For real this time...

On weaving the threads of farming, art, and vision-loss.

Okay, I’m back on Substack after launching with a single post two years ago, then abandoning it out of overwhelm. Really, I never left. I’ve been lurking as a routine reader. But I feel the need to announce myself again as I recommit to my corner of this world. So, bienvenue, here’s a bit about me.

Must I make some snide remark that a lot has happened these last two years? If you live in the United States like me, you know that two years-worth of events could fit in the last two months alone. But (and this may come as a surprise to those of you who know me personally) this isn’t a space for me to vent about politics.

No, this is a place for me to weave together thoughts on farm life—including the industrialization of agriculture; our personal journey of slowly creating a homestead; and the need for community on one’s quest for self-sufficiency—with what I can rightfully call my “unique” experience with vision-loss. Navigating rural life as a low-vision person has meant awakening my other senses—smelling the decay of fall leaves, feeling the consistency of soil for spring planting, enjoying the sound of bullfrogs on a summer evening, and tasting my husband’s vine-ripe tomatoes.

Wearing overalls while standing on a log in the woods near my grandparents house, most likely thinking about how to become a forest gnome. Circa 1997.

While losing my eyesight is not something I’d have chosen, living a quiet life in nature is something my child-self dreamed of. As I grew and stopped collecting pinecones (I actually still do this), I also learned of my degenerative eye disease and the Peter Rabbit lifestyle became a fantasy. This was mainly due to the fact that I don’t drive a car. What I mean to say is, I can drive, but I hung up the keys in my mid-twenties when the anxiety of hurting myself—or worse, someone else—became unbearable. Not driving was less stressful than gritting my teeth behind the wheel, so I set my fate to life in walkable environments. I did so for years and independently thrived in my ability to access groceries, bars, friends’ homes, and appointments without a vehicle. But there was always an aching. And I never had to wonder what the source of that aching was, because it was no secret.

In college, a photo of Chris McCandless in front of his “Magic Bus” served as the background of my computer while I pursued a major in Environmental Studies. Despite his unfortunate demise, I thought Chris had it right by casting societal expectations to the wind and prioritizing proximity to the wild. Not long before that, I had read Walden for the first time, and Thoreau’s famous words:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Those two words—live deliberately—inoculated me. They lodged themselves deep in my core as if to become part of my genetic makeup, guiding me forward. (Side note: this was years before I began studying Buddhism, so I didn’t recognize at the time that these words reflected thousands of years of lessons on mindfulness and contentment). I don’t like to use the word “hero,” but it’s hard to find another. Whatever Thoreau and McCandless were for me, the list expanded to include adventurers, advocates, and authors like Edward Abbey, Terry Tempest Williams, Rachel Carson, and poets like Wendell Berry and Mary Oliver. I wanted to pick berries and build bonfires. To discover lost cabins and watering holes. To live off-the-grid on a road that only locals know. The inner voice telling me I could not was strong, but never completely silenced.

The photo of Chris McCandless that was my computer background for years. Photo credit: Chris McCandless. Source: The Guardian

When we had the opportunity to move onto this plot of land almost three years ago, I didn’t hesitate. I lost count of how many people asked me, “are you sure?” And rightfully so. In moving to our land, I have given up much of my independence; a trip to the store is done with (or by) my husband, Kyle, and a jaunt to a friend’s is planned well in advance to ensure rides to and from. But in exchange, I have gained something that I’m convinced most people stop searching for: their long-dismissed childhood dream. Now, I’m big on “inner child work” and truly believe that part of healing our adolescent wounds is honoring who we were during those years. For me, it’s a freckly girl in overalls who is either painting a colorful picture or pocketing sparkly rocks and pretending that the empty space under the willow tree is her home. Here, on our land, I witness her whenever I step outside—whether planting sunflowers in the field or strolling into the surrounding woods on a winter-white day.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a retreat at Kripalu with author Elissa Altman (whose Substack, Poor Man’s Feast, is one of my favorites). On the first evening, she gave us an exercise: write about why we write. I thought on the task as I fell asleep that night, and what emerged early the next morning, while looking out at the foggy Berkshire mountains, sums up why I’ve decided to recommit to this blog of mine:

I write for yesterday. I write for today. I write for tomorrow.

I write because I just have to tell you about the ombré of maple leaves in mid-October; or the satisfying scent of manure drifting from a neighboring field; or how you can be having the most hellish of days, but when you hear the soft melody of migrating geese, everything in the world is at once okay.

I write because I’m afraid this will all be lost to capitalism, consumerism, pollution, and plastic; because there are a dozen species that have gone extinct since I was born, and I hope someone has written about them; because maybe I’ll have kids and maybe I won’t, but I want all of them to know that once upon a time, fireflies would fill your backyard with sparkles.

I write because I need to remember, as my vision continues to close in, how the sandpipers scurry along the frothy spot where the ocean meets the shore; or the small black freckle on my cat’s pink nose; or the way soil sits permanently, like a tattoo, beneath my husband’s fingernails. I write so that the darkness does not dim my spirit.

I write for my younger self, who I have decided I must honor daily; a little girl with twigs in her hair, whose eyes were bright and capable, and whose mind was worry-free and imagination-full; who lived in paints, pastels, clay, and collage. I write so that she has an outlet.

I write for college-aged me, who went to school for fine art but then read Emerson and Edward Abbey; whose frustration found an egress in activism; and who made the teary-eyed decision to temporarily put down the paint brushes and dedicate herself to our dying world.

I’m here to weave all of this together. Because, if I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure how—or what the end product will look like—but I’m too curious not to try. I’m here because Elissa told me to “keep writing” and because Mary Oliver said, “the most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work…and gave to it neither power nor time.” I’m here because social media no longer serves me as a channel for meaningful discourse. I’m not here to preach and have no intentions to monetize this hobby—because we must have hobbies for the sake of joy. Ultimately, even if no one reads this, I’m here for Little Martel.

Elissa Altman’s new book, Permission is excellent—highly recommend for any kind of writer or creator.