WORDS OF THE WEEK.

I came across this paragraph in Nathaniel Johnson's excellent new book "Unseen City" and thought it was worth sharing––applicable to our lives on many levels. Johnson, introducing his daughter Josephine to wild food, writes:"When Josephine learned which species she could eat, this knowledge worked transformative magic upon her: At mealtime, she normally rejects anything green, but she'll happily sample what she gathers. As a passive recipient of food, there's no incentive for her to eat anything but the most pleasing flavors. But when she seeks out her own food, it produces a pronounced shift in cognition. If I serve her something unfamiliar, she acts as if I'm trying to poison her. When she's sampling wild leaves, on the other hand, she grows intensely contemplative, pondering the challenging new flavors. I suspect it's true for all of us, not just toddlers: It's as much human nature to resist novelty when someone else is forcing it on us, as it is to open ourselves to novelty when we are seeking it for ourselves."And how.-Jesse.

THE ART OF REFUELING.

I had a chef once who often told me something––many things, really––that I've never forgotten. It was simple and anytime I've employed it, it has served me well. I would come down after a long day of work, or before one, and he would be flipping through a book in his office. Tired though we all were, he would remind us a professional should read for no less than fifteen minutes a day on his profession.And I realize that may seem like a small thing, but let's break it down:I don't know how many pages you read a minute, but I'm going to pretend (for my own morale) you're a painfully slow reader like me. I read, depending on what it is, around 1 to 2 pages a minute. So, let's just say 1.5 pages on (generous) average. That means I can theoretically read 22.5 pages everyday, only spending 15 minutes reading. That's 157.5 pages a week. That's 8,190 pages a year. And if you say the average book is what? 250 to 300 pages? That's roughly 30 books a year. Or hundreds of articles. I don't know about you, but I used to read a lot more than I do now. I don't always get to thirty books a year anymore. Sadly. Because what parent, what farmer/parent no less, has the time to read book after book these days? Few of us. Fifteen minutes a day, though? That, we may be able to find. I mean, when it's a good enough read, you will struggle to only spend fifteen minutes with it.Reading, though, is important. Because output––farming, writing, whatever you love––needs input. Fuel. Energy. You need something constantly coming in to influence all you have going out (and notably, vice-versa). To inspire it. To inform it. To craft it. To add perspective. To keep it coming.Personally, I find lethargy and repetition in my writing, and in my farming, when I slack on reading. I need to read a sentence that challenges me to challenge my own sentences. I need to see how someone else manages their weeds to reimagine my own management. Art, to me, has always been about inspiring other art. So when I am always just creating, eventually the tank runs dry. I need fuel. I need to stop, take at least fifteen minutes every day, and fill up.How does one define "on your profession"? Well, for me last week it was a book called "Grass, Soil, Hope" by Courtney White about carbon farming. This week was Melissa Coleman's memoir "This Life is in Your Hands" about growing up the daughter of famed farmer Eliot Coleman. Now it's The Atlantic's latest edition coupled with "Unseen City", by Nathaniel Johnson. So, obviously, it's a pretty wide spectrum. Anything really. It could be technical garden stuff, or fiction, whatever. My feeling is the diversity is as important as the dedication to it.So of course I'd love to know how you insert reading into your busyness (or business)? And what's on the nightstand these days?-Jesse.

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME.

You never think you'll become that dude. Never––growing up a hiphop fan, a skateboarder, a besotted twenty-something in New York––could you imagine yourself as the kind of person who sings "The Wheels on the Bus" or "Twinkle Twinkle" on a regular basis. But it happens.And you know what? Heck yeah it happens! It happens all the time with us and frankly, I love it. The other night, coming home from market, Hannah was in the front seat with me (as opposed to her usual back seat, nursing position) and Further was crying. Since Hannah couldn't just nurse him, we decided to sing. We sang "Twinkle Twinkle". We sang "The Rainbow Connection." We sang "You are my Sunshine". And, a personal favorite, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Twice. So long as we were singing, he was happy.Now, Hannah and I really work to not judge the way other people parent their children. Having one of our own, you just can't. It's a hard business, parenthood. We're learning that quickly. But singing like this, interacting with Further, having these ridiculous family moments, is important to us. We want him to grow up in a environment where we don't just hand him a device (again, no judging), but where our solutions to his discomfort encourage his, and our own, creativity.We won't always succeed at this. We know that. A movie or a tractor YouTube video will be, and has been, utilized. Sometimes we get frustrated and do nothing but grin and bear it. But by creating the goal itself, we can at least have a direction in how we deal with a disgruntled toddler, how we want to parent through the hard times: all together, creatively.And I like when it's singing. Hannah is the musical one, and hopefully he'll get a little of that. But it's okay if not, so long as he remembers that it's "Root root root for the CUBBIES," just like he learned in those ridiculous car rides home from the farmers' market.-Jesse.

I AM GARDEN.

 A persistent theme on this blog has been that we don't want comparison to be the thief of joy––we don't want people to come to our site, think we live some perfect homesteading existence and leave feeling worse about themselves. We are not, to be sure, Martha Stewart's of off-grid farming. We are messy like anyone, dirty like all farmers, normal. For that reason, we always try to be as honest and transparent as we can because the goal of this blog is more to inspire people to do what they want to, or long to, than it is to impress you with our perfection. Perfect we are not. Fortunate. Happy. Those I'll accept.But transparency is not always easy, and I'm not always aware of when we are putting on a show.Take for instance a recent visit we had with our photographer friend Tim who was shooting for an exciting project (more on that later). I found myself at 7 a.m. on that Sunday feverishly running our machinery through the garden to get the weeds in check. The potatoes got a fresh hilling up. The cucumber bed suddenly found itself ready to plant. Everything not food got mowed. In essence, I scrubbed the garden.Once Tim arrived, I finally went inside to change clothes into something mildly less dusty. It was then, in front of the mirror, that I realized I had put zero thought into what I was going to wear. Zero thought into trimming my beard. Zero thought into my hair. I thought only about the garden. Then, looking at my reflective wildness, I laughed.I laughed because I realized in that moment that I have become our garden. And it is admittedly sometimes hard for me to show it to you. This small plot of land is my most intimate representation. I don't just take pride in it, I am it. It is me. So when I want to present myself to the world, I pull my weeds, harrow my beds, clean my paths and cultivate. Even then I hesitate, because even then it's still too revealing, too cluttered, not in shape yet.I don't know what this says about me, I just know that it isn't always easy to show the world the weeds, even if I'm the only one who can see them. My personal weeds, that's okay. My depression, my anxieties, that time I fell off the porch eating watermelon––that's all fine. The garden, however, is different. It's painfully personal, even though, or perhaps especially because, we want it to be a community space––shareholder owned––I still feel protective over it like an unfinished short story, or an unabashed love of pop music.So I just hope when you look at a picture of me––the bearded me––you can still feel good about yourself. And when you look at a picture of the garden, you know I'm sharing something really special. Because I do believe in showing you the dirt. But like anyone does when they have guests, I can't help but tidy up a little first.-Jesse.