard. I know this is natural. Grief is work on a schedule of its own accord.
But I know too a truth about the cycles of life on farms: death is never alone. Although most of us try hard to keep death at a distance, on the farm, death is wildly abundant, and without it, we would have no abundance of life.
As I water vibrantly green flats of seedlings, I notice the papery tan carcasses of flies and wasps on the wooden table. As I kneel to pick the first cherry red tomatoes, my knees are comforted by the withered grass mulch beneath them. Each week I pile loads of vegetable trimmings from the packing shed onto the living, breathing compost heap, I remember. At my farm, death and life are together in an everlasting embrace.
The seasons and cycles, the emergence and the fading away-- farms are a Grand Central Station of Nature’s comings and goings. It is of some comfort, then, to remember that death does not happen in a vacuum but rather as part of a greater symphony of energy moving through our world. We humans cannot remove ourselves; we are so foolish to try.
**
On Saturday, I cut away the sod and dug Samson’s grave under the majestic Gravenstein apple tree. Several feet down, I came across a large tree root. Senselessly cutting it out felt wrong. But I was so tired, dripping with sweat and sadness, there was no way I could start again in a new spot. My tears welled, and I paused. I felt caught, then reminded myself- take it shovelful by shovelful. I gathered my strength, realizing I could simply lengthen the hole to the north.
And then, just like that, the work was done. I wrapped Samson in my arms one last time and gently heaved him down alongside the thick tree root.
Because I farm— because I understand what a gift healthy soil is, because this Earth is more precious than the gold within its veins— it was a solace to know Sam’s soft ears, his long, expressive tail, his tawny, lean limbs, would nourish the limbs above me, limbs that were now rich with ripening apples.
Because I farm, I understand death is a great giving- a ceding of spirit back into the collective wellspring of possibility.
The promise of renewal: Our Gravenstein in full bloom.
As each year passes, I gain a more nuanced appreciation of my brother’s life and of his gifts. This is not because we had more precious time together, and not because I surround myself with artifacts from the past. It’s only because, with reverence, I have harvested another year’s worth of life experiences.
These days, I hold space for a different kind of relationship with my brother Jack. Rather than trying to recall the cadence of his tone, I work to honor his voice. Rather than grasping at tangible proof of his existence, I work to elucidate the truth of his legacy.
Samson is gone. But because of Jack and because of my farm, with open arms I can embrace the larger lessons of their lives. I know for certain whatever memories are already buried in my heart is enough to keep my love growing.
And that is all that matters. ~AJ
Look close. See the lacy wings of the pollinator finding nourishment?
I went for a walk of solace in my fields on Sunday and was captivated for moment by a low carpet of violet blooms.
Then I remembered the name of this petite little plant.
Self heal.
“Always have the strength to live. Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills, I shall be with you.”