Shoeless Summer

[Seasons: Summer XII]

Wisdom is the fruit of life experience. 

It’s the amalgam of lessons learned through failure, self-awareness developed through relationships, personal insights learned through reflection, and perspective gained through diverse experiences. 

Wisdom often parallels age. 

However, sometimes wisdom defies age, and it’s the fruit of youthfulness. 

Walking barefoot in the summer is one of the joys of being young. And there’s profound wisdom in doing it. 

When’s the last time you saw someone outside without shoes. I bet it was warm weather, and I bet they were a child. Shoes are optional in the summer for children. Adults, however, never leave home without them. 

In the same way that digging in the garden without gloves has healing psychological effects, walking barefoot is a balm for our heart and minds. It promotes creativity and problem solving. It resists depression. It opens our eyes to the whole, rather than isolated parts. 

Try it this summer.

Finicky Fruit

[Seasons: Summer XI]

I’ll do a whole series of reflections on vegetables, but I can’t pass up talking about summer without mentioning tomatoes. 

I’ve learned a few things about tomatoes over the years. 

Tomatoes are easy to grow conventionally. They respond well to commercial fertilizers and store bought soil. But they are difficult to grow organically. Especially outdoors in the cool climate of the Pacific Northwest. 

Growing tomatoes for one persons is a cinch. Growing them for a few families of tomato-lovers is a big undertaking. A few maters here and there can almost be grown accidentally with a volunteer plant in the compost bin. But a hearty harvest every couple days for salsa making, tomato sandwiches, and salads throughout late summer is a challenge. 

The more you prune a tomato plant the better, but pruning it the wrong way can create irreversible fruit loss. 

In other words, while summer weather may be predictable, some of its most cherished fruit is a little more finicky. 

We have such high expectations of ourselves during the summer seasons of life. The fruit of that season, however, might not match our expectations. It can be finicky. Inconsistent. Even rot on the vine. And that’s okay. Just being in the garden is fruit for the soul.

Scheduled Watering

[Seasons: Summer X]

All the hard work of spring is carried to completion through summer. This is true in nature and on the farm. Everyday in March and April there are to-dos that are time-sensitive. The demanding tasks simplify and the time-sensitivity relaxes in the summer. At the heart of summer there is but one primary task: irrigation. 

Death knocks without water. 

This is why fairytales include bodies of water as the locale of transformation: without water, death—or a continuation of life without change and growth, which is often equated to death—would arrive in a hurry. This is also why some the great traditions include water in their central teachings: water is where God is met and conversion happens.  

Summer watering is simple yet critical. On the farm, watering must be calculated and scheduled because our memory, even when life is on the line, fails us. We need schedules to reinforce and support our life-giving habits. 

The same is true in life. 

What’s in your schedule that promotes growth? 
What’s not in your schedule that ought to be?

Remember: death knocks without water.

Sigh of Relief

[Seasons: Summer IX]

Summer is the hope of winter. And it’s the promise of autumn. 

Leaves fall in Autumn. So does everything else, it seems. 
The sun falls. 
The temperature falls. 
And seeds fall. 

Spring is the boarding announcement; it tells all the seeds that fell before winter that now is the time. Either board now or be left behind. Summer is take off.  

And then summer offers the conditions within which each of those tiny packages of DNA can thrive. If summer doesn’t arrive with it’s long, warm days, seeds are never afforded the opportunity to grow to maturity. Future generations cease to exist. The promise of the future embedded in every seed is fulfilled in summer. That’s why summer has within it a sigh of relief—the promise of autumn is fulfilled. 

Thank you, summer.

The Hope of Winter

[Seasons: Summer VII]

When winter has frozen our vision, chilled our excitement, and altogether laid dormant our dreams, nothing ahead of us matters. When winter descends on life—and we all go through dark winter seasons—there is no pep talk or mantra that can motivate us. All we have in those cold seasons is memory. Memory of summer. 

Summer is the hope of winter. Summers past and the promise of summers in the future.

Death has but one antidote: life. 
Darkness: light. 
Crucifixion: resurrection.

The power of Easter is not in spring. Spring can speak for itself. The power of Easter is the promise it holds when our hope is buried under snow and ice in January.

Summer Giving

[Seasons: Summer VI]

Winter holidays are known as the season of giving, but I think that is a mass marketing effort. I mean, sure, gifts are wonderful and the holiday cheer begets a spirit of generosity, but winter, as a season, is not known for giving. Everything in nature has one goal: self-preservation. Winter is the season of justified "selfishness”. 

Summer, on the other hand, is the real season of giving, if we take nature as our cue. The flowers give to the bees (and the bees give me “liquid sunshine” in the form of honey). The sun gives generously to the grass and the ferns and the algae in the pond. The chickens give an abundance of eggs. The coniferous trees grow excessive amounts of cones and needles to give to the forest duff. 

Summer is the season of giving because it’s the season of abundance.

But abundance is not measured by how much we stockpile (even if we give some of it away when convenient for us) but how much is available to others when they are in need. We get this backwards. We measure abundance by how much *I* can get my hands on, accumulate, and save.

Abundance requires a spirit of generosity that insists on everyone having access. Always. Summer is a beautiful model in this regard. Winter holidays, not so much.

Creating Scarcity

[Seasons: Summer V]

Parker Palmer says we create the scarcity we fear. I find this to be true in society, but also in my personal life. 

If I hoard resources in fear of running out or losing access, someone else will not have enough. 

If I withhold love or charity or compassion because there’s only a finite amount to go around, someone in need will be ignored. 

If I micromanage and control out of jealousy, of course I will hurt loved ones and lose close friends. 

If I believe my good ideas will run dry and I desperately hold onto my last writing project, surely my creative energy will wither. 

Scarcity is a fallacy… until we fear it. Then it becomes reality. 

There is no scarcity in summer. We should all lean into this summer truth more and release the belief the well is about to run dry.

Summer Camp & Maturity

[Seasons: Summer IV]

The epitome of the summer experience as a child is camp. Summer camp is the best version of every aspect of life consolidated in one location, condensed into one week. 

Good food: all three meals prepared for you, huge portions, and very little cleanup. 

Games: plenty of organized sports, creative group games, and team challenges (with just the right amount of competition). 

Free time: afternoons to explore and socialize (without chores or homework).

Community: dozens, if not hundreds, of like-minded peers in an environment mostly free of unwanted social pressures and unhealthy school dynamics. 

Attention: all the attention a child can dream of, from adults and peers. 

Every camp has “lights out” time. Campers don’t have the self-discipline to put themselves to bed, and without rest, they would be a wreck by day two. Even in utopia, boundaries and rules are necessary. Not because there’s anything inherently wrong, deficient, or evil about the utopian camp experience, but because our summer inclinations need support. 

Summer (camp) reminds us that even in a perfect world we still need community. Independence and isolationistic tendencies are not a sign of strength but a lack of understanding the difference between codependence and interdependence. The former is unhealthy; the latter is communal, and it’s a sign of maturity.

There is Plenty

[Seasons: Summer III]

I’m strongly motivated by scarcity. Perhaps its symptomatic of living in a market economy where scarcity—having less than enough to go around, which drives prices up—is good. Maybe its innate in human nature akin to protecting the young and prioritizing food when hungry. 

But summer challenges our belief in scarcity. On our farm, there’s more than enough grass for every goat; there are ripe cucumbers every morning and plenty of tomatoes for every child; and there’s enough daylight and warmth for all to enjoy. In the natural world, from the top of the food chain all the way to the bottom, nothing goes hungry. Even the foliage doesn’t have to compete for ultraviolet rays. In summer, there is plenty. 

We can all use a more summer-like “mentality”.
Less competition for what we believe is lacking.
More sharing of what is truly abundant.

Abundance & Exhaustion

[Seasons: Summer II]

The explosion of life in spring carries forward to a mature abundance in summer. Early summer is late spring’s sequel, but it’s one of those rare occasions where the sequel is arguably better than the original. 

Abundance is not only a trait of the natural world in summer; everything, it seems is full. Namely, our calendars: church camps and kids camps, social and cultural events, BBQ’s and cookouts, parades and celebrations, sports games and arts opportunities, vacationing and visitors. 

Summer is the season when we have more flexible schedules but somehow have less free time. We have more energy, but at the end of the day we are more exhausted. 

More daylight means less sleep. 

Abundance and exhaustion often go hand-in-hand in life. And if we’re not careful the exhaustion may win out in the end. The summers of life are an opportunity to hold more tightly, not less, to the rhythms that give us life, fill us up, and sustain us. Wisdom is knowing that Autumn is around the corner and we must be healthy when it comes.

Manufacturing Summer

[Seasons: Summer I]

Spring surprises us every year with its explosion of new life. Summer, it seems, it’s not so surprising, in that it provides abundance from beginning to end. The forests and farms are full of green. Yards and parks and meadows are full of flowers. Hearts are full, gatherings are bigger, and sun is at its annual peak. 

We’ve yet to succeed at manufacturing summer. No furnace is warm enough, no artificial grow lamp produces enough UV, and no amount of LED bulbs can illuminate like the summer sun. 

But we will keep trying. 
Because darkness scares us. 
Scarcity motivates us. 
And death is our greatest fear. 

Summer is the season of perpetual abundance and light, but human nature leads us to believe that in sustaining the warmth and glow of June and July, we may be able to avoid the lows of other seasons. 

Summer can’t be reproduced. Nor should it be. The world (and our hearts) cannot continue on in a perpetual summer. The frost and darkness do not "take away" summer as much as they “give" the summer warmth meaning and the summer light its useful strength. 

This is true in my garden as much as it is in my inner life.

Strange Satisfaction

[Seasons: Spring XXV]

I experience my first sun burn every spring on my back and shoulders. I’m usually hunched over, planting seedlings in long rows. The sun has a surprising power in spring. Relative to the long cold days of winter, it’s literally burning hot; compared to summer, it’s low in the sky and cool. 

There’s a strange satisfaction with the first sun burn. It’s a distinct physiological sign that winter has passed and a reminder that summer is rushing closer. 

It’s also a warning that life and change are fragile. Spring growth promises summer resilience but not without a time of tenderness and fragility. Even though the winters of life may be in the past, growth and transformation must be nurtured and protected. 

Life is not guaranteed. 
Change is never permanent.
The spring sun reminds of of both.

Shown and Appreciated

[Seasons: Spring XXIV]

Spring is always flamboyant but not ostentatious. Not showy. Or attention seeking. 

Spring is excessive but not overindulgent. Not prideful. Or superfluous. 

Spring, by its very nature—true to its role to proliferate life, continue the cycles of the seasons, and assure the future—gives the world colors and scents and landscapes that are mimicked the world over by artists. 

Spring is flamboyant and excessive but not wasteful. 
Beauty is never wasted. It can only be shared. 
It’s never lost. It can and must be shown and appreciated.

Without Discrimination

[Seasons: Spring XXIII]

What nature does in the Fall, gardeners and farmers do in the spring: we sow seeds in the ground. 

Nature does it excessively. Humans are more selective. 

Nature is not choosy about location, depth, or geometric spacing. Humans plant in rows at specific depths. 

Nature sows and waits months. Humans sow and wait days. 

Except when it comes to carrots. Early spring is when I sow carrots. I make six passes down the length of my bed with my four-row seeder. That amounts to 24 rows, every half inch a seed, for a total of nearly 600 carrots seeds per foot. In a perfect world, that would be 60,000 carrots per 100 foot bed. But I contend with a host of factors that conspire against that number, namely, weeds, dry weather, and birds.

Humans are more selective and less patient than nature, but when it comes to carrots, the disparity shrinks. Germination rates for carrots is dismal and precise seed location is a low priority. 

Nature has something figured out that I only get a taste of from growing carrots: giving generously, without discrimination and minimal control, is the way to growth. It’s the only guaranteed means to life.

Coupon Mailers & Coffee Grounds

[Seasons: Spring XXII]

Layer upon organic layer, we compost everything. Banana peals, leftover oatmeal, and junk mail—I kid you not, we compost everything. And because it’s layered well, with a good balance of carbon rich material and nitrogenous plant waste and manure, it becomes black soil in 12-18 months. 

The compost heap requires no turning. No effort on our part. The community of billions of microorganism carry the lion’s share of work to convert unusable organic material into nutrient-dense humus for the plant world to consume.  

Spring is when we pull off the tarp and access last years coupon mailers and coffee grounds, that by virtue of natures miraculous work has become exactly what my onion bed needs. I’m merely the public transit from one destination to another. Nature does the work on both ends. 

And I humbly participate in a concrete, real-world example of how death serves life. 

Nothing grieves the human heart more than senseless death. Nothing, I’m convinced, fills the heart with more gladness than purposeful, life-serving and life-giving death. Every spring I participate in life-giving death when I transport the finished compost from the pile to the garden. And my heart is full.

The Tiny Progress

[Seasons: Spring XXI]

The first thing I plant in spring are salad greens, which requires four passes with my seeder in each 30 inch wide bed. I prep the bed, seed, and wait. Rain is regular enough in spring that I don’t need to irrigate. I literally plant and wait. 

Seven days. 
Ten days. 
Sometimes fourteen days before I see the emergence of tiny sprouts. 

Spring growth is not robust at first. Those first crocuses, the early buds on the apricot tree, and my salad greens are not in a hurry. Early spring growth is reticent, as if to test the weather to see if it’s bluffing. And when it commits, it remains fragile, cautiously emerging in microscopic increments. 

When we expect summer growth in the spring, we put out-of-season demands on a process that is intended to be slow and tender. And I’m not only talking about salad greens. One of the gifts of spring is its insistence that we all be patient in the spring-growth of our lives. Most future strength begins with a little apprehension and lot of tenderness. One day after another, millimeter by millimeter, small sprouts break the surface of a formerly frozen ground. If it’s rushed, it’ll surely die. 

Be patient. Celebrate the tiny progress. Spring is here.

Sacred Pizza

[Seasons: Spring XX]

We have an outdoor pizza oven on our farm. We usually fire it up for the first time in March, marking early spring is the beginning of pizza season. 

Two characteristics make wood fired pizza superior. The first is ironically undesirable by chain pizza makers and most restaurants: burned edges. My oven, if fed well, will remain between 600 and 700 degrees for most of the evening. The fire in the back of the oven is well over 900 degrees, making it nearly impossible not to burn the nearest edge of the pizza crust. Because a slight char on some part of the crust is inevitable, the added smokey flavor is associated with wood fired pizza. What’s undesirable in some contexts is a desirable symbol of authenticity in others. 

The second characteristic is the temperature contrasts. The steaming pizza in hand balances the chilly air on one’s cheeks. This is highlighted in the spring and autumn more than it is in the summer. The cold outside temperature builds anticipation for each pizza and highlights their freshness when finally consumed. It’s a wonderful balance of sensations that cannot be replicated indoors. 

The char and the chill are a type of unmediated connection with the natural elements. Two traits that are otherwise avoided during most meals are welcomed, even desired, during pizza season.

The outdoor wood fired pizza experience is culinary vulnerability at its best—exposure to the elements, unpredictable burned edges, and no promise of the same experience twice. 

And it’s sacred. 

I’ve never met someone that doesn’t love pizza night. I’ve never met someone that isn’t moved by the sacred. Despite what many of us have learned, perhaps the sacred is more likely to be experienced through exposure, vulnerability, and contrast. Perhaps it’s unpredictable and unmediated. Maybe it’s more likely to be encountered in a slice than under a steeple.

The Work of Bees - III

[Seasons: Spring XIX]

Bees are amazing creatures that live and work in community. Here’s a list of some of their roles. Here’s another list of five more. 

As I learned about bees and their various responsibilities, I made an erroneous assumption: all bees are born to work for the common good of the hive and then they die. Having observed them now for a few years, I’ve noticed something else they do that falls within the boundary of important tasks but outside what we might consider work. 

They dance. 
And play. 
In the sunshine. 

Every hive has about a dozen different jobs for resident bees. All of them are important; all of them must be done with precision and efficiency for the hive to survive. 

And then spring arrives. As flowers bloom and fruit trees blossom and the work becomes more demanding, the bees find more (not less!) time to flitter and dance for joy in the sunshine. It seems that enjoyment is equally important to the health of their community as hard work. 

It’s not overindulgence or hedonistic. 

They are simply dancing. And playing. And filled with life  

At the center of real health is work and play. 
Sweat and smiles. 
Grunts and laughter. 
Sunshine helps too. 

The Work of Bees - II

[Seasons: Spring XVIII]

I’m still thinking about bees and the calculated roles they fulfill. Here’s the first half. 

Continuing on...

Guard -keeping out anything that doesn’t belong in the hive is the job of a guard. These bees protect the entrance of the hive from intruders. Winnie the Pooh was definitely stung by a guard bee.

Honey Maker - they collect the nectar that the mature field bees bring back to the hive, put it into cells, and transform it into honey. One of the critical steps is to fan the honey with their wings to reduce moisture to an optimal 16 to 18 percent. 

Queen’s attendant - exactly as their title indicates, these bees meet the grooming and feeding needs of the Queen, as she is too busy reproducing. It’s a prestigious job given to a select few worker bees. 

Queen - she lives up to five years and lays thousands of eggs a day. Part of her job is to discern which type of egg should be laid and where it should be located. The only time she will leave the hive is to mate as a virgin bee. 

Drones - they get a bad wrap because they don’t carry their weight in the work of the hive. Rightfully so! They eat the honey but don’t produce any; they take up residence in the hive but don’t repair it when thins break down; they don’t even clean up after themselves. Their role, however, is equally important: they assure genetic posterity. In other words, they are “fruitful and multiply” outside the hive community with neighboring queens.  

Spring marks the start of work season in the hive. Without strategic planning and constant communication, a hive with 20,000 bees would make a lot of noise and zero progress. But as an orchestrated community, it’s a natural marvel.

The Work of Bees - I

[Seasons: Spring XVII]

The bee hive that quietly hummed through the winter becomes more active as the weather warms in spring. Winter is an equalizer, as every bee left in the hive has only two tasks: keep things clean and survive. Spring comes along, the chores diversify, and the font of the hive looks like a middle school courtyard when the the bell rings to end the day. 

All that activity is calculated. Every bee has a job, including at least nine distinct roles. 

Nurse - a bee’s first responsibility is to work the “nursery”. After cleaning their own hatching cell and preparing it for the next egg, a young bee will feed the brood.

Undertaker - the coming and going of tens of thousands of bees inevitably results in the death of bees. While not a glamorous job, someone must deal with all those carcasses. That’s the undertakers job; they remove the dead and other various body parts of the wounded. 

Architect - these bees build comb. As a bee ages, it develops the ability to secrete wax, the foundation of the comb structure. Along with the wax, these bees collect propolis from trees resin to repair cracks in the comb.  

Forager - without the foragers, human agriculture ceases to exist because these bees are responsible for pollination. Each forager, from sun up to sun down, scour a three mile radius from the hive looking for pollen and nectar to bring back to the community. Foragers get the most attention because their work is easiest to witness and the most beneficial to humans. 

Minus the press and attention, no bee’s work is less important than any other’s. Spring triggers every bee into increased, calculated, critically important work. The meaning of their work is not found in the attention they receive but in the success of the hive community. (We have plenty to learn from this definition of “meaning”.)