Endings for me are often painful. I suck at goodbyes. I think in part this comes from the realization that whatever the amazing thing that happened - that moment, the summer, the midnight adventure - will never happen again.
This is how I felt leaving Lida Farm this past weekend. While I know that my relationships will always stay intact, that chapter of my growth and evolution is over. A part of my heart now permanently resides at that farm, in the same way I left some of it with John and Karen at Pendleton's Country Market when I moved to Minnesota. It's inevitable when you become so intimately connected with the place - and the people. Farming grounds you in a way that can't be ignored. The plants, the weeds, the plant starts...they need tender love and care, and they'll tell you outright when it's overdue.
On the other hand, as much as endings are challenging for me, I find myself often seeking a change of scenery. There's something about being in a new place that allows you to redefine yourself. It's like hitting a reset button to release creative energy in pursuit of new adventures, and while it can create an emotional wound, it can also strengthen long-distance ties.
It's not a coincidence that I'm here at East Silent Lake this winter. I don't know what this place is meant to teach me yet, but I've decided to be very open to whatever it has in store. I'm starting to understand that there's something to be learned from whatever landscape we inhabit. Part of what I think I'm meant to learn by being here is about my relationship to the land, and my responsibility in acting as a caretaker for the earth.
I'm participating in the Regenerate conference this month as a HERD Fellow, a privilege I never could have imagined. It has allowed me to connect with leaders across the country in regenerative agriculture who are pushing the boundaries of what stewards of the land ought to do - and challenging me to rethink my own role as an assistant planner to advance food systems solutions through economic development strategies.
Watching Gather tonight as part of the conference's film screening allowed me to see myself for the kind of person I want to be some day. The kind of person who brings listeners to tears because their story is so powerful. The kind that celebrates the marriage of healing and humanity. The kind that has invested considerable time in understanding their own history in order to uplift the knowledge of their ancestors. The kind that is committed to sharing the story, sharing the power, and sharing the abundance that can be found in nature.
The soil has been kind to me.
In part I think it's because I came to the soil looking for answers, something to root my nomadic impulses, and to understand my role in accelerating a new era of ecological consciousness. The past several years I've done such a good job of filling my time that I never gave much time to listen to what my body was telling me - "Slow down, breathe, follow your intuition". The great pause that we are deep within is giving us a chance to do this, though, and for the silence I am grateful. It's giving me time to step back from the static of urban life and entertainment and dig deep into who I am as a woman, a sister, a daughter, and a leader.
Many people I know are quick to immerse themselves in the turmoil, tragedy, and trauma of this moment in history. Indeed, this is a key moment to mourn. The losses are incredible, but in many ways I feel as though I've been prepared - or preparing - for something like this to happen. There are many of us who have grown up experiencing pain, challenge, and struggles that make this moment seem like just another day. When you're used to shit going wrong all the time or have very close friends who are always in and out of jail, on drugs, or involved in unsavory addictions, it's easy to feel as though finally other people around you know what it feels like to suffer.
In all honesty, though, I have seven years of working in a retirement home to thank for teaching me about death. Seven years of watching some of my favorite people come down to the dining room and suddenly have a bruise on their head that makes your blood stop quick every time you look at them. Seven years of watching their usual chair become empty, or their memory of who you are fail. Of picking up their cane, rolling their walker closer to them, putting them back into bed. Seven years of growing up faster than I ever expected.
Working with the elderly is about as close to understanding death as anything. It teaches you to live. It teaches you to take nothing for granted. To soak up all the beautiful moments that come your way as if it will never happen again. Because you never know if tomorrow is the day you won't wake up in the morning. Perhaps this is why endings are so hard for me. I've experienced so many of them with the loss of some of the most brilliant minds - my adopted grandpas and grandmas at Meadowlark Estates. People who I'll never be able to see again in the flesh, but whose laughter, corny jokes, outlandish gifts, and wise advice will always be with me.
If nothing else, my experiences with loss have taught me to take life by the balls.
I see so many people my age play things safe. They do what they're told and don't think about dreaming big. They don't push the boundaries, or upset those around them. My question is, what kind of incredible experiences, friendships, and stories are they missing out on as a result?
I believe that we are all capable of living a life that seems only imaginable in a movie. I dated someone once who told me that I needed to stop thinking about the movies and start thinking about real life. While there's some truth to what he said, it's my vision of my life being as spontaneous and stellar as a movie that pushes me to do bold things. I only want this for everyone around me.
All that is to say, just do you. Don't play small. Live as if you won't wake up tomorrow and I promise you won't be disappointed in the results.
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