CONFESSIONS OF A FARMER.
It is in these verdant days of summer that I am most often reminded of my profoundest secret: I have never grown a thing.Indeed, I have prepared ground, carefully and respectfully. I have spread compost. I have sowed seeds, cultivated plants and even harvested their fruits, but if there is one job on the farm I have never had the privilege of, it's growing. Something, or Someone Else entirely, seems to do that work.What magic. What captivating magic that part of the process remains to me. Seeds, many the size of the letters in this post, become food, flowers, or more seeds, making plants potentially taller than ourselves. And I, beyond providing the ideal venue, have nothing to do with it.I have such a deep respect for the forces that make growth possible—forces which science has so prosaically rendered into fancy words and chemical reactions. I learned about processes like photosynthesis in school—I'm assuming—but if someone had just told me it was all a mystery, or it was magic, I might have been in the garden years ago. We all might have been––out there hoping to catch a glimpse of This Allusive Being who reaches into the soil and massages a seed into life, then pulls its white string through the dirt and into planthood. If in biology class I had just been asked to tend a garden, then perhaps I would have left school with a greater love for, and understanding of, biology. Or if more churches spoke of the wonders of nature and God's creation, maybe more people would be gardening (...or going to church!). I'm happy to have found that love now, however, to have found a job working alongside Nature and stewarding its art, enjoying the fruits if its labor professionally.Even if I never get to do the actual growing, though, I've got no complaints. By becoming farmers we dedicate our lives to making sure whoever it is whose job it is to grow can do it well, and do it indefinitely. Farmer, assistant to the Grower. Not a bad title.- Jesse.
