This is getting handed in with my project, ha ha, Phill!

[frannyan]

Reflections

Notes taken: Tips on greenhouse construction (peaked roof is a must in snow country)

Things admired: I want that drying room.

Things not so admired: Goddamned bugs. And I still hate weeding.

Things learned: Making bath salts means that you hands smell good for hours.


One day, I will have a room like Lini has. And her drying room in the barn. All my herbs are stashed in a huge Tupperware bin in the kitchen. Though I doubt I'll be able to make a a real business of it as she has. It all seems to much work to have things on such a scale where it could be viable.


Things observed: My parent's raspberry bushes didn't need half as much upkeep as those got and they got plenty. Is it worth the extra effort to get a few more berries? Not likely. Mulch and let it be done!


One of the things I like behind the idea of growing berries is the 'just let it grow' philosophy. I can't comprehend the logic of rotating strawberries. They're perennials. They'll keep putting out runners and making new ones and will smother every other thing in their path. What weeds stand a chance against an onslaught of strawberry runners? It's intensive planting, natural style.


I forgot to take photos. I had my camera the entire time. In my bag. Which was in the house. Didn't even think of it 'til it was getting on time to go home. At that point, it was raining anyway.

A photographer is one on the outside, often apart from what's going on. When doing, it's breaking the forth wall to pause, grab the camera, and start snapping away. When you only have one day, one time, one moment, where is there time to pause and stop and break character?

So I have no photos. Just memories. Scribbles in a notebook done on the car ride back home to remind me later when I finally get to build my own greenhouse.


While time may be infinite, there is no doubt that the time we can be active in is finite. Thus, despite intentions of arranging a second visit to another homestead, it never materialized. Instead I have photos of the greenhouses at Binghamton university, a potted flower from the mother of the boy who's “helping” me plant my garden, and an ivy plant that I have to teach to live in a windowless office, all symbolizing people in plants. While ideally, it would have been nice to have those experiences on top of another homestead visit, food upon the table and being there for those who are important to you far take priority.

But this whole thing is about priories, isn't it? What do you value over something else. Can you find your wholeness having your hands in the dirt upon your mountain top hermitude, or do you find it showing a young child how to prepare a garden bed, showing him the wonder of a sprouting seed and cultivating his enthusiasm along with the greenery to transmute the wonders of nature into something portable and longer lasting.

Is there still wonder and aw of nature when you're spreading yourself so thin in your cultivation of it? When do you breathe? When do you stretch and spread your internal wings?

It's all very wonderful, it's all very nice, but it's all so very exhausting. How can you be just one thing that requires you to put every last breath into this dance between what you want and what you need that's controlled by nature itself?

I don't want that solitude. I don't want that workload. I don't want the castle on the hill or the cottage deep in the woods.

It's a very lovely room. It's a very lovely farm.

The weeding is still hell.