3 November 2018
Dear collaborators, co-authors of this acre, these years, crop plans and field maps,
What ceremony can mark this end when the living of it has been ceremonial daily? Approaching the November garlic planting I'm plunged into the rituals of our shared time: the bulb harvest in July— truckloads of seaweed we pulled from the Sakonnet estuary and spread on the rows— herbs I send to sick friends, and brew myself. What ritual of ending could possibly mark this sprawling vessel— container whose body has been my life?
Abundance from the field reaches my kitchen casually, as if it were not an expression of the most profound generosity of this earth. Imprints of your manifold generosities reach me too. When I am slow enough, I am cognizant of your touch. Fertility we built together over time, labors of picking and washing, foresight, coverage, each method we chose, the close the attentions they demand. In this past decade my body has exposed its weaknesses, its needs. Our landscape has been a precious opportunity to understand my vulnerabilities, and also to develop the forms of strength accessible to me. The food we grew has been my most reliable medicine. How grateful I am for the care you have taken of me, and the space we made to arrive in ourselves, our bodies, our work, to open our lives to land, to history: exposure to the painful and beautiful mechanisms of our world and lives.
We have been so well fed, and have done the work of translating— in the languages of plants and weather— between the cycles of the earth and our city people's lives. Such strange work it has been sometimes to translate ourselves between the worlds we straddle.
Today food sticks in my throat. I took for granted what it has been— the broad experience— to have every meal imbued with touch of your hands in this dirt we inherited from a history of violence; soil we contributed to, that repaid us in fruit.
I know I lose this form, not its content. Seasons will turn; you will have your hands in soil and labor; we will be companions on this planet in whatever work we open to. Losing the form, not the content, though the content of it has meant so much. Each lesson and body of wisdom— about plants, collaboration, injustice, reconciliation, and resilience— will be with me. It still scares me to release ritual— physical space— the guarantee of a long Monday in the field, yielding in October, scent that reminds me of a quality of light, a lung feel, habits that have been the only reliable spine in the various tumult of my life: heartbreak, illness, deaths of our friends, volatile family, cacophonies of our world.
I am grateful especially for the twin lessons of yielding and resistance that I have learned on this land with you. To labor, to one another— our individual characters— to the ways our society pushes institutions away from ethical behavior, and towards extraction and exploitation. We have resisted, we have yielded. We have taught one another resistance and yielding. We negotiated circumstances we could and could not solve. We have been thrust into situations as holders of land, watchers of weather, vendors of nourishment, and keepers of some wisdoms.
One way I know I have loved a book is when— upon reading the final page— I find myself experiencing brief ejaculatory tears, like the quick summer storms that drive us momentarily from the harvest, into the shed to watch light tear the sky. In an experience of literature, it is not loss I mourn in these final moments. No part of me yearns to have this experience again, to revisit the text I just finished with a virgin mind. There is no fantasy of purity: no illusion that I could possibly start over and move through the same space and time again.
The feeling is one of humility and gratitude: a sense that I have been served with unnamable generosity in the form of actual years of an author's life— their imagination and most treasured thoughts and intentions manifested within the pages of a book. Characters' stories for the duration of my reading (or forever) become also mine: forms against which I test and examine the rhythms of my own perceptions, sensations, values, opinions.
The same sort of tears, the same sensation of grandiose awe, strikes me when I consider the end of our farm. Except it is more personal, more directed, more attached to my physical body, more enduring, and more imprinted on me.
The world we built is so made of our hearts, our time, our muscles. Each new pivot, each parcel and project— Harrison Street, Seekonk, camp, animals— was the fruit of a seed germinated as a private intention, and fostered in this radical collectivity. Sidewalk Ends has been a more authentic home for me than any I've ever occupied. In the word home I include dimensions of pain, and struggle, and real conflict that have been part of the mortar of our shared lives.
This container has deeply held other facets of my life. How many times I descended into the field in a state of utter desolation: to prune tomatoes literally weeping: over my father, my loves, disappointments, exhaustions, various personal and depersonalized horrors of the planet. Through this decade of my life, our work has been the reliable constraint. We have known the healing rinse of rain, warm sun, ways in which the exercise of labor stretches our tendons of pain into more flexible form. This lesson is among the most valuable to me. Our mutual gentleness, our capacity to slow time in the field, the generosity and compassion shared between us and with the earth taught me indelible lessons about how I wish to be in the world.
Grief upon losing this frame is as material as the food we've grown, the soil we've touched. It is as lived and felt as the hours we've spent upon it. It feels unfarmerly and narcissistic to mourn— as if anything real were ending. Nothing except the most tangible things are closing: our joint bank account, the schedule that has been the springboard and constraint in the patterning my other [winter, writerly] lives. I am so grateful for the schedule: for our mutual exigency and silliness, for the incredible— I mean literally: barely credible— devotion we practiced together. Devotion to one another, to acts of agriculture, to work ethics we test and stand behind, to ideals of a world that we have sequestered for ourselves and the vulnerable people around us, to a vast future. Transformative justice feels impossible from nearly every vantage: from the drivers seat of my car, from the lap pool, from my bed or desk. It is with my hands in soil and seaweed, in companionship with you all, that I have tasted the first flavors of peace.