The figs taste of honey and spice. So sweet, too sweet, almost. Such a sensual delight wrapped up in late summer's decay. Syrupy droplets form when the timing is just right, signaling life forms from far and near to gorge on her pleasures. The window is short, the competition high. Who will feast tonight? The wasps swarm quickly, ready to defend against fat little fingers or wet noses eager to join the bacchanal. Ants and June bugs descend fast and furious nibbling craters into the delicate flesh. Dog beasts go hunting, sniffing the air above until they come upon the scent, just right, just so, just decadent. And sometimes the humans of the farm, if they are quick enough and not too lazy, can steal a fig or two before the hordes descend. Occasionally they'll get injured in the process. Those wasps aren't messing around. But who is concerning these Mediterranean delights?
And the reward? Soft sticky fruit, so sweet it's impossible to consign yourself to simply one. Your lust for more outweighs all other desires. And so you join in, a willing convert to such heady earthly delights. Hungry to devour each one before they are gone. Before cooler weather banishes them for good. Just one more, plucked from the tree. Soft, sticky, sweet. I dare you to resist.
Now it is September and the figs hang heavy, some almost ripe, too many overripe, pecked over by birds, covered in wasps and butterflies, but still I hunt for just the right one, thick with congealed golden sap. I am always asked what to do about pests, the birds and other critters, who also need to eat. How do we keep them away from our fruits, how is it possible to bring so many beautiful figs to market, what is our secret? My answer is direct and slightly disappointing in its simplicity: always plant more than enough for everyone. If you create an ecosystem that includes sharing with the birds and other creatures that inhabit the land you reside on, then you will not be disappointed. This is such a simple principle that I try to apply in all areas of my own life, a guiding light that is excluded in our current capitalist iteration but must be practiced on an individual level: each small act of care disrupts the automaton that tries to tell us to not look out for anyone else, not to care for the earth or any “other,” to view the birds and bugs and animals as pests and problems to be solved. What if we viewed it all as our community? As tiny parts of a very significant whole. What would climate change look like to us, then?
So we have fig trees lining our road, along with elderberries, apples, pears and persimmons. The elderberries satiate the birds for much of the summer, until September comes and it is time to share the figs with the birds as well. Tend and share with your fellow creatures, just as you would with your fellow humans. Cultivate your community and your ecosystem will thrive.
Mostly gone now, the summer, like each season past, possesses her own distinct temperament and leaves in her wake joyful exhaustion with a rawness that can only be felt after laboring outside through heat, bugs, humidity and long days.
An odd fruition of dreams realized and crushed, abundance and failure: the lessons to be gleaned from these summer months are many. The land commands all of you and give it you must, forgetting yourself, swept up in the chaos, until you arrive at September, spent and weary, unsure if you can repeat such exertion ever again, only to be met with a cool breeze, tempered by sunshine, caressed by the sunflowers, you find your equilibrium and come back to the root of the whys.
This summer as I've persevered through burnout and frustration, the truth that brings me back to center is the importance of the work itself. You can talk endlessly about ecosystems and vision, agriculture and politics, climate change and social justice but unless you are actively doing the work, putting hand to soil and growing food for your community, then all of the talk means nothing. Doing the work looks different for each individual but what I've found consistently is that anyone can talk a good game about farming, soil, seeds, herbs, growing your own food, healing the earth. Talk is easy. Come August, look around, and you'll soon see the sincerity of such aspirations — or lack thereof. Since we've entered the season of biblical fruits, of figs and pomegranates and apples, let me put it to you this way: You will know a tree by its fruit.
My earliest sense of self is off in the distance, a tiny figure dwarfed by trees. I often feel this way toward life: an insignificant pawn overshadowed by all her challenges and setbacks that tower above. You see, life is at once fantastically heavy and light. Slowly, I'm trying to learn just how to dance between the two.
Nothing remains the same, but there is an abiding beauty in this impermanence. To be alive is to be in constant flux and change every single day. Our best hope is to embrace the beauty and the terror and accept that no feeling, great or small, no joy, no sorrow will last forever. An exhausting but exhilarating proposition that we are all honor bound to carry out. To live is to chance and dream and try and fail and succeed. The light is retreating but soon enough another spring will arrive with buds bursting forth, thunderous with potential. And I will live it all, just as fiercely as if I were experiencing it for the very first time. Tomorrow and a new horizon are already on their way before we even have a chance to spot it. Who knows what that new sunrise will bring. And so I live in the present, with hope for the future, quietly content with each moment in between.
Year after year, September is the gentle soul who reminds me of this. I love what I do and am so grateful that each morning I can wake up to plant trees, raise noble beasts, grow food and do my part to help heal the earth. To sing this song, to be moved by something, a stirring bigger and grander than yourself is all anyone could ever hope for. Something found, something sown, something holy.
xxx Natalie
What's New
We're having a workshop here on our farm October 18-20, and I hope that you can join us for a weekend of community spent outdoors, working and learning together. It's sliding scale in order to make it accessible to as many folks as possible, with work trade options available too. Camping is also available on the farm as well. I'm in charge of food and they'll be lots of vegan and vegetarian options available with the majority of the food sourced directly from our farm. These events are really about community and I love getting to meet new people and see old friends.
Natalie, this is a beautiful piece of writing. Thank you for sharing it. ☮️💟
Sweet Natalie, I am in awe of your writings and your beauty of the Soul. I am so blessed to have found you. You touch the essence of life and the present moment. I feel as if I am there in everything you write and your photography. Thank you, Elder, Terryanne