A few days ago I met my land. I’ll call it mine even though it’ll only be in my fingernails and on my nose and knees for three growing seasons. Just three—three unfurling springs, three emerald summers, three golden falls, three wild winters.
The assignment of the land, in my business partner’s words, was a gift; the walk of it, where I gamboled like a lamb, a blessing. We collected fragments of soil to mix and bag for a soil test, and every step, each probe into the earth, held an exaltation, a desire, a promise, and a prayer. A prayer to the mud: let us love you and be loved back. Let us give to you and gather what you offer. Let us build you up with minerals and straw and compost. Let us take from you leaves for tea and flowers for love.