Restoration

This afternoon I was crouching in the hot sun, above the warm earth, finger weeding purslane and grasses from the melon seedlings hiding amongst them, battered and small. I thought aloud, and the others agreed, Today is a restorative day. It felt peaceful today, honest, careful, slow and steady, the object of our care close at hand, close to our faces, as we gently cleared the space around them, and opened up the soil that feeds them. Take a breath. Now take another.

The melons were battered in the hail storm last Wednesday night, like all the other plants in the fields. Some took it better than others. Some were left with ragged leaves dangling from stems, or flattened leaves shot through with holes like swiss cheese. Some had stems cracked, branches and leaves plastered to the ground and caked with mud that left the swirly mark of its flood etched into the scrubbed surface. The field of kale, whose stones we'd discovered beneath the soil the day before as we cultivated, now lay them out high and defiant, in plain sight, adorning the scoured field like scattered gems. On Wednesday night the hail had pummeled our charge, and the sheets of rain had carried off its food and its home.

Thursday morning the interns had greeted one another in the kitchen dazed and cautious, jarred from the fury of the night before, not sure what we'd find when we ventured out to the field. We didn't find Alan, and understandably so: not only had he endured a sleepless night as this land's anxious steward, but he was also hosting family throughout the weekend, and preparing the farm for the season's first potluck, the welcoming showcase for CSA members and friends. These members would be strolling through the fields in three days, most for the first time. Alan couldn't bear to look. Without our guide, we interns did what we could around the farm, but the fields were too drenched to cultivate, and the plants were still in shock. They needed a day to rest undisturbed; the farmers needed a day to weep, and a breath to say a prayer.

Last week, then, brought momentous endings -- Alan's son graduated high school -- and new beginnings, as Riverhill celebrated the start of its 2009 CSA season with food, music, dancing, introductions, and thanks. And underscoring the transitional energy in the air, the week was marked by lightning and rain and hail, and capped on Sunday night with the full moon.

Today was the first warm, sunny day in the field in over a week. The earth was warm again, the sun piercing, the bees buzzing, and the birds gabbing up a storm. Alan was present, and calm. We set to work with our hoes: start at the top of the farm and work your way down; open up the earth to the air, give back to the plants the comfort of their home. Working the soil, focusing more exclusively on its quality than we ever had before, I came to appreciate more deeply how important this living medium is to the growth of the plants. Its not only what's in the soil that matters -- its nutrient content, its organic matter, its moisture -- but also its texture, its crumb, its structure with respect to the air it breathes and the plants it feeds. The hard crust that had set atop every patch on the farm had to be broken up, and the earth made light again. And as this earth, so too were our hearts made light, restored in the peaceful and quiet effort of caring for these plants, one by one, row by row, through the fields, throughout this day.