I light the candles in a dark room as the solstice approaches.

I love this season. The dark is rising. The twelve hour evening hibernation is just what is needed after the long summer workdays.

Farming is a science but it is also an art. There is no one book, one philosophy, one six-week course which can teach that. We need observant people to produce our food, hands on - not robots, not directives from the main office. Working with inevitable change is critical. There are no rules now which cover farming. But really, there never were.

We tell ourselves that when the shit hits the fan, the local farms will feed us. That would be wonderful but in fact it is not possible. Not now.

A large part of sustainable farming, sustainable living, is about planting more trees and saving rain. It’s about farming like an ecosystem, imitating what Mother Nature does with her forests and meadows.

Beauty and pleasure are concepts which engage others, perhaps countering many of the stereotypes of farm work.

Spring affords a time to see things from a new perspective — our work, our families and friends, our passions and beliefs. The perfect time to re- examine our world. We can start over. A new beginning.

What is created on our farm—the food, the beauty, the well being—is determined by the rest of the ecosystem—the water, the soil, the trees, the specific plants, the wild animal visitors... Part of my job description is being responsible for the health of the land on which I live, as well as the land surrounding it, as it has a direct effect on the growing food.

Deep winter has given me enough time to take a long pause to appreciate what I have. At this moment. Whatever I have right in front of me. By the time dormancy is broken, when there is bud break, when the sun is higher in the sky, the day lengthening and the soil warming I will be so very ready to get my hands in the soil. But until then I am on vacation.

The weeks leading up to the winter solstice are my time out, a time to nourish myself, store up energy. I am unapologetic about going into hibernation, unrepentant about doing next to nothing, recharging my batteries and incubating ideas.

The first plants to re-colonize a habitat are called opportunistic weeds. There may have been a flood or a forest fire which devastated the immediate ecosystem. These plants are critical in rebuilding both the communities below and above the ground. They are the first to arrive on the scene because they are flexible about their growing conditions. They are not fussy about the amount of moisture, soil type, or fluctuating temperature available. They grow rapidly and are quick to germinate. It is their job to restore biodiversity to a devastated ecosystem—to heal the literal earth—and prepare it for the next migration of larger, slower-to-colonize, more deeply rooted plants and tree saplings.

The chickens I have known have never disappointed me. They are the cornerstone of my no-tech, no expense, off-the-grid farm backup system. Our small herd of fifteen are the ultimate in IPM (Integrated Pest Management). I count on them in case of a plague of locusts or an armada of slugs. The composting bin is in one of their foraging yards and they are in charge of turning it regularly.

Farming has become a euphemism, a delicate term for something offensive or unpleasant... industrial agriculture.

I am stepping back and letting the locally-adapted food plants take charge. A self-supporting ecosystem is emerging. It is so much easier than the constant warfare with the natural world which could almost be the definition of our current agriculture.

I was totally lost: a farmer/botanist in a marine biology department teaching the winter semester course in environmental science. 8:30 AM Monday and Wednesday. No one wanted to teach in that time slot. Not in mid-winter. And nobody wanted to take a course at that time. But the class filled, as it was a required course for international studies majors. And so, early Monday morning, the students shuffled into class, wanting to be back in bed, not ready for the world of cold classrooms, too-bright lights, and hard chairs.

1986. I became a farmer by accident because a delivery truck broke down.

For years, I have been sending out a winter solstice story. It changes a bit over time, perhaps reflecting my ageing and the times we are living in. But the sentiment is the same.

For thirty-five years I have lived with chickens….