Using Thanksgiving to Cultivate Gratitude

On this day of the year, in the United States, we have created a holiday we call Thanksgiving.  Like so many things in this world, the depth and complexities remain hidden from so many of us - often in plain sight.  It is so much easier putting a nice little facade in front of the building to hide its true character which, like humanity itself, has its disappointing features and its redeeming qualities.

Because many of us like to have a good "origin" story, we have adapted events of 1621 to fit our idealized first Thanksgiving feast (though it was not ideal).  In fact, if you need to have a "Europeans in North America" Thanksgiving origin, that would actually be much earlier than 1621, according to this Smithsonian article.  But, we should not ignore that peoples throughout the world have celebrated the harvest and given thanks for the blessings of the Earth and the communities in which they live for probably as long as humans have had cause to be grateful.

And that, my friends, is where the root of my celebration of Thanksgiving comes from.  This day is important to me because it provides me with a ritual event where I am encouraged to think and ponder what it means to give thanks.  

What it means to have gratitude.  

What it means to have my eyes open to see the world with awe and wonder.

I try, most years, to write an annual Thanksgiving blog post.  The first such post stuck with being marginally promotional for the Genuine Faux Farm, local foods, and trying to encourage people to think about where and how their food was raised.  But, there was also real and intentional gratitude embedded in those writings.  There is never anything wrong with being genuinely thankful - and making sure you express joy, contentment, and satisfaction that might come with it.  It just so happened that my life, in particular, followed a tight orbit around the Genuine Faux Farm.  So, it should not be a surprise that my observations of the good things in this world might be filtered through that lens.

Over time, as I became more comfortable with the idea that I did not have to edit what I wanted to say so I wouldn't make a potential customer unhappy with me, I expanded my horizons for sharing in writing how I have gone about giving thanks. I suppose some of that freedom came from a realization that it was highly unlikely that a potential customer was going to read much of our blog anyway - except maybe one quick splurge out of curiosity.  But I think it was more the fact that I have a desire to be helpful to others - and that I do not always feel as if I have the power to accomplish that goal.

And now I speak a truth that I have spoken many Thanksgivings prior to this one.  Giving thanks is difficult.

And that's why having a day set aside for giving thanks is important.

It's not for the holiday feast.  It's not to celebrate a mythical, historical dinner.  It's not to show off for others.  It's not for the holiday shopping.  Or at least it shouldn't be.

It is because cultivating gratitude is HARD.  It is because exercising your awe and wonder for this world and the beings on it is IMPORTANT.

And this brings me back to this photo from July of 2010.  This picture reminds me that I can find reasons to give thanks, even in some of the darkest times.

It was in May of that year that Tammy and I were within a whisker's breadth of terminating the grand project that was the Genuine Faux Farm.  The rains had been so persistent that spring and early summer that our crops were literally drowning in the field.  But, we had committed to a field day to build our first high tunnel that July.  Despite considering cancelling, we decided to honor our commitments and we went through with it.

The rains were still falling up to the moment we started unloading the trailer (in fact there were a few raindrops then as well).  And then, the rains stopped.  The high tunnel was built.  And the sunset broke through the clouds.

There it was.  Something to be awestruck by.  Something that made me look at the world in wonder once more.  Something that provided the tiniest bit of hope.  Something we grabbed and ran with.

There are still miracles - and this was one of them in my life.  The miracle was the simple fact that I found enough energy and will inside of myself to recognize reasons to give thanks.  The miracle came when I lifted my head up from the soggy ground and took a moment to look at the world around me and seek out something positive.  It was difficult and I even felt foolish for reading so much into a sunset.  There was still so much work to be done to recover what looked like a lost season.

But this moment of awe and wonder was a turning point that would have been missed if we hadn't made ourselves READY for it with real effort and real intention.

I found new hope and new energy from that moment forward - because I took a moment to exercise my gratitude muscles.  I slowed down to appreciate the beauty of the world around me and it taught me once again that I was stuck in a rut that was largely of my own making.  Certainly, things were bad as far as our current crops and our farm were concerned.  But, we had so much support from so many people.  We were healthy and capable.  The good Earth had not abandoned us either, we just needed to find new ways to work with it and the current circumstance we were in.

I don't know where you are in your life right now.  I will never fully understand what troubles you or how hard things might be for you.  But, I can tell you that I also struggle sometimes to appreciate my life and offer gratitude for it and the things that surround it.  I can tell you that this seems to be normal as I have yet to find one person who does not fight this from time to time.

I can also tell you that seeking out something that evokes feelings of awe and wonder and working to exercise those gratitude muscles works for me.  Maybe it will work for you too?  We are all different and maybe a picture of a sunflower won't help you out much.  Or maybe it will.

Cultivating gratitude is not supposed to be easy, but the work is good, honest work - and the results are worthy of meaningful thanks.

Textures

Back in early August, Tammy and I took a couple of walks near the Cuyahoga River (Cleveland area) and found ourselves thoroughly enjoying the experience.  Of course, the camera came out and many images were captures because...  well, it's a digital camera and you can do that.  And, the walk was about relaxing and immersing ourselves in the natural world.  I sometimes find that I can enhance that experience by taking the time to view things differently and then seeing how it turns out through a lens.

 

I also saw capturing the images as an investment.  It was an investment in my own sense of awe and wonder.  

You see, I knew the walk itself was going to have some time constraints on it.  I wasn't going to be able to meander on these trails all day long for days on end.  But, also, the light and the wind and the feel of the world around us changes constantly.  There were some beautiful moments I wanted to savor a bit longer - so I tried to grab the ghost of that moment in a picture.

Sometimes, the image was for future exploration. What kind of mushroom was that?

Sometimes, the image was to remind me of an observation I had about the forest floor.  It was early to mid-August and look at all of the leaf litter on the ground.  Last year's leaves (and probably some of this year's) were providing cover for the soil.  The forest canopy was so dense that there was very little in the way of understory plants - and yet nature still provided a blanket of organic matter.

I've often had a fascination with dew drops as well, so it makes sense that I might try to chase them wherever they might form.

They softened the look of trees that might seem, if you don't look too hard, to be quite prickly and uninviting.  But the dew droplets cling to them happily, reluctant to fall away.

Maybe they know something about these trees that we don't?  Perhaps they are better hosts than they let on?

At one point, I followed a stray beam of light that had infiltrated its way through the tree canopy.  I don't think you can say that it sneaked in because sunbeams are quite direct in their intentions.  They either get through or they don't.

This particular sunbeam was lighting up a fallen tree trunk that was smooth, having lost all of its bark.  And what should I see from a distance on that trunk?  A bright red object, beckoning to me.

Needless to say, I had to go look and I had to record that moment.  

It was a little bit like so many movies that use the beam of light to illustrate a promised land or some amazing treasure.  In this case, the treasure was a bright, red leaf - placed there as if it was of great value to the forest itself.

There were also textures that were not of the natural world.  The trails evidenced human intervention and there was evidence of the need to record our presence on a few of the trees near that trail.

I was here!  So was I!  Did you notice?  This is me!

I, of course, refrained from doing the same.  Instead, I recorded the moment in digital form.  And, I wondered about this need to mark our territory and our inability to see how our cumulative efforts to carve a niche can wear a bigger hole than we ever intended.

Of course, I took time to look up.  I don't know when I started this practice, but it's a new habit of mine to stop at several points during a walk just to see what the world looks like above me.

If you do any hiking on uneven trails, I am sure you understand that looking down is part of the program - if only to avoid meeting said ground a bit more forcefully than you want with more parts of your body than you need.  And, of course, looking ahead is just a human's default given the orientation of our head and our body.  Looking side to side is fairly simply as well.

But, looking up?  That takes some thought and some effort.

And it can be very rewarding.

The intersection of the bones of the Earth with living green things always fascinate me.  As a person who has cultivated plants in the good soil for a long time, I can't help but exude a bit of wonder at how lichen and moss do what they do.

My sense of cultivating growing things tells me that the ground here is not the kind that supports green and growing life.  Yet, here it is.  

And then, there is the sculpture that comes from the interaction of soil, water and plant life.  Trees and bushes also were finding their way despite not having feet... or even inches... of top soil to get their starts in life.  

How wonderful.  

It doesn't take much, but there is life.  And I was given the chance to observe and appreciate that life.  And now I can appreciate that moment once again by viewing, considering - and writing about - the images I have.

There was a strong chance that these pictures would remain covered in a virtual pile of rock slabs.  Newer images piled on top of older images on the disk drive of my computer.

This is how things work when you live in the present.  The most recent things reside closest to our minds, so that's what we see when we cast about for things to say or do.  But, we need to remember that the things that lie on top are not always those that reside closest to our hearts.  Sometimes, we have to dig through the pile to find those things.

And when we do, we add texture to our lives and to the present.  And we provide depth to the past.

An October Morn

One week ago Sunday, there were significant changes that were made at the Genuine Faux Farm.  The broiler chicken flock (meat chickens) were taken to "the Park," on their way to "Freezer Camp."  And, the last of our older hen flock were taken to new homes.  And with those birds went my reasons to take a walk out to the northwest part of our farm every morning.

So, what did I do multiple times last week?

I walked out to the northwest.  Part of the reason for these trips was to keep a promise I had made to myself and to Crazy Maurice, our Weeping Willow who stands watch over that part of our farm.  But, on Thursday, I just knew it was exactly the right thing to do because it just might have been the perfect October morning.

The skies were a beautiful blue.  It's the kind of blue that happens maybe a dozen times each year at the farm - and I try to take note of it whenever it happens.

The air felt soft with the tiniest bit of crispness that comes with cooler weather.  Maybe it would be more accurate to say that the air felt and smelled fresh.  But, there was enough humidity and warmth still in it to keep it all feeling relaxed.  And there was only a hint of a breeze.  Just a bit to move the air and prevent you from breathing in the same air twice - if you know what I mean?

Even the sunbeams had a quality that made them feel friendlier than usual.  And, perhaps, gently playful.  Shadows were dark enough to be interesting, but not so much that they were foreboding.  And the light warmed up the colors of the leaves, and the granary, and anything else it touched.

The grass just might have been greener than it has been for much of the year because we've gotten a little bit of rain to encourage it.  Blaise, the maple tree was at his best showing off his coat of red leaves.  And, there were a fair number of smaller migratory birds making themselves known as they flitted from Maurices branches to some of his companion trees in the area.

I ended up spending much more time out there than I initially planned.  And I didn't regret it in the least.

I hope you have opportunities to fully admire a perfect October morning.  And, if they don't come by the 31st, you can always keep your eyes open.  I've heard November can have some pretty nice moments as well.

Different Viewpoint

On my recent walk at Backbone State Park, I made sure to ... um... stop walking for a bit.

I know, I know.  I clearly don't know how to go on a hike by myself.  You see, if you are going on a hike, you're supposed to keep moving.  The whole point is to get form point A to point B and to do it efficiently.

And I didn't do that.

Instead, I stopped a couple of times to listen carefully to the birds, trying to identify as many calls as I could.  Then, I pulled out the phone and the Merlin app to see if I was getting the identifications right.  THEN, I started turning in place to just view the world around me in all directions.

Note to self, do this slowly to avoid getting dizzy next time.

Yes, now I am just being silly, because I did not actually spin so fast that I got dizzy.  But I noticed you needed me to get your attention back by being a little silly.  Did it work?  No?  Alas for me.

Anyway, after I took the time to face each direction, I looked down.  Then I looked up.

Then I got the camera out and tried to take pictures of some of the things I observed in that space.  My favorite photo from that exercise is the one you see above.

When I was looking down, I noticed a feather that landed over a leaf on one of the rocks on the trail.  There were some small plants growing in the fissures of the rock and there were leaves that had fallen from the nearby trees.  

If I were a person who was an expert at bird identification, maybe I would have endeavored to identify the bird this had come from.  But, alas again, I am only an amateur in that area.  Better than many, not as good as others.  If I were a geologist, I might have found things to study in the rock - but I am not.  So, I could only note textures and colors and the various qualities a person who has not studied rocks deeply might be able to make.

Still, what I was able to consider and view while I was looking down was very different from what I observed while looking up.  I could even make myself believe that the two were not connected, even though I knew I had not moved more than a couple of feet from my original position (if that).

On one side of the trail was a rock face.

I have been on this trail before and I recall a similar day that was a bit less windy and much more sunny.  At that time there were various insects and spiders here that I could observe.  But on this day, there was no such activity, despite my willingness to patiently await a possible reveal.

Instead, I found myself looking at a rock wall that was uninterested in performing any feats of magic for me today.  And, to be perfectly honest, I really didn't want it to move while I was standing there any way.  I was content that the stone would continue on with its slow, steady life - likely considering active and impatient critters, such as myself, as being beneath its notice anyway.

I could turn both directions and observe the trail that I had come from and the trail I was going to.  

There was something familiar about the way the path seemed to disappear ten to twenty feet away in either direction.  I could clearly see this trail in the area where I was currently residing, but both my past and my future were obscured.  Hidden by trees, bushes and rocks.  

The trail was not perfectly straight.  And, while I have walked this path before, I was not so familiar with it that I knew exactly what I would find around either bend.  

It reminded me a bit of the growing seasons we have experienced at our farm.  Each season has followed a general pattern - planning, to sowing, to cultivating, to harvest and back to planning.  A cycle that has us following the same path from year to year.  But the path is never quite the same - either because our memory recorded the trail improperly, or because things truly were different this time around.

I could put my back to the rock face and look out at the Maquoketa River.  Now I could contemplate water.  Water is able to ooze its way between rock, wash away sand, and makes up much of the volume that is you and I.  Each droplet has a value beyond measure and too many droplets can destroy things we value just as quickly.  

It made me think of a an excellent tune by the Choir that has the lyric "every drop of water is a blessing and a curse."  In recent months, most of Iowa has been in a drought.  So, every drop of water that we have received at our farm has been viewed as a blessing.  But, I also know that some of the rainfalls we got that we were so pleased to have ended up causing other people some problems.  And I can also recall many times on our farm when we were doing our fair share of cursing at the water droplets as they fell... and kept falling.

I even noticed a flowering plant nearby.  Clearly it was near the end of its flowering cycle.  But I still appreciated its presence and the little dash of color it added to the landscape.

So... all of this by simply being in one place for a while and giving myself time AND PERMISSION to look around.  To take in the view from as many angles as my imagination would allow.

And look what I was able to see.  Can you see all of the interesting things I could observe and the thoughts I could consider?

And that is my gentle reminder for today.  Give yourself the time and permission to look at something from all sorts of angles.  It could be all of the views you can see from your front porch.  It could be all of the different sounds you can hear in a favorite song.  It could be all of the different ways you could think about a particular idea.  Close your eyes and smell the fragrances in a spice rack in your kitchen.

You might be surprised what you will observe.

Realm of Peace and Content

The vegetable plots on our farm have not qualified as 'gardens' for a very long time.  We crossed the border between gardener and grower or farmer once we got to a point where we could honestly (and accurately) tell ourselves that we had "cut back" and will only harvest nine hundred or so onions this year.

Even so, I will proudly wear the name of 'farmer' or 'gardener' if others feel it is appropriate as long as both those labels are equated with being a steward of the land.  The responsibility of actively caring for the land and the things that grow and live on it (and in it) is difficult, rewarding, tiring, fulfilling, frustrating, interesting, and, above all, diverse.

If I were asked to differentiate between a farmer and gardener, I might be tempted to point to the words that carry a negative connotation (difficult, tiring, frustrating).  The act of growing for others on a larger scale than a garden entails a certain undertone of worry/concern/stress that pervades every moment on the farm.  

Perhaps the key descriptor that comes to mind when I think about being a professional grower is the word "relentless."  Once you start down the path of growing on a diverse farm like ours, you don't have the option of delaying things until you feel like doing it.  Don't take this wrong.  There are always choices to be made and there is always some level of flexibility.  In fact, it is valid to make the choice to NOT do something as long as you know that the consequence is the potential loss of a crop (for example).  But, the work that needs to be done on a farm like ours is relentless.  It doesn't have an end if you intend to be a grower and land steward and it doesn't look at your schedule to determine when it might give you a bit of a break.

Now, there were also the positive descriptors (rewarding, fulfilling, interesting, diverse) that come along for the ride too.  If they weren't part of the equation, the unrelenting nature of farming/growing would drive practically everyone out of the profession.

I've been a fan of Tolkien Lord of the Rings for a very long time and I have read the books more times than I can remember.  The wonderful thing about the books is that I can re-read them and find something new that speaks to me in a way it hasn't before.  Perhaps that says more about me than it does about Tolkien, but that isn't what matters here.

"Your land must be a realm of peace and content, and there must gardeners be in high honour."

 J.R.R. Tolkien in The Two Towers

And, this is why I want to make sure I never completely shed the label "gardener."  

What are some of the things that drew us to this vocation in the first place?  Do we not still enjoy hearing the birds sing and feeling the breeze on our faces while we do some task in the fields that requires the use of our bodies and hands? We still take moments to view a flower or two and acknowledge the bees, butterflies and hummingbirds that move among them.  Isn't there still a sense of satisfaction when we harvest some beautiful apples or we smell the basil as we walk next to it?

Yes.  There is still a sense of peace and contentment on the farm.  It's there for the taking.  We just need to allow ourselves to recognize and accept it.

 

"The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm;

 his own hands to use..."  

J.R.R. Tolkien about Samwise Gamgee in Return of the King

There is a sense of place and belonging that comes with the farm (or garden).  Perhaps this is not true for everyone since I am aware of many people who have declared to me and others that gardening is something they NEVER want to do.  But, for someone like me, the garden helps me to find my place again.  

It may not be the small garden alluded to for Mr. Gamgee, but it is always a good reminder that there is reward in working with what you have in the best ways you know how.  It is also a good thing to reflect on what we do on our farm frequently so we can see the positive things that happen and accept what we have as what is good enough for us.  Of course, this does not mean that we won't look at opportunities and assess them as we always have.  But, there is a difference between looking carefully at opportunity versus belittling that which is in front of you because you think you want something else.

Pardon me, but I need to go out and survey my realm of peace and content now.

Not How We Planned It

We do have some apple trees at the Genuine Faux Farm.  When we first moved to the farm, we made sure to put in some apple trees and added to their numbers over the next several years.  Some years, we have had apples.  Other years, we have not.

A whole host of things can push our apples towards good or bad harvests.  But, it rarely seems that we get an "in-between" year.  We've also lost some apple trees over the years.  We were very sad a few years ago when one of our Fireside apple trees succumbed to a couple of windstorms.  The first came from one direction and the other finished it off by coming from another direction.

But, there is one apple tree that has continued to thrive - and this is after we feared it wasn't going to get past its first year on the farm.

Several years back we picked up a few bare-root trees, and among them was this little Cortland apple tree.  We put it into the ground on the west side of one of our orchard areas.  We call it an orchard, but there has never been more than five fruit trees in this area at any one time.

We planted it, we watered it and it seemed like it was going to do ok.  Until we got a windstorm that snapped our little tree off at about one foot above the ground.

Now here's where the story gets interesting.  There had been a sucker (a branch growing out of the lower trunk area) that I was meaning to prune, but I hadn't got around to doing it.  Now this sucker was above the grafted area of the tree and below where the trunk snapped.  The sucker had a few leaves.  So, I decided I would just leave the tree there and see what happened the next year.

Why not?  It wasn't going to hurt anything and I could take it out the next Spring.

To make a long story less long, this is that very same Cortland apple tree.  It's our healthiest and our strongest apple tree on the farm.  And yesterday, we harvested several bushels of apples off of this tree.

It's not how we planned it, but the results are what we dreamed.  I think we can live with that. 

Three Weeks

This Thursday, I was considering the migration of the swallows from our farm (and elsewhere).  Already, we have had multiple visits from swallows who are from regions to our north.  I was trying to remember how far they flew each day (55 miles) and knew I had that factoid here.  So, I will share this as a Throwback Thursday post because it's a good one.

Enjoy!

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It was just three weeks ago that we entered the month of September, and I've only just gotten used to the idea that we are actually residing in that month.  I am still startled to notice that schools are in session and that Tammy is now fully into the semester at the college.  I am both dismayed and a bit alarmed that the sun comes up later each day and goes down sooner.  There are tasks that I told myself should be easy to get done during the month that I have not even started and there are changes I promised I would make that are still promises - but not reality.

Three weeks.  It doesn't seem like much time at all - yet it can be all the time in the world.

The first days of April this year brought snowfall to the Genuine Faux Farm.  The big, fluffy flakes floated down from above and drew me outside with the camera to see if I could capture a pleasing image or two.  Even if they weren't the nicest pictures in the world, they served as an excellent reminder of what was at that time.  

There was a moment, as I stood outside and the flakes landed on my hands and head (well, hat actually), that time felt like it stopped.  There was silence - except for the sound a snowflake makes when it lands.

But, then I blinked.

And three weeks had passed.  There was no snow.  The grass had greened.  Some of the earliest plants were starting to show interest in waking and displaying their greenery.

The sun woke us up earlier each and every day - unless it was shy and hid behind the clouds.  And, that same sun found more to see in our landscape, so it stuck around a bit longer into the evening - painting the sky as it finally admitted it had seen enough this time around.

Three weeks and the world had changed enough that a stranger might not recognize that they were in the same place that had existed just twenty-one days ago.

Three weeks is about how long it takes for a Barn Swallow chick to hatch and grow big enough for it to take its first flight.  In three days more, it has likely left the nest for good.  In three weeks, we can see the first German-bearded Iris bloom and, sometimes the last for the season.  It's a special bloom season when we see them for four weeks.  We often transplant lettuce seedlings we started in trays after a little more than three weeks.  

Going back to our Barn Swallow friends, they are currently migrating, typically leaving our farm in September (we usually see the last of them on September 15, but many leave September 1st).  They travel an average of 55 miles a day, so in three weeks they will have covered approximately 1,155 miles.  That is approximately the distance from our farm to Galveston, Texas. 

Three weeks.  So little time - and so much.  I can either allow myself to be upset that so much has changed, but I have not accomplished what I wanted OR I can be encouraged and I can think about what I will be able to do in the next three weeks.

Because a lot can change over that period of time.

Solo Flight (Float)

Tammy has been dabbling with the idea of kayaking this year.  Some of the motivation for it might be because walking and hiking are less friendly to her than they once were.  Also, being a child of Minnesota, there were many more opportunities to spend time around water that might be idea for floating around in it.  And, it's always good to keep learning new things.

And yes, water is a good place to experience awe and wonder - both of which encourage you to exercise your gratitude muscles.

Tammy has been on a few trips where others hosted/organized the float so she could get a little support.  Last week, we threw the kayak into the back of the truck in the evening and drove up to Fredrika so she could try a solo float.

Some of you might be wondering why I am not also kayaking at the same time.  I'll answer by simply saying I am not as fond of being in or on water as many people.  I like being near water, that's fine.  So, I meandered around the park area and then found a nice place to sit while she paddled.

Like most rivers in Iowa right now, the Wapsipinicon is pretty low.  There is still enough depth for a kayak.  But, then again, kayaks don't need much water to clear the bottom.  In some ways, it was perfect for someone who is still getting used to the kayak to learn the craft.  The current is easy and the snags and sandbars are quite visible.

The drought conditions have also resulted in fewer mosquitos and other biting insects that can turn a calm evening into a slap fest.  That meant I was able to do things like sit and watch the light work its way into a position where it would reflect off the water.  Or I could watch some birds in a nearby tree.

Or find myself bemused by a leaf floating on the water until rushed down the damn to the pools below.

As the sun started to sink to the horizon, I noticed how some of the trees and bushes around me became silhouettes.  This is where I once again extol the virtues of digital cameras.  They encourage me to just try different things and see what I get.

This time, I focused on the corpse of a tree that looks like it lost some larger branches at one point in time and then added some new growth, but sideways.  Eventually, the tree had no more energy to send out new shoots and we are left with the skeleton of a riverside sentinel.

Soon after considering this tree, I noticed Tammy heading back down the river to the boat ramp.  It was time to assist with reloading the kayak into the truck and head home to do the chores.  It was also time to celebrate a successful solo float.

Well done, my friend!

Moonshot

The Blue Moon loomed over the horizon as I was completing the evening chores last week and I thought to myself how sad it was that I didn't have the camera with me.  I noticed that Tammy was trying to take pictures or video with her phone and guessed I could either do the same or take the time to get things from her phone to my computer.

Then I came to a realization that I did not have to stay inside once the chores were done.  And, for that matter, I could finish some of the chores by moonlight.  So I trotted inside and grabbed the camera.

This has nothing to do with my prowess (or lack thereof) when it comes to night photography.  Those skills don't actually exist for me because I have only recently found the settings on the camera to allow me to even try.  

Sure, there was some "beginner's luck" when I first received the camera with a couple of photos.  Otherwise, I don't often think about the camera in the early morning or late evening unless there is a sunrise or sunset that really grabs my attention - and I know how to take those shots so there isn't much thought beyond trying to frame the picture.  

Hey, if you farm - even if it is on a smaller scale than it used to be - the beginning and end of the day is often full up.  My mind is often on the completion of tasks and plans for other tasks for later in the day or to do the following day.  And, my brain is often less than ready to try to figure out some setting or function on a camera.

I was captivated most by the juxtaposition of sunflowers in the moonlight.  The first photo you see at the top was taken outside by the sunflowers.  You can see moonlight shining through, and off of, the sunflowers themselves.  A more skilled photographer with a better camera might have come up with something captivating with this set up.  I merely got enough to remind me of how magical that moment was when I recognized this was a moment when the moon and the sun(flowers) met for a brief time.

The last photo was taken from inside of Valhalla, one of our high tunnels.  The plastic distorted the moonlight but was strong enough to show the shadows of a couple of sunflowers as well.  This picture is different, but I like the feel of it.  I don't care if it is sharp because it was the texture and the light vs dark I wanted to capture.

So, while other folks have shared nice, crisp photos of the moon, I offer up some impressionistic versions.  I like both, of course.  Maybe with some work, I can accomplish both.  But for now, I kind of like how these turned out.

Still, the real triumph for me is that I reminded myself to take time for moments of gratitude, awe and wonder.  The changing of the day is frequently one of the best times to experience these things because there are so many dramatic moments.  Sunlight dancing on the clouds.  Mist rising over the fields.  Lightning in the distance.

But maybe this is a good time simply because it IS a time when I am outside EVERY DAY.  Even if the purpose is to do farm chores that I just want done, it is important that I also give myself permission to see, hear and feel the world around me.

Have a good remainder of your day.  And don't forget to give yourself an opportunity today to experience gratitude, awe and wonder.

Caretaker

The picture of newly hatched chicks in a Genuine Faux Farmer hands may still be one of my favorites.  By the shape of the hands, it looks like Tammy was the picture taker and I was the hand model for this photo.  I am no longer certain who took this one and it doesn't really matter - because both of us would have had rough, cracked hands.

And we both would have held the chicks gently, watching for their well-being even as we took the time for a photo opportunity.

The artistry of Norman Rockwell has been something that has captured my attention since I first encountered it at my grandparent's house in an over-sized, coffee-table book.  Rockwell had a way of capturing people in a way that let you get lost in the layers of fine detail.  And yes, I mean detail in more than one way.

In the piece shown above, it is absolutely amazing how things like the texture of the wood on the scythe and the roughness of the farmers' hands are so clear to see.  But, even more amazing is the depth and consistency of the detail of the work.  Other than the unlikely appearance of the flying bird in the panel in just that position, nothing really seems out of place.  Nothing rattles against the subconscious - telling us something isn't right.  Even that bird belongs.

It is perfectly clear that the clothing worn by this individual is something familiar and functional.  There is a wear pattern on the handle of the scythe that implies this is not the first time it has been used - just as the hands of the farmer who is wielding it are roughened and experienced in manual labor.  The details showing the difference between skin regularly exposed to the elements (face, hands and neck) versus those less frequently exposed (upper arm) shows an honest familiarity of what it means to work outside.  The hair is likely a little mussed under that hat and it isn't likely to get much better until the end of the work day and all of the chores are done.

This is one of my favorite Rockwell pieces as it portrays the farmer as a caretaker - one who works hard, but keeps an eye on the well-being of the world around them.  The farmer has an appreciation for hard work and fully understands that 'things don't get any dunner, if you don't do them!"  At the same time, there is a recognition of natural beauty and the fragility of life.  And - the farmer knows that there is time to observe, honor, and protect these things, even while the work waits.

Those tough, thick-fingered hands don't blister much anymore because they are all callous - but they can still hold a small bird.  Gently.  Kindly.  With awe and wonder.

This is the image of farmer I wish we could see realized on a regular basis.  Caretakers.  Not businessmen.  Stewards.  Not commodity growers.  There are plenty out there who have the heart to be this kind of farmer.  It would be good if we could find a way to employ them and realize the depth of value, beauty and worth that this type of caretaker brings to the land.

A Bobwhite's Greeting

One of the beautiful things that comes from paying attention to the world around you is that you gain a sense of what is normally there.  Once you have that sense of the typical, or the normal, or the most common, you gain the power of recognizing new things.  Or, if you are lucky, even slightly different things.

Or the call of a Northern Bobwhite, a bird that we have never heard or seen on the farm before.

I first noticed their call while I was working in the office on Friday (with the windows open of course).  I was concentrating on what I was doing, not just sitting around wishing I was doing something else and letting anything and everything distract me.  Somehow, part of my brain recognized that something different was making its voice known and realized, fairly quickly, that this was a new bird call for me at the Genuine Faux Farm.

It is possible I've heard this bird before - but that was probably a time years ago when my birdsong recognition was much less than it is now.  Happily, I also have access to the Merlin app that showed me, much to my delight, that this was, indeed, a Bobwhite.

It is not uncommon for a new bird to stop by our farm and then be gone the next day.  In fact, we had a Wood Thrush sing happily at our farm for exactly ONE day.  So, we were delighted to hear the Bobwhites again on Saturday.  Then we saw them running around the northern portion of our farm.  On my way out to bring the chickens some food, I noticed one bird foraging near our compost piles and I snapped a quick (and blurry) picture with my phone.  I figured that was going to be my prize shot to prove to myself that we actually were seeing a Northern Bobwhite.

Eventually, I went to get the camera in the off chance that I would have a better opportunity.  Then this happened.

A little call and response between two different Northern Bobwhite on the farm.  That was pretty cool.  Then I slowly eased my way around the tree and bush at the right of the video until I could see the bird that was singing - and I took a photo that I could blow up so you could see our new little friend.

This bird stopped it's signature "bob? bob WHITE!" call once it understood it was seen.  About all it managed for a while was a quiet "bob?" and then silence.

It did not leave and simply went about preening.  In fact, a few of these birds walked into Valhalla (our larger high tunnel) while Tammy was in there picking beans.  She actually had to escort them out of the building and was only a few feet from them as she did so.

While these are neat little birds, we are really pleased by their presence because their numbers have been in sharp decline, despite the fact that they can have two or three broods a year of young.  The main cause of their decline is the removal of habitat.

Well, I guess our farm has become friendlier for Northern Bobwhite.  

I can live with that.

Calm After the Storm

Once the storms cleared out on Friday and the rain was over, we went outside to do the remaining farm chores.  We'd already shut down the high tunnels in case the ominous clouds packed any poofs that would send our hoop buildings into the next county if they were left open.  Tools and any items that were a risk to taking flight in nasty weather were also already put away or under shelter.

But, we still needed to put the chickens to bed.  So, we stepped outside as the sun was setting in the newly clearing skies to the west.  

Then I stepped back inside to grab the camera.

I looked for ways to show the contrast of the sunset colors with the impending darkness.  I took experimental photos from different angles and from different locations too.  Some of them actually turned out pretty well. 

I was able to catch some Mammatus clouds that appeared over the Poultry Pavilion once we walked to the north side of the farm.  Their presence at the back edge of the storm, not far from the cloud edges that were collecting the last of the day's sun, was not a surprise to us.  But, they do add some interesting texture and drama to the sky.

As we approached Crazy Maurice, our Weeping Willow friend who is hosting the laying hens in their Summer Cottage, we were treated to some other dramatic scenes.

There was still a heavy rain cell to our northwest and they obscured the last as the sun as it dipped below the horizon.  They also provided interesting contrast and depth.  A few scud (or Fractus) clouds were still evident as they tried to decide if they wanted to keep up with the weakening rain cell or just float away.

The truly good news about the show in the sky was that it gave us both something to look at as we waited for the chickens to decide it really WAS time to go to bed.  This putting the laying hens to bed thing is going to be just that... a thing... for a while now.  

The Summer Cottage has a board that serves as a ramp to give the hens better access to their shelter.  So, unlike the Poultry Pavilion, where they had been housed before, there really is no good way for us to herd the birds into the room.  There's not much for it except to wait - patiently or not - until they all make the slow decision to climb the ramp and seek out a perch.

Not every night is going to have a storm and a sunset show to provide interest to the evening's tasks that we do on the farm.  But that's ok.  If it happened every night, it would cease to be special.  But even if it did happen every night, I'd like to think that I would still appreciate seeing it and that I would find myself being much more patient as I look at the sky...

and wait for our poultry decide their day was done. 

Texture

Maybe some of you are like me when it comes to watching water and clouds, leaves in a breeze and a flock of birds wheeling in the sky.  I find myself watching intently.  So intently that I periodically recognize with a start that I need to remember to breathe.  Except, I've been breathing just fine the whole time.

Over the past few weeks, I've been trying to catch some of the textures that the motion creates with the camera.  It's yet another thing I am allowed to do because it is a digital camera.  As odd as it might sound, I am still trying to shake off the limits I placed on myself during the time when you had to load film into the camera and you had a limited number of shots (unless you had lots of resources to develop all of the photos).

Happily, there is no requirement that I succeed with these pictures.  There is no requirement at all.  If I capture some texture that I appreciate - or that someone else appreciates - good enough.  If I don't?  That's ok too.

Sometimes I find myself using the camera lens to block off the noise that comes with what can be seen on the periphery so I can concentrate on something in particular.  I used to do this without a camera, sometimes putting my hands around my eyes to block out the distractions.  

Ah... who am I kidding?  I still do that sometimes.

I was attracted to the opportunity to take pictures of the swallow flock for the picture above as much for the color and texture of the clouds and sky behind them.  I had the option of watching the birds swooping and diving or I could focus on the skies as they darkened and lightened, depending on where the sun was in relation to the cloud openings.

I've always loved the "helicopter seeds" that some trees produce.  But, I have to admit that I rarely pay them much mind at any point other than when they have reached maturity and they come spinning down from the trees.

This was an exception to that rule because the nice rosy color provided a contrast to the leaves.   I think the picture above is a Sycamore, but maybe someone who is better with tree identification can confirm or point me to a better id.  

And for some reason, I haven't really paid much attention to lily pads in the past.  And yet, I find the patterns they make fascinating.   It's a bonus when there are some blooms in the midst of the leaves, but it's not a requirement.  Sometimes, when the water is still and clear, it can seem like they are floating on thin air.

Perhaps, by sharing them here, you can at least get a glimpse of what will sometimes get me to hold still - and breathe without knowing my lungs are working.