A Way of Life

Because the land remembers

Aug 02, 2024

We’re back from a 15 day trip to Southern California—a trip that spanned the Pacific Coast Highway from Southern Oregon, through the giant Redwoods of Northwest California to Carmel; through the World’s Salad Bowl of the Salinas Valley down to Oxnard—much of it parallel to El Camino Real. All the while we were able to avoid having to navigate away from the raging fires that are pockmarking the landscape of hundreds of thousands of acres in the western United States.

From Oxnard, on our way to our destination, we made an intentional stop to a place we’ve become a little fond of, even though we’d never physically been there before. It was one of the many highlights from our roadtrip. And we knew it would be.

My dad amidst his hops in a pose most farmers resonate with—the gaze of the farmer upon his crops, with a sense of pride while almost willing them to grow—to grow fully and amply.

We were farmers once

That we were. And proudly—though more proudly now, having done it and gone through it, and having arrived on the other end of it, as opposed to feeling the pride, at least for me, while we were doing it. Farming is among the hardest of work known to humankind. Especially if the farmer takes great pride in growing a great crop. Especially if you were my dad.

I count myself incredibly lucky, as I look back upon my decades plus years, to be able to say I grew up on a farm. Through elementary, junior and senior high; through college and during the summers, I worked on my dad’s farm. I didn’t have a different employer other than my dad until I was hired as a teacher in the Northshore School District. That’s also when I moved away from the farm; but the farm never moved away from me. It’s always right here [said as he points to his heart].

We once were farmers; farmers we are no longer (though a solid case could be made that “once a farmer, always a farmer.” The values, habits, and work ethic one gains from having been born and raised on a farm might not ever leave the embodied soul.). The lineage of those in the bloodline that ran through my dad, both into the past, and then on to my brother and me, stopped with my brother and me when dad decided to sell off his farm in consultation with my brother who would have been the farming heir-apparent. Even back in the 90’s, “smaller” farmers had a rougher and rougher time of making it among the conglomerations of “big Ag” that was already swallowing up land making way for cheaply built housing and/or monocrop monopolies.

Farming, though, remains in our blood—it’s a part of our DNA and we are proud how strongly it bonds us to the memory of my dad. My dad was ALL farmer. If there was a Hall of Fame for farmers, my dad would have to be an inductee. Most memories of our dad that do not include poker parties, dance hall dances at a few wedding receptions, and other family gatherings, all center upon the farm. And when the family is together, we’ll always have stories to tell and memories to share about our years on the farm. The farm, on the land, growing hops and apples, was where dad was happiest.

Fast forward now to 2018.

In 2018, I’m roughly 20 years removed from having anything to do with farm life. My wife and I the proud parents of two amazing, now adult, kids. We were on cruise control living a great life in a suburb north of Seattle—me, a school principal newly hired into what would be my last school district and elementary school.

I think it was a small notice in the Seattle Times, in their Entertainment section, (when there was still a print edition of the Times that is), that caught my eye. And something in me knew we were going to drive to a charming but very small theatre just north of Seattle—the only theatre running its limited release. A documentary, it was.

It’s not my place or intent to go into detail about this story, about this journey both Molly and John Chester undertook in 2011 (see the trailer to the documentary at the end of this post). It IS a fun story though, and I do highly recommend the documentary—especially if farming happens to be in your DNA (and when you think about it, isn’t farming in EVERYONE’s DNA? I mean, you eat, right?).

I’ve seen this documentary multiple times now—and I love it. I was privileged to share it with my dad too, as he sat in his recliner in our downstairs during his final stay with us a few months before he died. My dad thoroughly enjoyed it too—farming not being a PART of his DNA, farming WAS my dad’s DNA. So anything having to do with farming was going to be of interest to dad.

The Biggest Little Farm is a story of how two people, John and Molly Chester, in partnership with mentors, support staff, animal souls, and the land itself, rebirthed a dying 600 acre farm in Moorpark California. Apricot Lane Farm was its name and when the Chesters discovered it, it was rapidly becoming a rundown farm used by a horse breeder mainly to house his herd. Apricot Lane Farm it still is, and now it’s a thriving, lush, organic and biodynamic example of how the land itself can teach we wee humans how best to steward a mini-ecosystem to support a thriving community of species across all six of the major kingdoms of living organisms. It is a fascinating story of perseverance, setbacks, disappointments, death, birth, renewal, and how the indomitable human spirit can overcome anything to produce something beneficial for everything.

Kinda like my dad did. If you like beer, you can thank and say a little prayer for my dad. If you love beer, I’ll send you a link to my retirement account as a proper thank you. You’re welcome.

My dad really was a poet even though he likely never, ever penned an actual poem. His poetry was found amidst his hops, in his fields.

Good farmers grow good crops. GREAT farmers grow great soil!

It’s all about the soil.

When I planned our trip, by car, to SoCal, I knew we were headed down Highway’s 1 and 101 and were wanting to cut over to Palm Springs just north of Los Angeles. Apricot Lane Farms is just north of Los Angeles. And they offer tours on select days to the public.

Why wouldn’t we? So yes, yes we did! And it was wonderful.

👩‍🌾🚜🐷🦃

Personally, I think living and farming this way, organically and biodynamically, is the solution to our environmental degradation—a degradation brought upon the world solely by humans. I’ve said before that life and the planet will continue on long after the human species has gone extinct. That’s what life and this planet does—it survives species extinction. And when humans are gone, once and for all, the natural balance of life will restore itself, to a new and vibrant and thriving equilibrium that is its natural state. It kinda would be nice if humans could be around to see that…again.

Apricot Lane Farms, and the Chester’s story, has been in inspiration of mine as I tend to our own 1 acre plot of the earth’s surface on the outskirts of a little town north of Seattle. On our tour, we learned the Chesters just completed a multi-part series that will be shown on the National Geographic channel later this Fall that will detail more about their farm and farming practices. My biggest inspiration, though, will always be my dad. As I’m tending our garden, pruning, trees and grapes, mowing or pulling weeds or watering (endless watering), I think often of my dad. Unlike my dad, I do not use chemicals or poisons of any kind on our land. Just as we walked into the garden of Apricot Lane Farm, we noticed a sign we are familiar with…because we too had our land recognized as such:

Apricot Lane Farm on the left, Lenseigne Sanctuary on the right

To be certified as an official Wildlife Habitat, one has to commit to a constant stewardship of the land for long-term sustainability which includes providing food, water, cover/shelter, and places for wildlife to raise young. Additionally, we committed to 100% organic practices and are constantly practicing land restoration and water conservation as we help the land recover from the previous land owners who began, themselves, to neglect this sacred piece of property they once thought they owned.
We live differently than that. We know we don’t own this land—we simply get the privilege to steward it along for a brief period of time. This land will outlive us; we are hoping at some point in its long memory, it will look back upon the time we were here with fondness as we, every day, try to do our very best to live in natural harmony with it.
From these efforts, we have been blessed with the presence of hundreds of other Souls: birds, bees, spiders, coyotes, deer, raccoon, squirrels, snakes, worms, ants, rodents, moles, owls, bats, trees, fungi, bacteria, mold, moss, lichen, and countless more.
Ultimately, we are two of a community of beings we want to thrive in our little space. It’s a deeply spiritual thing—although we are two, my wife and I, we are two of hundreds (billions if you count our micro-organism friends—and we always should!).
Looked upon rightly, and skillfully, we are a relationship of community.

I guess I still farm on our 1 acre yarden; but I take greatest pride in cultivating soil that allows an abundance of growth for the benefit of the countless species we live among. I believe, when we are gone from this place, this land will remember us. The Earth never forgets its forests clearcut, its rivers dammed, its mountains topped, its beaches spoiled, its oceans trashed and fished-out, its mantle mined, its acreage citied-over, its soil poisoned. It will also remember its restoration, its rejuvenation, its conservation, and its healing. And if we are fortunate, she remembers those who helped steward that healing.

The Earth always remembers—I’m trusting it will remember us, here, doing our small part, fondly.

Apricot Lane Farms is located on the unceded tribal lands of the Chumash Native Tribes and Peoples. It is situated on the flatlands and mesas of a valley carved by the Arroyo Simi river.

Scenes from our three hour tour of Apricot Lane Farm

I live on the unceded, Sacred, Native Snohomish, Indigenous and Ancestral Tribal lands of the Salish Peoples in the Sultan Basin and Snohomish River watershed, and adjacent to the Salish Sea in Washington state. I honor and respect all the great Spirit Elders and Ancestors past, present, and future—and I ask for their guidance, protection, and forgiveness as I steward this land.