four years ago
we became farmers, not that we were born that way, we had studied painting, sculpture, history, sociology - we had only lived in cities, we came without land or money, but a willingness to learn, youthful optimism - we came with a red-haired toddler, a hope that we could grow for him and his siblings to come - a wholesome life, our journey began with an idea, then an opportunity to live and work on somebody else’s farm, (and for eight months we did) we were surprised with how quickly we felt at home on the land - the every day chores tending to animals we’d never kept before, pigs, cows, chickens, chicks, so many firsts, milking a cow (and drinking fresh raw milk) watching pigs roll joyfully in mud, brushing the velvety coat of a stately cow - swimming in a dam in summer dusk light, driving a car, smelling freshly cut hay, picking blackberries till our hands were pricked with thorns - we felt keenly the struggles of running a small farming business (though we didn't carry the weight of it) we also found something we didn’t know we were looking for; community; eateries, markets, friends, church - our next step was to strike out on our own, we took a business course, we made a two-year plan - we lived with new friends, we consulted others, we walked on land we might be able to move to, traced with our fingertips the outlines of a homestead, the path cows and chickens and pigs could follow, (we later learned to let that place go) we took up offers from friends to lease land and a nearby home - our first livestock (if you can call them that) were a swarm of wild bees I shook from a suburban clothesline, we housed them in a hive we’d built from local cypress pine - we felt so privileged keeping living creatures, they were followed by a second hive and then our first flock of chickens for eggs a second baby, a bony dark haired boy was born, and hours later our first batch of broiler chickens arrived and a pattern emerged of expanding family and farm concurrently (not that we planned it that way) the third year would bring us another beautiful boy babe, and more chickens, more bees, the first eggs were exciting beyond words, we found local restaurants and cafes, and a green grocer in town who would stock them - we went to farmers markets with gluten free baking, eggs, honey, preserves, and soon chicken would follow - the working year was divided between the crazy busy seasons (autumn and spring) and the somewhat slower, in-between ones always along the way there are so many others - friends who lent us their machines or hands, fellowship on the grass, feasts by the fireside - our beautiful customers, their smiles at markets, whose feedback and encouragements urged us to persevere, do things a bit better - we gathered too, in the deep of winter with other like-minded farmers, advocates, agrarians - to speak plainly, openly, with love, to share our triumphs and our wounds, we connected with local food co-operatives and began drop-offs outside suburban homes getting real food to people without much fuss, at last, the way we always wanted it! and how can I forget the help of those that stayed with us - from around australia, england, ireland north america, who rose early, shared meals, cleaned eggs, answered children’s questions, watered the garden, felt the weight of our burden to grow food, to keep on to jani, vinnie, seb, isa, madison, chris, ant, bonnie, kerby, dean we will be forever be grateful - the sunsets and sunrises, full moons, star studded nights; the things you can’t buy, or find elsewhere - the lick of fingers sticky with honey, honey you helped extract from a hive, the golden yellow of a yolk from an egg you collected still warm from the coop the tender flavourful meat, the crispy skin of a roast chicken, you helped process, pluck feathers from - biting into a tomato seconds after being picked, a linen apron filled with cucumbers, a melon watered so lavishly with old bath water - made the sweetest mouthful, these are farmers' bonuses, never accumulated in a bank account, but in the mind’s eye, the lungs so full of fresh air - hands weathered by hard work and tending to life (and death) in four years we have reckoned with our limitations, our smallness, stifling laws and regulations, our needs (and forgotten ones), injuries, those dependant on us, those we owe, in tears, in words sharp and tense - in words unsaid why do we keep on, but what else could we do? we cannot unknow the need for fresh, wholesome food, the flutter of wings at dawn, we cannot unhear the earth that groans for tenderness, redemption, the ancient songs of our place - we cannot unsmell the plumes of smoke from bush fires burning out of control, or wild herbs crushed in fingertips by the dam, we cannot unsee native flowers return to a forest, a koala by the roadside, rocks and mud made into dwellings, paddocks sodden with flooding rain - we cannot unfeel the call to live simply, gently, mindfully, in community - in grace, in kindness, with earth under our feet, over our hands - and smudged around the faces of our sons.
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ABOUT the authorEmily Clare Sims is a farmer and mama to three young boys. Each day she looks for ways to notice beauty, contemplate her faith and savour the seasons... Categories
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March 2023
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