The Abundant Harvest Newsletter, Winter 2019
A soft layer of snow covers the earth outside. I see green pushing its way through the
frozen powder. Soon the grass will be
covered again, but it patiently waits, knowing springtime will come
eventually. My fingers are cold. Exposed fingertips still function, proceeding
from my fold-back, mitten/glove cut-offs that were probably designed so that a
hunter could pull their trigger in time.
My cat insists on sitting on my desk, watching the computer screen,
pawing at the digital mouse (a habit I cannot seem to easily break). I see my garden in front of me through the
window of my shed. I see the backs of
neighbors’ houses. I am home here.
I have returned to my small hometown
of New Holland, PA after being away for the better part of 9 years since
graduating high school. Why? My body has led me here. An internal compass has led me back. At 27, marriage, family, commitment,
rootedness, and permanence is on my mind.
I need to be tamed. I have
returned to New Holland to ask my ancestors, living and dead, human and
non-human what I should do with my life, most of whom for the past three
hundred years have lived within a ten mile radius of where I live now. Who are my people, my community, what is distinctly
ours, what am I/we bringing into the world that is of unique importance, what
is ours to give, what does it mean to be in this place, who are its
members? These are some of the questions
I am asking. Feedback is not always easy
to receive but I want to be listening.
In August last year I moved into an
old work shed on a property, about a third of an acre, in the middle of
town. The land was covered in sod the
month before but I tilled long rows of beds into it, wanting them to be
permanent with the grass as a permanent cover for the walking paths
besides. I did so in the midst of a drought so the land was stubbornly hard even with the biggest machine I could
rent from the local hardware store. I
did what I could and planted seeds without knowing if they would grow because I
was set to be away for the coming month, as previously made plans insisted I do
so. The wettest summer on record
followed, so by the time I returned a month later the place was alive, caring
for itself.
Like the empty lot in July, when I
moved into my shed in August the place was bare. About all that was inside were some pieces of
old shelving randomly scattered along the wall from their former use, wood
paneling, plywood floors and an old metal workbench spanning most of one side
of the rectangular structure. The shed
did have electricity and insulation, except under the floor, but no running
water, all of which was fine for me. Slowly,
it has become inhabited: walls painted green, the floor brown; a desk, a bed, a
sink that operates from foot-powered energy, buckets of water, old chairs,
clothes, cans; things put away, herbs drying from above; pictures, blankets,
candles. The home is my womb, where my
soulwork takes place. The cold now
challenges my stamina and commitment, my peace of mind. I don’t have any heat so I am constantly
wrapped in warm clothes, a habit not foreign to our species, I imagine. Global warming has made my situation a bit
more bearable. Francis, my cat, keeps me
good company, and is also my jester who reminds me that life is not so serious
and who uses his innocence to pester me for pleasure as a test of my equanimity.
What am I doing here? Many must ask, including myself first of
all. As previously mentioned, I am
finding my place in the world, which has led me home, the one that I know best
and which has most formed me. I am
seeking self-knowledge for the benefit of all, especially those closest to
me. I am here for the poor, to heal my
own poverty, which in many ways is not uniquely mine but is held by all of
those with whom I have community. The
neighborhood I live in is very comfortably middle-class so material need doesn’t
appear necessarily pressing, but many wise people have observed that in this
society spiritual poverty often is inversely proportional to the material
abundance at hand; in other words, the extraction and separation from which our
goods were produced have made us incredibly fragmented and disconnected
people. My work here is to rediscover my
people’s place in the order of things, to re-localize the spiritual goods
(which are always connected to material ones) that have
been outsourced to the benefit of economic “progress.” I am doing this through gardening, mainly.
been outsourced to the benefit of economic “progress.” I am doing this through gardening, mainly.
When my grandma and grandpa were
raising seven children down the street fifty years ago they had a massive
garden on a lot near their house. My Mom
recounts memories of tediously picking peas as a morning chore. My grandparents needed to feed their family
and they had inherited the knowledge of how to do so with their own means and
strength. I suppose the super markets
had not yet moved in, maybe because there was not yet a market for them, as
surely my grandparents were not alone in their work. A rich culture, certainly somewhat unique to
this county, Lancaster, preserved largely by its Mennonite and Amish ancestry,
continues to farm and provide nutritious and beautiful food for its own
communities, but the influences of global capitalism have also deeply
penetrated even this fortress of subsidiarity.
Today very few gardens the size of my grandmother’s, if any, are found
in the borough. I must think that
gardening is only one of the many forms of knowledge and practice that have
been or are threatened to be lost to time for these people, as my upbringing
was certainly removed of it. I am
seeking here a restoration and an innovation of a way of life that enables my
community and the future generations to live in a more healthy, just, and sustainable
manner than what I was given, not blaming any of the people who raised me and
loved me boundlessly, though certainly no one is absent of guilt, but primarily
the systems to which they fell prey. Like
the sacraments give me spiritual vitality through material means, so my hope is
that gardening will inoculate the relational matrix of this place with
spiritual food.
A primary theory which guides my work and strategy
is known as the gift economy. Essentially,
the idea is that selfless giving inspires its own spirit to pass along to
others who receive it, which in turn is necessarily passed along further. Love, the free giving of the self, is
contagious! I have started a garden here
that consumes most of the property I inhabit and the intent is to raise good,
beautiful, nutritious food for the neighbors and friends of this place. Through the free, selfless giving of the
produce away as a gift I hope to inspire others to give other gifts in return
and to those around them. The economy of
gifts transcends monetary transactions where only a specific currency has value
or that only specific work determined by those in power is considered worthy of
its reception. In the gift economy
everyone has something to give and the uniqueness of the gift is actually most
of value, even if it’s totally ignored by the market.
So the fall was a great test of all my ideas and inspirations, a sample. Some crops came in while I was away over the summer and were harvested, others were planted shortly after arriving and came in later still. Once a week I was consistently challenged to take my produce and ideas to the streets. My strategy for food distribution, as my project is still little known by the neighbors, except perhaps for obscurity, was to go door to door with five gallon buckets full of things to give away and ask the residents if they were interested in anything. This led to good conversations and introductions. I met most of the folks around me, which is really sweet, and probably unique even for residents who have lived in the neighborhood for a long time. “It is a commuter neighborhood,” one person commented. Learning names has been an important first step. Eventually the food production decreased as colder temperatures and lesser sunlight set in. Now everyone is inside.
So the fall was a great test of all my ideas and inspirations, a sample. Some crops came in while I was away over the summer and were harvested, others were planted shortly after arriving and came in later still. Once a week I was consistently challenged to take my produce and ideas to the streets. My strategy for food distribution, as my project is still little known by the neighbors, except perhaps for obscurity, was to go door to door with five gallon buckets full of things to give away and ask the residents if they were interested in anything. This led to good conversations and introductions. I met most of the folks around me, which is really sweet, and probably unique even for residents who have lived in the neighborhood for a long time. “It is a commuter neighborhood,” one person commented. Learning names has been an important first step. Eventually the food production decreased as colder temperatures and lesser sunlight set in. Now everyone is inside.
By far, my presence and efforts have been warmly received, so I have encountered. And some people have intuitively responded to the gift ideas from which I operate. One neighbor memorably yelled as I drove away in my truck, only seeing her just before passing after she found a bag of produce I left on her porch, “I’ll make you cookies!” Others have brought eggs from their chickens, others have donated a case of sparkling water, others has been kind, and yet others have gifted me with weariness of this random person with no shoes showing up on their porch unexpectedly. Perhaps I am learning to see everything as a gift, even if in disguise, which also means that everyone is already participating in the project—good reason for much optimism!
Still, my life here is so precarious. My landlord (my dad), who has been extremely generous and integral to the project, could at any time decide that I cannot use the property any more. The neighbors could find discrepancies with my being here and see that I leave. The long-term realities of the project are somewhat ambiguous because of development possibilities. Or maybe my goals are just all too much to do for one person (which they are). I need others to join the work (which they are, even if cannot see it). The loneliness of my life and work here is the most difficult challenge at the moment. I am tired of being different all the time, but this is my vocation—so be it. The loneliness might drive me elsewhere, but it is good that I am here for now. I feel committed to the project through the upcoming growing season as a fuller test of its ideas and inspiration, then, who knows?
This winter I am carving out lots of time to read and write. I am working on a memoir of a trip I made in 2015 after graduating from college, hitchhiking across the country, etc. I am working on maintenance and infrastructure projects around the property, like building gates for my fences, a chicken coup, gravel and mulch pathways, a water catchment system, landscaping, and interior things, like painting, creating curtains from burlap, and decorating. There seems to be endless things to do when one “owns” a property, which I have found to be surprisingly dignifying, and an equally surprising energy and inspiration to do all the work has come with it. I am travelling a bit as I have time, too. I am also working part time as a dish washer at a local restaurant to finance my life and work, and somehow there is always enough. So many dreams of what could be live with me in the shed and accompany my meandering of the garden’s pathways, but I am forced by limitations of all kinds to only do so much, which is teaching me patience and appreciation for what already is.
* dotted lines represent future plans
Though life in New Holland and the work there has often felt lonely, I know I am not alone. I know that there are infinite strands of connection going forth in all directions binding me to loved ones, known and unknown, all over the planet and further. Truly, an abundance of vibrant local relationship, too, sustain me; and yet still, I long for more. I suspect something of what Dorothy Day meant of “the long loneliness” is captured in my sentiment, that there will always be a longing for more love in this life. What I am saying is that there are many ways to get involved with The Abundant Harvest if you are so moved. I speak as the founder and primary mover, in a way, of the project, but my intent is that it will be a community effort, and I have to continually remind myself that even now I am not alone. Prayer, money, time, friendship, care, tools, seeds, trees: there are really countless things that would benefit the project. Feel free to respond if you think of something that you have and might like to give or ask. My life and work here is dependent on you, and hopefully it is bigger than my own. Feedback is appreciated.
Know that I am with you too.
Sincerely,
Elliot
Martin