The very nature of farm life has changed, said one panellist at a recent conference: “the dynamics of communities have changed over the years. . . . Today, there may not be one neighbour within five miles. . . . The curling rink’s gone, the ball diamonds are gone.”
Photo and poem.
Curt wrote this poem in Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut, on a visit with Betsey to their daughter Elisabeth in early September. Sailingajunga means “contentment,” as close as he could find to “shalom.”
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Salatin farms in contrast what some call “industrial” agricultural practices. Instead he raises livestock – poultry, hogs, cattle, rabbits – in ways that he considers more in line with God’s design for the world.
I am increasingly convinced that good gossip is a strong antidote to the cumulative build-up of bad news stories. By good gossip I mean telling each story about positive things, kind things, pleasant surprises that we’ve experienced directly. Good gossip often relates the “splendor in the ordinary,” the commonplace world of small things that make our lives bearable and hopeful.
The appearance of biological data also tells farmers and gardeners the right time to plant. In the Midwest people used to say, “When oak leaves are the size of a squirrel’s ear, it’s time to plant corn.” I never could get a squirrel to stay still long enough to measure.
The God who so loved the cosmos, no doubt loves the micro-cosmos, too.
I sat down at a table after church for a sociable cup of coffee. At first there was no room, but somebody moved aside so I could squeeze in. I remarked, “Thanks for the room; I’m not a refugee.”
We finished our liturgy with more songs accompanied by organ, trumpet and choir, led and blessed by a mitred archbishop with crozier. Meanwhile, someone walked out the back door to a cold winter street, which accepted him without order, form or seemliness: a man with a slouch, a limp and a list.
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