This is just a note for all of you local to the Eastern Shore of Virginia folks, reminding you to sign up for our CSA. Starting in May and continuing into September, you will receive a weekly box of seasonal vegetables, herbs, and fruit. I grow each of the vegetables from seed all the way to harvest on your table, and each box is a labor of love designed to generously feed a family of 3-4 or a couple who eats a lot of vegetables. You don't want to miss out. Shares are going fast, so sign up today!
As the days began to lengthen and the light grew longer, suddenly, it was time. And so I emerged more than ready. Ready for sunkissed days spent shoveling compost. Ready for filthy hands, stained knees, and dirt in every corner. Ready for robins and seeds and calves and blossoms. Tired of slumber, we shed our winter selves, ready to do battle alongside earthworms, fresh dirt, and plants. Eager for endless days dragging tarps and laying sandbags. For digging holes and making grids and spilling seeds. Eager for that particular ache that comes at the end of a long day's labor. Bookended by earlier mornings and a satisfying at-dusk exhaustion, with coffee breaks and sunbathing and to-do lists sandwiched in between. Grateful for the first sunburn and sore shoulders; we paraded around, oblivious to the fact that frosts were still possible even though Spring had officially arrived. But after a too-long winter, we were happy to help her rush in across the threshold. In like a lion, out like a lamb. There were so many signs, you see.
There is something safe and comforting about routines. That first morning cup of tea, grassy and slightly sweet. The evening walk where the light hits everything just right. My afternoon coffee break, a pile of books at my side. Working in the greenhouse, planting and tending seedlings has been a special comfort of late amid all of the grief. I can't control a lot right now but I can plan ahead and grow food for my future, as well as my friends and neighbors. I can't stop the starvation and forced famine in Gaza, but I can grow heirloom seeds from Palestine this year, as a small sign of solidarity that my heart remains with you, the Palestinian people. Though half a world away, they are never far from my thoughts. So today, I will sow seeds while also sowing a prayer for tomorrow. Each seed a meditation and hope. Each herb and vegetable grown a vision of the future.
But people are suffering and starving the world over, why concern yourself with Palestine? This seems to be a favorite reply from the pro-Israel crowd and anyone else who feels they have the luxury in life to remain a-political. Yes, I want to tell them. Suffering exists the world over, and I hate being complicit by way of my U.S. tax dollars in this particular suffering.
This past winter, I was given an ultimatum of sorts by our [former] farmers markets that — and I quote — “Any criticism of Israel is a criticism of all Jews everywhere.” Of course, when I criticize American foreign policy, I hope no American is so self-absorbed as to imagine I’m criticizing literally every American in existence. It is patently obvious that this modern war machine is committing genocide, and no call for dropping bombs on fewer children can be a blanket criticism — unless you yourself support that with maliferous theological justifications. Long story short, we’re not attending two markets, instead focusing on our CSA because I do not believe it is justifiable to censor people speaking from their heart or conscience, regardless of the subject. Remember, evil always calls itself good. Beware, most of all, those who kill in the name of justice.
Politics isn’t about fractious parties, it’s about polity: living and working together for mutual aid. A farmers market, at its best, is a hub of community. The more common goal is just the perception of community, not the actual cultivation of real community.
If you know me or if you've been following me and my farm for any length of time, then you know that I share my thoughts. Often these are about our broken political situation and the problematic structures underpinning our society. Nothing is new about this. And all these years, somehow, sharing thoughts on vaccines, Black Lives Matter, universal health care, healthy food access — all of these were permissible. My annual Thanksgiving reminder that European mistreatment and systematic genocide of indigenous communities was utterly unconscionable: this too was acceptable. Apparently, in America, we’re allowed to criticize America but not a foreign power.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Let's be very clear: I do not want your pity or even your outrage. In no way am I comparing my own minuscule suffering or paltry sacrifice to the horrors unfolding in Gaza. I write to think through my own life, what is happening around me. I often find out what I really think most clearly by writing and rewriting it.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.
In this same conversation, the farmers market manager lectured me on the demographics of the area of one of the markets and said that I might not realize what a huge Jewish community resides there and how offensive it would be to that entire community to post about the unfolding genocide. Just a few weeks ago, we did a pop-up market at a restaurant in this same city, and we encountered multiple pro-Palestinian protests on our way in and, hours later, on our way out of the city. What struck me as I passed these protesters and waved in solidarity was that this city also has a large Muslim and black population, seemingly unimportant and forgotten in our market’s ultimatum on this city’s sensitive demographics.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Do their voices not matter? Do the voices of the Palestinians not matter? Do our voices calling for an end to this genocide not matter? It should not require bravery to mourn an entire people whose lives have been destroyed. It should not be considered too political or antisemitic to be upset over the 30,000 Palestinian lives lost, including over 13,000 children, with the daily death toll higher than any other 21st-century conflict. Why are so many of our own elected representatives cheering on the death count? Why is it offensive to point out the collective punishment and mass destruction that Israel has been enacting on Gaza every day for the past six months?
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
When I was informed that my political posts online were gathering complaints from a few market customers, my mind immediately went to one of my favorite quotes from Stoic philosopher Epictetus:
“If someone has just told you that so-and-so is saying something bad about you, do not try to justify yourself in the least with regard to what has been reported to you; only answer: ‘He must not be fully informed about all the other things that could be said about me; otherwise he would not have limited himself to that.’”1
Posting about genocide and mass starvation is unacceptable and offensive to Jews, but the act itself somehow isn't? What about all my customers who privately thanked me for posting? What about all the readers who approach me from near and far, in person and online who tell me to keep speaking up? Do they simply not count because they weren't loud enough or part of the “right” group?
Blessed are the poor for their’s is the kingdom of heaven.
I was also informed that these markets have instituted a zero-tolerance policy for anything political at all markets, including posting anything political online from your business page. But you know what? I have been attending these markets as a vendor for years and I have always been vocal on a wide range of political topics online. It was never a problem until now. I have never worn political buttons or shirts or flown any sort of flag or political banner at any market ever. My error was simply in posting my political opinion online from my farm page, which is also my personal page. For me, the personal and political are intrinsically tied: I live where I farm and grow food.
I am vocal about the genocide that occured against the indigenous population here in the US but somehow that was okay, that was never a problem. When self-reflection is labeled self-loathing, our collective conscience dies a slow, inexorable death. It is okay to post vague, inspiring quotes from Martin Luther King Jr as long as we shy away from his vocal support of Palestine.
We do food and clothing drives, donate produce to food pantries at farmers markets, yet somehow these very good acts are non-political. Politics isn’t about fractious parties, it’s about polity: living and working together for mutual aid. A farmers market, at its best, is a hub of community. The more common goal is just the perception of community, not the actual cultivation of real community. And then I wonder, what does real community look like? Not the anti-political, Pleasantville, fake smiling community but community that's messy, that doesn't always agree but works in concert, quite often cacophony, in an attempt to try and figure things out. Here I am reminded of Maggie Nelson’s words from On Freedom: “the world doesn’t exist to amplify or exemplify our own preexisting tastes, values, or predilections. It simply exists. We don’t have to like all of it, or remain mute in the face of our discontent.”2 Real community is having to speak with people you don’t agree with — you might not even like all of them. That’s the community I participate in — politically — farmers who are socialists, free-market fanatics, climate change deniers, Trump or Biden supporters, anarchists, Christians, atheists, gay, and straight. Real community is relationships, not abstract policies.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.
I see this community in the protests for Palestine, in the raffles and fundraisers for Gaza, and in the marches and vigils and sit-ins that take place almost daily. It’s not that I am an expert in anything to do with Palestinian/Israeli politics but the community I support is about people’s relationships and lives that should be allowed to flourish, and a war machine is eradicating that possibility. Food access is a universal human right, whether you are Palestinian or Israeli. The right to access food, the ability to feed yourself and your loved ones should not be controversial. This goes directly to the heart of every farmers market across the world. Food, your access to it, what you eat, what you can afford to eat or not eat: these are systemic issues which undergird our society. These are political questions whether or not we recognize them as such. I won't pretend to have answers but I will say this: for me, growing food is an intensely political act and always has been.
When self-reflection is labeled self-loathing, our collective conscience dies a slow, inexorable death.
It is April, and spring is here. Some days, when the sun is warm and the air still cool, I think that she has finally made up her mind. She is here to stay. I can feel her warmth rising up from the soil, the birdsong delightfully chirping her arrival. On other days, when the rain pours down in buckets and everything is damp and cold, I tire of her fickleness and simply wish Spring would make up her mind. Are you here to stay, or not?
My hands are constantly dirty, my back sore, my socks always wet and my shoes never dry — why yes, it must be spring! I plan my days based on what needs to go into the ground, what row needs forkful after forkful of compost shoveled onto it, what seeds need to be started in the greenhouse. My head is full of crop planning and summertime dreaming and innumerable to-do lists. I work endlessly and my body is sore and exhausted all the time, but my spirit is exhilarated: uplifted by the warm sun and the still cool air, by baby bunnies, by tender stinging nettles and all of the dandelion wishes blown about on the wind. The world is in chaos. Then I bend down to change my perspective, to become entranced by a dung beetle before I'm suddenly distracted by the knock of a woodpecker. So here I sit and crouch before magic spots like this one. To remind myself that though nature is well aware of all the cruelty, still she carries on with all the beauty too. Spring is still here. The dandelions still abound, the soil is warm and wet with promise and I am allowed to be a part of it all, if only I choose to do so. What more could I ask? Despite all the uncertainty, so much is still certain and this, my friends, is the best soul salve I could ask for.
When I am at my most wretched, dejected, grumpy and down. When I have Eeyore sitting on my shoulder, a constant companion who will simply not go away. When I am anxious, cross and worried — I turn to spaces across my farm, hidden and exposed, that remind me of the good in the world, the magic that exists right in front of me. Spots where I can look up and see a tree full of cedar waxwings or lie down, exhausted and frustrated against my favorite apple tree. I walk out into the pasture to say hello to my cows or scoop up a lamb if I'm nimble and fast enough. These moments exist, despite the chaos and grief. These moments exist because without them, we cannot.
All of these small moments make up a day and before you know it, a life. Farming carries with it daily routines, as well as seasonal ones. With late winter and early spring come some of my favorite rituals: greenhouse work, starting seeds, potting up plants, directing seeding, planting out, and shoveling compost. The list could go on and on at this time of year. If I'm honest, spring is utterly exhausting and exhilarating, all at once a contradiction in terms.
I am determined to seize the best of this season, the best of this year. Despite the ongoing genocide, despite my feelings of absurdity that my life, our lives, go on while children are maimed and murdered. Because if I’ve learned anything at all, now is the time to live life fully and love just as hard. The future and all her disappointments might still be on the horizon but we have today. The world that I imagine cannot happen unless I live today intentionally with my heart wide open, raw from the sheer humanity and beauty of it all. To hold tragedy and joy, lightness and weight in each palm. Our support of each other is never enough, and it can never be enough, but it is always necessary. And so I choose today, face to the sun, muddy knees, and a will to do better in any way I can, but always with my face toward the sun.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the Sons of God.
Warmly xxxx
Natalie
Epictetus, Virtue and Happiness: The Manual of Epictetus (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2000)
Maggie Nelson, On Freedom: Four Songs of Care and Constraint (Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2021), pg. 23.
It's honestly just so sad to see so much censorship and hostility for even questioning the status quo. I know I shouldn't be surprised at this but I always am. 🇵🇸
What on earth would give farmer's market personnel the right to censor your personal page content? That's absurd. I'm continuously surprised at the level of discomfort people seem to experience in the presence of opposing views of any sort, as if they themselves are in imminent danger as a result. And I think the only right answer is to mourn the suffering & loss of both innocent Israelis and Palestinians and want it all to end - how on earth can that be wrong?