Coming back
"Palm Desert outlets!" the woman in the seat across from me crooned as we made our final descent into Southern California. She craned her neck around to her kid in the seat behind her. She listed off shopping outlet after shopping mall with relish. "We can go to Sea World too."
I wanted to cry.
We bumped our way across the taupe desert. The ocean became visible through the gloom of June as we barreled over the mountains towards the swath of heavily-housed hills and canyons.
Brown. Dry. Treeless. Open space-less.
These were the thoughts that skipped across my brain. I thought about the lush farms I spent time upon in Belgium, New York, Alabama. I thought about laughter and growth and old barns full of secrets and swimming ponds secreting grass and the Hudson River flowing beside my speeding train and miles of green fields with happy cows and sheep.
What am I doing here?
San Diego. Home. Friends. Community. Farming.
I willed the second set of words to overpower the first.
The beaches split the view of land and sea as we glided over downtown and the Pacific opened up into the sky.
OK, San Diego, you know me. How can I be disappointed in the ocean? In a brilliant blue sky? How can I stay sullen about a summer infused with salty breezes and fresh basil and dirty fingernails?
I have jumped right back into San Diego farming life. Much has changed. Trees that were bare when I left are full of fruit, brassicas have been replaced with peppers and potatoes, new faces appear at the farm with hands willing to dig and weed and plant. I am now (almost) in charge of directing those hands! This is why I'm here. To work in this clay and sand, this arid earth. To work with people in this overpopulated region to regrow the soil stolen for lawns and concrete. Is it practical to farm food here with modern agricultural practices? Can it be sustainable? With a few exceptions I believe the answer is a negative. With 90% of our water being piped in and the sprawl forever extending outward and upward, we are pushing our land past its limits with every shower and gulp of water. We are too many.
But people (I) do live here. People (me) need to eat. Eating should be healthy and pleasurable and not a constant worry. If people knew how to grow even one thing on a window sill, they are helping themselves and the environment. That is why I am here.
Maybe. I mean it sounds noble right?
But maybe it is to surround myself with people who care- about me, about food, about the environment, about social justice, about issues rather than stuff.
Or maybe it is just to hang out at local bars and drink good beer and connect.
Or maybe to find that boat in some marina that is going to sail me across the Pacific and to another life.
Or maybe to find out that I hate vegetables and trees and am actually a Republican.
Whatever my purpose may be, for now I will farm and breathe in salt air and root myself in the place where I was born and keep leaving.
And keep coming back to- brown, dry, sprawling, and all.
I wanted to cry.
We bumped our way across the taupe desert. The ocean became visible through the gloom of June as we barreled over the mountains towards the swath of heavily-housed hills and canyons.
Brown. Dry. Treeless. Open space-less.
These were the thoughts that skipped across my brain. I thought about the lush farms I spent time upon in Belgium, New York, Alabama. I thought about laughter and growth and old barns full of secrets and swimming ponds secreting grass and the Hudson River flowing beside my speeding train and miles of green fields with happy cows and sheep.
What am I doing here?
San Diego. Home. Friends. Community. Farming.
I willed the second set of words to overpower the first.
The beaches split the view of land and sea as we glided over downtown and the Pacific opened up into the sky.
OK, San Diego, you know me. How can I be disappointed in the ocean? In a brilliant blue sky? How can I stay sullen about a summer infused with salty breezes and fresh basil and dirty fingernails?
I have jumped right back into San Diego farming life. Much has changed. Trees that were bare when I left are full of fruit, brassicas have been replaced with peppers and potatoes, new faces appear at the farm with hands willing to dig and weed and plant. I am now (almost) in charge of directing those hands! This is why I'm here. To work in this clay and sand, this arid earth. To work with people in this overpopulated region to regrow the soil stolen for lawns and concrete. Is it practical to farm food here with modern agricultural practices? Can it be sustainable? With a few exceptions I believe the answer is a negative. With 90% of our water being piped in and the sprawl forever extending outward and upward, we are pushing our land past its limits with every shower and gulp of water. We are too many.
But people (I) do live here. People (me) need to eat. Eating should be healthy and pleasurable and not a constant worry. If people knew how to grow even one thing on a window sill, they are helping themselves and the environment. That is why I am here.
Maybe. I mean it sounds noble right?
But maybe it is to surround myself with people who care- about me, about food, about the environment, about social justice, about issues rather than stuff.
Or maybe it is just to hang out at local bars and drink good beer and connect.
Or maybe to find that boat in some marina that is going to sail me across the Pacific and to another life.
Or maybe to find out that I hate vegetables and trees and am actually a Republican.
Whatever my purpose may be, for now I will farm and breathe in salt air and root myself in the place where I was born and keep leaving.
And keep coming back to- brown, dry, sprawling, and all.
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