This week, Marina delights us with the story of how she and her family have realized their dream to live on the land. It's a story of mighty perseverance, hard work and tenacity, of never giving up on your dream, of courage and right action. It's a love story.
You may have noticed that I am a lover of poetry. Poetry, for me, is the language that the soul and heart share. With grace and ease, it takes us to a knowing of that which is full of mystery. It quickens the heart and nourishes the soul in a conversation that is like no other. And so, I use poetry in Whole Earth Care to help us connect and reconnect with the stuff we innately know deep in our very beingness, but may not be able to voice. Here’s one for you.
Messenger
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Mary Oliver
(Thirst)
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Mary Oliver
(Thirst)
SANCTUARY
Our small log home on Townline can no longer be seen from the road. Rows of spruce and cedar and some autumn olive shrubs shield it from dust and from the few pairs of eyes that pass each day. Even along the lengthy curving driveway, what greets your eyes first are a mixed conifer and hardwood plantation, a wind-row to the east, a creek and stocked pond, five acres of garden and fruit trees, and finally another wind-row. Hidden behind these are a large barn and a low cottage, both red-roofed but otherwise unobtrusive within the landscape and rambling flower gardens.
It wasn’t always so. When we moved to the fifty acre farm near Canfield, Ontario in 1974 with our eleven month old son, four year old cat, and a one hundred-and-fifty-pound Great Pyrenees dog, everyone thought we were daft. There were only the creek, overgrown fields, a three-acre tree line, and twenty more acres of bush and wetland at the back of the farm.
"How could you move to such a god-forsaken wind-swept place? How will your children find friends? How will you manage to commute to work for the next thirty-five years?” These were the general questions. But we knew that we loved the country, having rented a ramshackle old house on an organic farm near Jerseyville over the prior four years, and we figured that all would fall into place over time.
We moved before there was a house, setting up our family in a canvas tent around which we delineated a play space bounded by logs. Our little guy wasn’t inclined to wander, and happily played here even when excavation began or when I was busy on the house.
The deal was this: my husband and a friend would erect the log structure, put in windows and roof, etc., and I would do everything else. As it turned out, that included hauling several ten-ton truckloads of gravel by wheelbarrow to our weeping tile bed and throughout the sub-floor of the basement; brushing the house and trim inside and out with three coats of stain and final finish; caulking the logs; and designing and finishing of a kitchen. What I didn’t know was that it also included stripping the outside of the house fifteen years later, and coating it with three more layers of a newer weather and UVL resistant finish. Fortunately by then, son number one was sixteen, and we took a summer to do the job together.
The shell of the house was up by November of the first year, and we moved into the basement. Finances had run out, however, so we didn’t have plumbing or heat until January. An outdoor hole-in-the ground sufficed, and baby wore five sets of flannel rompers to bed. Subsequent children grew up in a wood-heated house, but it was five years before I finished all the coats of primer and urethane and caulking indoors (that was before we knew about dangers of exposure). Fortunately, I did these things in the summers when windows could be opened.
In 1975, my husband built the barn, and over the years we have added to it and built several smaller out-buildings. Now that our children have started to deposit furniture, a half-restored Alpha Romeo and various bits of junk, we have decided not to add any more space.
From 1975 on, we planted and re-planted at least five hundred trees per year, mostly evergreens, which there were few of in Southern Ontario. More recently, we have been planting mixed forest species and trees specifically native to the Carolinian forests, but we still love our conifers, as we love the Northern tree-lined lakes and rocks.
Our small log home on Townline can no longer be seen from the road. Rows of spruce and cedar and some autumn olive shrubs shield it from dust and from the few pairs of eyes that pass each day. Even along the lengthy curving driveway, what greets your eyes first are a mixed conifer and hardwood plantation, a wind-row to the east, a creek and stocked pond, five acres of garden and fruit trees, and finally another wind-row. Hidden behind these are a large barn and a low cottage, both red-roofed but otherwise unobtrusive within the landscape and rambling flower gardens.
It wasn’t always so. When we moved to the fifty acre farm near Canfield, Ontario in 1974 with our eleven month old son, four year old cat, and a one hundred-and-fifty-pound Great Pyrenees dog, everyone thought we were daft. There were only the creek, overgrown fields, a three-acre tree line, and twenty more acres of bush and wetland at the back of the farm.
"How could you move to such a god-forsaken wind-swept place? How will your children find friends? How will you manage to commute to work for the next thirty-five years?” These were the general questions. But we knew that we loved the country, having rented a ramshackle old house on an organic farm near Jerseyville over the prior four years, and we figured that all would fall into place over time.
We moved before there was a house, setting up our family in a canvas tent around which we delineated a play space bounded by logs. Our little guy wasn’t inclined to wander, and happily played here even when excavation began or when I was busy on the house.
The deal was this: my husband and a friend would erect the log structure, put in windows and roof, etc., and I would do everything else. As it turned out, that included hauling several ten-ton truckloads of gravel by wheelbarrow to our weeping tile bed and throughout the sub-floor of the basement; brushing the house and trim inside and out with three coats of stain and final finish; caulking the logs; and designing and finishing of a kitchen. What I didn’t know was that it also included stripping the outside of the house fifteen years later, and coating it with three more layers of a newer weather and UVL resistant finish. Fortunately by then, son number one was sixteen, and we took a summer to do the job together.
The shell of the house was up by November of the first year, and we moved into the basement. Finances had run out, however, so we didn’t have plumbing or heat until January. An outdoor hole-in-the ground sufficed, and baby wore five sets of flannel rompers to bed. Subsequent children grew up in a wood-heated house, but it was five years before I finished all the coats of primer and urethane and caulking indoors (that was before we knew about dangers of exposure). Fortunately, I did these things in the summers when windows could be opened.
In 1975, my husband built the barn, and over the years we have added to it and built several smaller out-buildings. Now that our children have started to deposit furniture, a half-restored Alpha Romeo and various bits of junk, we have decided not to add any more space.
From 1975 on, we planted and re-planted at least five hundred trees per year, mostly evergreens, which there were few of in Southern Ontario. More recently, we have been planting mixed forest species and trees specifically native to the Carolinian forests, but we still love our conifers, as we love the Northern tree-lined lakes and rocks.
Fifteen years ago, we had a large kidney-shaped pond dug, and it has gradually naturalized. In the interim we frolicked and swam in it with our teenagers, but the snapping turtles and creepy-crawlies have taken over since. Redbud, dogwood, pin cherries, hackberries, wildflowers, a few volunteer willows and a couple of benches grace the circumference now.
The flower gardens have grown exponentially in size and shape since my first little 2 by 8 foot strip, and we additionally have an organic vegetable garden by the pond and a small greenhouse and herb garden south of the barn. Rows of peas, strawberries, raspberries and blackberries are shared with the birds and with our newest addition, a young short-haired pointer pup who rolls back his lips and picks with the best of us. Now that we are able to provide our growing adult family, neighbors and friends with all the vegetables and fruit they can use, I have made a firm commitment not to add another square inch to the gardens.
Every year since we moved here, the bird populations in our back yard have increased, and we have many species both nesting and using our feeders. They flit along new hedge-rows and through our wildflower meadow and, along with myriad dragonflies and butterflies and a few nightly bats, they scoop up insects over the pond. In the winters, the ground beneath the feeders is frequented by possums, rabbits, and – to our regret – some pesky raccoons and several beautifully cloaked skunks.
We find it hard now to leave our little haven, even to go on holidays or canoeing in the north. When we go, we miss the ever-changing flowers, the first flight of young phoebes nesting above our kitchen window, the beautifully striped caterpillar of a monarch butterfly munching on milkweed leaves. We also miss morning laps around the pond with the dog and two cats, coffees in hand, which, since our retirement, we have been spiking on weekends with shots of Irish Cream to help us distinguish Saturdays and Sundays from weekdays.
Marina Martin
Thank you so much for this, Marina. Because of your wonderful descriptions, I can picture and almost smell your home and the gifts of your labour and love for the land. I am in awe of you.
The flower gardens have grown exponentially in size and shape since my first little 2 by 8 foot strip, and we additionally have an organic vegetable garden by the pond and a small greenhouse and herb garden south of the barn. Rows of peas, strawberries, raspberries and blackberries are shared with the birds and with our newest addition, a young short-haired pointer pup who rolls back his lips and picks with the best of us. Now that we are able to provide our growing adult family, neighbors and friends with all the vegetables and fruit they can use, I have made a firm commitment not to add another square inch to the gardens.
Every year since we moved here, the bird populations in our back yard have increased, and we have many species both nesting and using our feeders. They flit along new hedge-rows and through our wildflower meadow and, along with myriad dragonflies and butterflies and a few nightly bats, they scoop up insects over the pond. In the winters, the ground beneath the feeders is frequented by possums, rabbits, and – to our regret – some pesky raccoons and several beautifully cloaked skunks.
We find it hard now to leave our little haven, even to go on holidays or canoeing in the north. When we go, we miss the ever-changing flowers, the first flight of young phoebes nesting above our kitchen window, the beautifully striped caterpillar of a monarch butterfly munching on milkweed leaves. We also miss morning laps around the pond with the dog and two cats, coffees in hand, which, since our retirement, we have been spiking on weekends with shots of Irish Cream to help us distinguish Saturdays and Sundays from weekdays.
Marina Martin
Thank you so much for this, Marina. Because of your wonderful descriptions, I can picture and almost smell your home and the gifts of your labour and love for the land. I am in awe of you.
What could be better than Marina’s story to prepare us for Valentine's Day coming up next weekend on Sunday, February 14th?
If It Is Not Too Dark
Go for a walk, if it is not too dark.
Get some fresh air, try to smile.
Say something kind
To a safe-looking stranger, if one happens by.
Always exercise your heart's knowing.
You might as well attempt something real
Along this path:
Take your spouse or lover into your arms
The way you did when you first met.
Let tenderness pour from your eyes
The way the Sun gazes warmly on the earth.
Play a game with some children.
Extend yourself to a friend.
Sing a few ribald songs to your pets and plants -
Why not let them get drunk and wild!
Let's toast
Every rung we've climbed on Evolution's ladder.
Whisper, "I love you! I love you!"
To the whole mad world.
Let's stop reading about God -
We will never understand Him.
Jump to your feet, wave your fists,
Threaten and warn the whole Universe
That your heart can no longer live
Without real love!
Hafiz
(I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/If_It_Is_Not_Too_Dark.html
Sunday, February 14th, 2010 is also Chinese New Year, the beginning of a 15-day holiday, the most important of all Chinese holidays. It is celebrated with family, fireworks and gift giving. This year is the Year of the Tiger. The Tiger represents courage, bravery and good luck. Happy New Year!
This week, Ann wrote, “I enjoyed the Blog and went to this website, http://www.freerice.com/index.php. I had a lot of fun with the Free Rice Game and through correct answers donated 120 grains of rice to the World Food Programme to help end hunger.
You can join Ann in this game by going to the left sidebar of the Whole Earth Care Blog, scrolling down to Interactive Sites and clicking onto Free Rice Game. I warn you – it can be addictive.
Earth Family First
maureen
(Photos from personal albums)
