MORE WITH LESS.

 When we first started farming, we wanted to do it all. Well, we still want to do it all––that never goes away––but we used to actually try it. The goats, the chickens, turkeys, pigs. All of it, all at once. And what we learned––the hard way––is that when you do everything, you can do very little of it well. Then when you don't do anything well, it's hard to enjoy what you do.So that's why no pigs this year. That's why no turkeys. We have cut way back, and honestly, it's been great. It's early yet, but I can say with confidence that I am a far happier, saner farmer when I'm not chasing pigs through the woods at three in the morning. Or fencing and re-fencing and re-fencing goats. I doubt Hannah would disagree.Especially, that is, when we're not suffering financially at the same time. And we're not this year. We're actually making a reasonable, living wage doing less. More so than we ever have farming. By focusing our effort on one main project––the garden–-we are officially for the first time, kinda making it.There's more to it, though. Family for instance. I want to spend time with them that doesn't involve planting, harvesting or weeding while one of us chases Further off the rows (though I want that time, too); time with them that is not me too sore to engage, too tired to stay awake until 7 p.m.; quality time.I want my son and a Seuss. My wife and a glass of milk. I want to sit down at dusk and write a blog post with the freedom to occasionally stop to hear what the scarlet tanager or Audie Cornish have to tell me about the world. And not at dark, but at five or six I want these things––a normal hour of the day to do normal things. If more farmers lived reasonable lives, perhaps more people would choose farming. I want that, too.Will we ever return to doing it all? Maybe, probably, sure. Perhaps when Further is grown, or when he can be the one chasing pigs.But smartly. Farming is so full of possibility it is hard not to overdose. What is actually important to you gets buried in the potential that is soil, sunlight, water. But if you take a step back, and picture the life you want, you realize it can be achieved with a lot less work. You can make an impact, feed people––lots of people––and live to write about it. Because I could easily spend my entire day homesteading the fire out of this place, from dawn to dusk, but I'd sure miss my homestead in the process. That's what I've learned in these past seven seasons: do a few things well, and make sure one of those things is happiness.-Jesse.

IN PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.

I had my first battle with depression while living in New York City. I simply woke up one morning––in the prime of my youth––and without any warning at all, felt small. Without any warning I felt sad. I was, without any warning, any specific reason, or any real cure, a mess. Just like that.And then it went away. And then it came back. And then it went away. And then it came back. About once a month, or every few weeks, I just went down. Though sometimes coupled with heartache, heavy drinking or stress, there seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to it. I was now just, as a young, healthy twenty-something, one of the millions of Americans who suffered from depression.As a writer, this seemed fitting––suffering was common among my favorite authors. But as a human being who had to live with this burdensome sadness, fitting was of little comfort. You've had sore muscles before, no doubt. Well depression feels like that, if your soul can be considered a muscle. It makes it hard to get out of bed, walk, talk or do just about anything necessary for life. Depression is a limp of the heart.Then for many years I just sucked it up and carried it around. I carried it to the wine shop where I feel my work certainly suffered on the bad days. I carried it to the bar, to my friend's houses, to brunch, to shows, everywhere. I never really dwelled on it, I just absorbed it into my character. Jesse Frost, sometimes sad.When I came to Bugtussle in 2010, I didn't expect it to go away. I had made this dramatic change in my life hoping it would, but didn't expect it to. And it didn't immediately. I remember one long night, a couple weeks into my internship, where I got a visit from the soreness and thought, "I guess you found me."But the other day Hannah and I were laying on our backs, smothering Further with kisses, while he laughed wildly. And I was laughing wildly. And my beautiful wife was laughing wildly. It was then that I realized six years had passed since my last bout with depression, six years since the last time I was anything but thrilled to get out bed.I'm not saying farming cured me, or family cured me, or could cure anyone else, but having gone this long without crippling sadness I'm not conceding it either. I eat better, I exercise a lot, I love what I do, and I have the most amazing people around me at all times. If I couldn't be happy in that, I must be broken.I also used to think of my depression as part of my character, but I don't see it that way anymore. My depression was not my personality, but a symptom of not doing what I was––forgive the cliché––meant to do with my life. Wild laughter, however, in the best of company, I believe, is a signal that I may be on the right track.- Jesse Frost, pretty darn happy.

SPRING BABIES.

Spring has definitely sprung over at Bugtussle Farm - 100+ lambs and one new, very sweet calf. We are lucky to be able to walk a few minutes up the road to soak up this cuteness.   

FINDING YOUR VOICE.

Writers often search and struggle for many years to find a voice. This can be an elusive and discouraging process. But I think what gets overlooked in pursuit of "a voice" is what a voice is actually made of.A voice isn't just you in text form. A voice is a combination of experience and education, which is an important point. Writers spend a lot of time searching to hear themselves in their writing, when it is really something that is constructed––birthed even––not found. Finding your voice isn't a thing. Through observation, education and hard work one's voice is made.It starts with borrowing. As a young writer you inhabit Hemingway. You become Fitzgerald. Ditto Faulkner, Twain, Thompson, Saramago.You have your Kerouac stage––we all do. And that's okay. It is part of the pursuit. You take from them what you need to express yourself and leave the rest for others.All the while, you write. You determine what works and does not work for what you're hoping to say. Consciously or unconsciously, you take what you've borrowed from other writers and watch it become you.And you read. A lot. You study the immaculate sentence structure of Don DeLillo and Barbara Kingsolver. You admire Franzen's ability to create humans you feel like you know (and often loathe). Feast on Wendell Berry. Digest with Pollan. And you read your own work aloud to hear what it may sound like in the head of another reader.Then finally, your writing will relax because you accept that you will never find your voice, because your voice isn't hiding. It's living––you've had it all along. It, like soil, just needs your attention to be productive. You will see it, and feed it, and it will grow, but you will never possess it any more than you will possess a garden. It's too alive, too complex, too competitive. Instead, you participate in its creation, cultivate it and hope it does well for you. Work on it, enjoy the process, and it will reward you.Then later, you will begin to farm. And you will translate what you've learned about finding your voice to farming. You will borrow from other farmers––Elliot Coleman and Jean-Martin Fortier, Gene Logsdon, Joel Salatin, Masanobu Fukuoka, Egyptians, Mayans, Incas, Italians, French, Native Americans, Permies, Natural wine makers, and Bugtussle Farm. What applies to you will stick. What doesn't, and doesn't work for your farm, will be left behind. You will read––a lot––and you will work. One day, you will find your farming voice and you will chase it wherever it takes you. That could be permaculture. That could be grain farming. That could part of each or none of either. Because your voice is a living thing. And once it's born, it never stops moving––never, that is, if you don't.-Jesse.