The Planting Season

I'm married to Dr. Thompson, a.k.a. Farmer Bill. Together, we bought La Belle Farm in upstate New York. I've learned a lot from living on a working farm. But, before I tell you about it, I should clarify--I do not work the farm. Farmer Bill does all the hard work and heavy lifting. True, during the winter months, I will walk the big field, humming as I collect kindling for the fire. In the spring, I kneel in the grass and pick the strawberries and place them in a basket. In the summer, I swat at the flying beetles as I attend to the red raspberries and wild black raspberries. Lately, I have taken to replenishing the hen’s water and collecting their eggs. In the fall, I like to pick apples, pears and peaches from our backyard fruit trees.

Some things grow naturally--they come up every year. No planting necessary. Asparagus is like that. The wild black raspberries were already here when we arrived and they continue to thrive on their own, year after year. So too for the wild blackberries. Also, the ramps just magically appear in the forest. This year the Shitake mushrooms suddenly bloomed—this after years where we thought they had died—they reappeared. Like lightening striking. Oh, but then there's always the dandelion greens. You can count on them. So many dandelions!

Creative Friends--farm life is very much like writing a novel or working on any big/complicated project. Some parts will come to you in a fever dream. No planning or planting or struggling necessary. The words, the music, the paint will simply flow as if it's been gift-wrapped and delivered directly by the Muse. And then other times, you will sweat and swear, alone, bent on knees, supplicating yourself to the page, raging against the brutality of art, the exquisite torture--as your imagination abandons you and you think it’s gone forever, while the refrigerator calls your name, whispering--forget about art. Eat something!

Your assignment for this week is to accept that art has its seasons. When the Muse visits, make a space for her at your table. And when she disappears--go ahead and have a snack. But then, come back. Come back. Come back.

Love,

Jamie