I knew my romantic visions of farm work would quickly dissipate after a few months in the fields, but I anticipated the fault resting with an aching body. In fact, the physical rigor of this work appeals to me in a masochistic sort of way. Rather, my weariness of farming (to be expected at the height of the harvest from novice and experienced farmers alike) has grown more from mental exhaustion.
The work is tedious. Repetitive. Uninteresting, after awhile. One reaches a point at which he/she must force oneself to look up from the soil and stare flatly at the sky or the flowers or the butterflies to remember the beauty of the place. But even this is not enough to keep the spirit at ease in the harvest season, after months spent working day after day with the same three or four people. The thirteenth planting of lettuce. The umpteenth picking of equally tired kale. Another day of back-bending tomato picking. And still two-and-a-half months to go.
Admittedly, I've been struggling to retain sanity. More than once this summer I've crumbled. Other factors compound the stress, but the farm remains at the center of the web. Not once before starting this job did I expect to feel stressed out during the day. Growing vegetables, however, is anything but frolicking in the fields. Chaos regularly ensues, especially on harvest days (which, at this point in the season, are virtually every day) when the work MUST be finished--no stopping simply because it's 5:00.
Something else unexpected: The peaceful expanse of undeveloped acres that surround me offer little escape. It's quite the paradox, feeling trapped amongst rolling hills of country. But the isolation of rural life, even a mere thirty minutes outside of town, can constrict just as much as the buildings and roads of a city. I mostly enjoy living on the farm but imagine leaving your workplace only once or twice a week.
I remember Anton talking about the demands of this work during my first week at the farm; he said, "You've got to be here for something." At the time, that motive was at the forefront of my mind, but the exhaustion gradually buried it. Until this week. Today I worked market for the first time. I look forward to going every week as a customer, witnessing a community--a community that cares deeply about its local food system (Ithaca has the highest rate of CSA participants in the country--10% of Ithacans belong to a local CSA!)--come together and revel in artisan food and crafts underneath a gorgeous wooden pavilion on the bank of Cayuga lake. But today, standing behind a glimmering display of produce that I helped create made me feel like an artist watching people awe at her work in a gallery.
"Everything looks gorgeous!"
"These are the sweetest peppers I've ever eaten."
"Oh my goodness, the basil, the cilantro, these tomatoes--it all smells amazing!"
People walking past the stand literally gasped in admiration. As CSA members packed their share for the week and market customers opted for farm-fresh produce instead of retail food, I remembered that every week five other people and I grow clean, healthy, tasty food for about 1,000 people. "We are awesome," our crew leader Chris said the other day, referring to this accomplishment. We laughed at the crudeness of the statement, but, seriously, it's hard not to feel a cocky sense of pride. After witnessing the visible respect fellow community members have for our work, two-and-a-half more months doesn't seem so bad after all.
Decided to check your site today and was thrilled to see another entry. I knew from our phone conversation that you were going to be exhausted beyond comprehension from all your manual labor in the fields. The picture of your produce at the market is unbelievable - I would buy so much! It's a labor of love, n'est pas?? Aunt Claire
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