Thistles and the Prairie

After walking through the slowly fading, quickly browning prairie yesterday and observing the various seeds -- including the fluffy thistle ones -- I read this poem on The Writer's Almanac. 

Why There Will Always Be Thistle
by Maxine Kumin

Sheep will not eat it
nor horses nor cattle
unless they are starving.
Unchecked, it will sprawl over
pasture and meadow
choking the sweet grass
defeating the clover
until you are driven
to take arms against it
but if unthinking
you grasp it barehanded
you will need tweezers
to pick out the stickers.

Outlawed in most Northern
states of the Union
still it jumps borders.
Its taproot runs deeper
than underground rivers
and once it’s been severed
by breadknife or shovel
—two popular methods
employed by the desperate—
the bits that remain will
spring up like dragons’ teeth
a field full of soldiers
their spines at the ready. Bright little bursts of
chrome yellow explode from
the thistle in autumn
when goldfinches gorge on
the seeds of its flower.
The ones left uneaten
dry up and pop open
and parachutes carry
their procreant power
to disparate venues
in each hemisphere
which is why there will always
be thistle next year.


“Why There Will Always Be Thistle” by Maxine Kumin from The Long Marriage. © W.W. Norton, 2003.

Dad and Mom, A Dog, Deer, Killdeer, and Rocks: A Midwest Meditation

 Waking up yesterday morning after watching the debacle that was called the Presidential Debate, I decided I wanted to do something useful. Fortunately, living on almost fifty acres, there's always some thing that needs doing.

The first task I set for myself was to head out to the prairie and locate the spot where my parents' ashes are spread and Bonnie the dog of wonder is buried. The events of spring had overtaken me and I didn't keep the little path to that plot mowed. Soon the prairie grasses, wildflowers, and other flora had taken over and the place was now surrounded by green.  As I stepped out the porch door, I startled three young deer munching vegetation in the front yard. They looked up, stood stock still, and then bounded away, across the yard, the harvested bean field, and down into the woods. 

Lovely. Graceful.

Then it was retrieve my old trail mower for its assistance in finding the memorial area. 

From all its hard work on trails lined with thorn trees, the tires have endless punctures and so I had to put some tire sealer in them and pump them off. Then we went putt-putting out to the prairie. 

I parked where I thought the rock marking Bonnie's resting place might be and heading through the 6 and 7 foot tall prairies grasses and the stalks of fading wildflowers. It was tough going and I was quickly winded and covered with seeds from various plants. In my wandering search, also was assailed by briars, which I've been battling there for years. My search was for naught. I made my way back out and in through another area. Still nothing.

I was pretty certain where the grave should be, but the vegetation was so dense -- especially the briars -- I decide to put the mower to use. Off into the flora towering over us Traily and I went, deck set high, mower blade whirring. After the third pass in the small area where I believed the sought for space was, the left tractor lifted a good bit. I backed up, climbed off the mower, and there was Bonnie's memorial rock. I cleaned around it and then uncovered the sitting stumps (made from a tree I'd cut up) next to it where Mom and Dad's ashes were scattered in 2018. 

After a few more minutes work of clearing and mowing and rearranging,  the area was nice and neat with a winding trail leading to it. 

Satisfaction. Just in time for what would have been Mom and Dad's 71st anniversary today. 

After lunch, I got the little utility cart out. It's basically a heavy duty golf cart with a hydraulic dump bed on the back. While lots of folks around here have larger John Deere Gators and the like, this size is perfect for me. I found Mom & Dad's and Bonnie's "official" memorial markers in the garage. I had taken them in prior to doing a prescribed burn last autumn. I cleaned them up and then Nancy and I went out to place them. We drove the cart down my freshly mowed path -- after Nancy's stroke she is too unsteady for unstable ground. I climbed down and placed them. Then we just sat, surrounded by a wall of tall grass and sounds of crickets and birds. And then a meow. One of the farm cats, Gracie, had made her way through the jungle. She jumped up onto the cart seat between us, wanting attention.

After resting there, lost in memories of "Bonnie, the best dog ever" as her plaque says and John and JoAnn, we headed out. 

"Want to drive across the field," I asked Nancy. I knew she did. So, going at the speed we would normally walk, we bounced and jostled our way across the recently harvested field. Every now and again she'd spot a rock brought to the surface by rains, snows, and harvest. I'd stop and pick it up and hand it to her for inspection.

Nancy loves rocks and as long as I've known her has used them for garden ornaments. She also uses them to hid the concrete foundation wall of our our house. So we spent an hour driving back and forth across a 30 acre field, me picking up rocks. The sky was a deep autumn blue. Killdeer scavenging in the former been field tweeted their displeasure at our intrusion. Leaves rained down in the wind. Trees already stripped of foliage raised their hands into the air, either seeking the warmth of the sun or praising God. 

Or both.

I did, too.

Spiderwebs On My Face: Another Midwest Musing

 

Almost every day, sometimes twice a day, Nancy and I climb into our utility cart and go for a ride on the trails around and through our woods and prairie. We used to go for walks, but since Nancy's stroke last March that's just not possible anymore. Yet, she enjoys and wants to experience the trees, the tall grasses, the wildflowers, the glimpses of wild turkeys, deer, coyotes, beaver, groundhogs, coyotes, and more. 

So I help her up into the cart and off we go at a pace similar to that we used to walk. Up and down paths wide and narrow, bumpy and smooth. Always watching for a new seasonal wildflower, a hawk, a scurrying skunk.

One thing we always forget to watch for -- and indeed is hard to watch for -- are spiderwebs.

I hate spiders. Have since I was little kid. It's must be a genetic hate -- Grandma Bill hated them, too. With a passionate hate. One time she called my grandad to come get rid of one in their bedroom. He'd been at the kitchen table cleaning his pump action 12 gauge shotgun and arrived in their room carrying it. "Lew, get rid of that spider!" grandma demanded. "How?" "You have a gun," she shouted. "Use it if you must." And then stormed out the room. 

Of course, he didn't. Use the gun that is. But it's always made a good family story.

But back to spiderwebs and utility cart rides. 

At least once on every ride, we run, usually face first (our cart is pretty simple -- no windshield) into a spider web. Nancy is generally pretty calm and just wipes it away. I am frantic, certain that the spider, probably a black widow or brown recluse, has scampered off the web and is at that very moment working its way down the collar of my shirt and under my t-shirt looking for a place to bite me. Probably my fat belly.

After the brushing and me smacking areas on my shirt where I think the poisonous pest might have taken up residence, I step on the accelerator and we inch off down the trail. And run into another web.

Sigh.

These head on collisions with spiderwebs have left me pondering though the persistence of these creatures. I can imagine, sort of, making a web that is goes across a six foot wide windy path in the woods, but bridging one that is twelve to fifteen feet wide? How do they do that? 

Now I don't really care what the answer is -- learning how they do that is not that important to me. What is important is that they do it at all and the work that goes into it. And the ancillary fact that the same place I drive through today and run into a spiderweb may find another there tomorrow. Ambitious little arachnids -- God's creations doing what they were created to do. In the face of politics, division, war, pandemic. Oh wait, could that stuff only matter to us people who seem too often to do that which is other than what we were created to do.

In the midst of my musings, I picked up a book of Jane Tyson Clement's poems. And, in the mysterious ways the Divine teaches me, came across her poem "The Spider"

I watch the spider fling

its most improbable thread ―
from aspen limb to birch
and back again.

 

So do we fling our faith

from star to star
and under God’s eternal, watching care
the perfect orb
will come.

Now I'm still no big fan of spiders. But I'm happy for the lesson they are teaching me -- to be true to my nature as one of God's beloved creatures. 

To do the work I'm called to do. 

To trust in the Lord. 

To know it will be enough. 

Time of the Signs: More Midwest Musings

Yesterday morning dawned sunny and coolish for a day when later it turned 90 and humid. So, I thought, I'd better get out and do some work around the farm early.  

My first task was replace the old farm sign. Sixteen years ago, I had a nice handmade wooden sign welcoming people to Ploughshares Farm, the name of our place. Originally, it was a nice stained piece of wood with letting and a picture of a ploughshare on it. Over the years the finish wore off and the wood began to age in not good ways, so we painted the background, repainted the lettering and logo, and edged it in green. 

That worked well for a while, but time, weather, and some wood chewing insects took their toll and as you can see from the top photo the sign was falling apart. Pieces fell off it it regularly and had to propped back into place. So the time came for a new sign. 

I picked the new sign, done by a local shop, up earlier in the week. I loaded up my tools and new the sign in my little utility cart and headed out to the road. Removing the old rotted sign was easy at first. Pieces fell off. But the sign's mounting board proved a bit more difficult. I'd mounted that sign with four 4" deck screws. And they were still holding tight. Besides that, they didn't want to let go. One battery on the drill/screwdriver went dead on the top screw. And some doofus had failed to charge the back up battery. Doh. So I took the batteries back to garage to charge, and picked up a screw driver to get the screws out. 

Twenty minutes and a few breaks later (old men with heart conditions take lots of breaks) the four screws were finally free. And one of the batteries was charged just in time to install the new sign. I figured, after measuring twice (my father's voice in my head) that 3" screws would be plenty long enough. A few more measurements and pencil marks and use of a level, the new sign (bottom picture) was up.

A vast improvement. As I stood there, I looked down the long lane admiring my work and also the work of others at Ploughshares Farm over the years. The east side tree line along the lane had once been a scrum of bushes and trees and old farm fence that my dad, son-in-law Michael, son Tim, and I had chain sawed, hand sawed, and more to clean out and leave about 30 good trees (it's a long lane!). On the west side I saw another almost 30 trees and bushes -- these all planted by Nancy and me fourteen years ago, except two maple trees that had sprouted in Dad and Mom's flower garden. Dad dug them up and brought them 210 miles to our place and planted them. They're now over twenty feet tall. 

The two tree lines form a nice canopy over the lane, a shady (most of the time), pleasant view that leads back into another woods (the lane takes a sharp eastward turn toward our house a third of a mile away. The house can't been seen from the main part of the lane). Though a lot of human labor went into that view, mostly it was nature at work. Trees and bushes did what trees and bushes should do and grew and grew. And I was the beneficiary of their work that day. And, indeed, I am almost every day.  

While I was sad to take the pieces of the old sign down to the burn pile, I was grateful for the way it stood as welcome for a decade and half. It was an invitation to many folks to visit the farm, stay awhile, see its transformation from farmland to prairie and woodland, and enjoy the trails and wildflowers and tall grasses and butterflies and birds and occasional fox, wild turkeys, bunnies, and deer. What they may not have seen is the slow transformation of my soul and life that comes from living and working here. And ike that old sign, I'm older, too. And falling apart a bit more each day -- at least physically. 

But I'm not quite ready for the burn pile!

Now a new stands out by the road. The invitation is still there -- just a bit easier to see with its new paint. It's an invitation I hope you'll take advantage of if you're ever out this way.
 

Planting for Spiritual Renewal: Post 5

[Jesus] told them many things in parables, saying: “A farmer went out to sow his seed.  As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow.  But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.  Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”  (Matthew 13)

That's a good parable and it holds a lot of spiritual truth.  But, this prairie farmer is not going out scattering seed the way Jesus' farmer did.  Nosirree.  Not when that seed costs $100 an acre and is coming out of his "hobby" pocket.  When Woody and I planted the prairie we wanted to make certain that every expensive seed made contact with the soil in such a way that germination and growth would be optimized.  To that end we hooked up my John Deere tractor to a Great Plains seed drill with a native seed box and designed to open a shallow furrow, drop the warm season grass and wildflower seeds, and cover and slightly compact the furrow, pressing the seed into the soil.  We seeded the field and hillside (as the picture above show) going one lengthwise.  Then we went widthwise.  And then we drove across at angles.  

It was intensive work.  A little tractor pulling a big seeder that weighed as much as it did.  We had to be careful to go the right speed to get the seed into the ground.  Woody drove.  I helped by riding on the back and keeping the seed stirred and jumping off the seed drill to make sure seed was dropping freely and at the right amount.  

All of this serves as a good parable for Quaker revitalization and renewal, I think.  While Jesus is promiscuous in his seed of life sowing, even he recognized that the the seed grows best in ground that's ready to receive it -- good soil.  We have good soil in many of our meetings.  Soil that is ready to receive the Seed. 

To maximize growth, we would do well to use a spiritual seed drill -- to open up furrows, place the seed carefully, cover it over, tamp it down and allow the Spirit to water it and bring it to life.  I referred to some of the seeds in my post immediately previous to this one.  The difference between a prairie and our spiritual life is, though, that careful, intentional seeding is constant for the spiritual life.  We need to be intentional -- individually and corporately -- about getting the Seed in contact with the soil of our souls.  Our seed drills may vary -- spiritual deepening classes, spiritual story telling, outward practices, inward practices, adult religious education opportunities.  We may use a variety (or all!) of these things over and over as we move across the fields of faith.

Intention and frequency are the key words here, I think.  We need, as the Religious Society of Friends to be offering intentional and frequent spiritual seedings in our meetings.  Just as there is no one prairie management plan, so to is there no one plan for spiritual seeding in a meeting.  We need to find what works for our soil -- our souls.  And then get to it. With care, prayer, and intention.

Soil and Quaker Renewal: A Prairie? Post 2

In my last post on the Quaker renewal (and by that, I mean the renewal of Quaker faith and practice, not institutions, per se), I spoke about how I feel that many of our meetings are like fallow fields -- involved in the invisible process of rest and renewal and ready to burst forth with life.  And I mentioned the questions that my friend asked me in follow-up, continuing the metaphor:

• tilling = ?
• planting = ?
• seeds of life = ?
• soil = ?
• deep soil = ?
• shallow soil = ?
• plants = ?
• fruit = ?

I am going to address a few of those in this post.  The ones about soil.  After all, in the prairie outside my window, it's the soil that is lying fallow. It's not the plants seed, and so on.  The soil has been getting ready for this coming summer since early last autumn.  The various plants -- warm season grasses (big blue stem, little blue stem, side oats gamma), forbs (black-eyed Susan, coneflowers of various shades, partridge pea, milkweed, ironweed, rattlesnake master, New England aster) -- are either dormant (the grasses) or dead.  All of the plants, dead or dormant, have been shaken by the wind and rain, releasing seeds that scatter across the land.  They've been buried in snow, borne down by the weight and pushed into contact with the soil.  They've been disintegrating.  They look ugly.  The whole prairie, but the world's standard of beauty, looks ugly.  Dead.

And yet that's exactly what's needed.  The dead plants are feeding the soil.  The rain is watering it and breaking it up so that the new seeds can find just enough depth to germinate and spread their roots.  The snow, in addition to adding moisture to the ground, insulated the dead growth from the bitter cold and sped the decomposition process.

So, back to the questions my friend asked.  In Quaker life today, what is the soil?  What is the deep soil? And what is the shallow soil?   Hmmm, her questions remind me a bit of story of Jesus from Matthew 13 --

Then he told them many things in parables, saying: “A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.  Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.  Whoever has ears, let them hear.”

When I answered my friend (and we were having this conversation Facebook Messenger, hence short answers), I told her I thought "soil = our souls. the soul of the community/meeting."  Upon further reflection, I still think that.  The soil in which the Seed grows best is our individual souls and the soil of the meeting.  Does a meeting have "a soul."  I think it does.  I would argue that the soul of a meeting can be "felt" when we pay attention -- is it a deep, spiritual soul filled with love and life?  Or is it one of discord and disharmony?  Regardless, the Seed longs to spring forth.  But the soil must be made ready.

In the case of the prairie, natural, organic processes are at work.  The afore mentioned decomposition and watering.  But also, as the soil warms, worms and bacteria moving through, breaking it up, preparing it for growth.  Production farmers augment the processes, in their need to turn a profit, with chemical fertilizers and herbicides.  They increase the short term fertility and viability of the soil, but drain it, too.

That's why I believe that the processes for Quaker renewal have to be organic -- growing naturally from the Spirit doing spiritual work within us and the soul of the meeting.  There is no quick fertilization.  While we celebrate the past, we must allow it to die and thereby nurture new grow.  I'm not talking of people here, so much as the ancestor worship we often engage in -- remember how we worked for abolition of slavery, for women's suffrage, against the Vietnam war?  Yep we did.  But those are past.  What work is God calling us to now?  I cannot sit back and just look at photos of prairies past -- even though I have tons of pictures. They are glorious.  And each prairie in last seven years has been different.  Each one is new and unique.  Let's celebrate, let the past feed and inspire us, and move forward!

And, while we may not like to think of ourselves this way, some of us need to be worms and bacteria.  We need to be preparing the soil -- some with prophetic calls for justice as a spiritual enterprise, others by prayer and example, others by leading spiritual formation opportunities, some by...  Much of this may be "underground" and invisible to the larger field of the Society of Friends, but is happening across the US and Canada even now.  We need to do what we can to encourage this work.  And, instead of bemoaning the lack of visible "results", to keep at it.

For there is deep soil out there.  Deep soil, for me, equals souls/spirits who are hungry for God and community and real spiritual work.  Some people and meetings may not even be able to name that hunger.  But they know it when they experience it -- and find it nurtured.  We are called to move out of the shallow soil of being "cultural Quakers," of seeing the Quaker way as a system of ethics or as a "nice way of behaving" (i.e. the Testimonies divorced from their grounding spirituality).

I feel the soil preparation has been going on for a long time.  It needs to continue.  Organically, like I said -- from Friends who feel called to be at work, even behind the scenes. Spring is nearing, though.  Which means  is also time for some above ground work.

• tilling = ?
• planting = ?
• seeds = ?

Fieldward...

Fifty Acres and a Fool: Weeds

Weeds have become my mortal enemy.

This comes as a complete surprise to me. For decades I have been able to gaze upon a field of weeds with absolutely no compunction to do anything about them. Of course, that was before they were my fields and my weeds.

In my pre-weed days, the only weeds I really paid any attention to were dandelions in my suburban lawn. And even then I was far from the herbicidal maniac that the Lawn Nazis around me were.

But times have changed. They began changing when I began my (til now) eight year war with Bush Honeysuckle. Bush Honeysuckle is not technically a weed – it’s an invasive bush. But something that’s growing where I don’t want it growing is – in my agricultural book – a weed. And Bush Honeysuckle fits that description.

For years now I’ve been going into the woods and chainsawing it down, pushing it over with the front loader on the tractor, wrapping chain around it and pulling it out by roots, and, finally, as a last resort, spraying it with herbicide. I am finally turning the tide and now, where there was once nothing but an infestation of Bush Honeysuckle, there are now tree seedlings pushing their way skyward and wildflowers sprouting. Yay! There’s still massive amounts of Bush Honeysuckle to get rid of, but progress is being made.

I hate the stuff. It’s evil. You know it’s evil because it’s soooo pretty at first glance. Broad green leaves, pretty white flowers, yummy looking red berries. The birds and bees and other critters love it. And help it take over.

It always makes me think of what pretty things I let into my life – which then take over. Well, let’s not go there!!

The Bush Honeysuckle is getting a little bit of break right now while I tackle the things most people think of when they think of weeds – dandelion, Canadian thistle, and so forth. I’m battling them now because we just planted 8 acres or so of prairie – warm season grasses (WSG) and wildflowers (forbs – don’t you love the lingo?). And the WSG and forbs will not stand a chance again thistle and burdock and common purslane and hairy nightshade (sounds like a baddie in a cheap detective thriller!) and turf grasses and …

It seems that, as hearty as the prairie once was around here, until we burned it down, plowed it under, and cropped over it, it’s just as hard to reestablish it. I should know, I’ve been trying for six years and have a pretty thin stand of big bluestem and little blue stem for my efforts. The weeds, despite mowing and spraying with prairie stock friendly herbicide, are persistent. They just keep coming back, despite my efforts to eradicate them.

So this year, after doing the planned prairie burn, I decided to replant the whole prairie. I mowed everything level. Then I used a selective herbicide (avoiding the stands of WSG that I wanted keep). Then Dan “Woody” Wood, from Pheasants Forever, came out and helped me replant (actually he did much of the work – I just rode on the back of the seeder and kept the seed stirred and coming out the seeder).

Then I “hit it” (farmer talk) again with a prairie friendly herbicide. Then, after the herbicide did its work, I mowed the few struggling weed-y survivors.

But walking the freshly planted prairie last evening, I noticed a whole “crop” of pokeberry. So tonight, I’ll be walking the prairie in an effort get rid of it.

Field weeds seem to always be popping up in my soul’s field, too. I plant good seed but then, when the seed sprouts, forget to cultivate the seedlings, weed around them, and soon the pretty field is a huge weed patch.

Hmmm, seems Jesus once told a story about sowing seeds and weeds.

Fortunately, as regards the field weeds, a little spot herbicide (and a long walk) and they will be gone and the WSG and forbs will have access to the sunlight and soil nutrients they need. Unfortunately, for my soul, there is no herbicide … it needs constant cultivation by hand.

I need to get to it.

-- Brent

PS Here's Woody planting one of the hillsides. Just slightly dangerous!

On Being Attentive -- Two's by Two

After looking at singular things for a few days, I decided I would try to be attentive to "two"s -- and started on Twos-day (okay, bad puns are singular). I thought that being attentive to twos might be a bit more difficult. After all, there are many ones -- but how many twos are there?

As I brushed my hair (yes, I have some hair that still needs tending) in front of Nancy's dresser, I looked down and noticed our senior pictures sitting on her desk. No, not senior as in the age we are now, but senior as in seniors in high school. Two very earnest looking teenagers looked back at me from their formal professional black and white portraits. I said a prayer for those teens as I thought of how their lives were turning out to be far different (speaking for myself at least) than they imagined they would as seventeen year olds. I wished God's blessings for and on them.

As I moved to my chest of drawers to pick up my wallet, keys, and superfluous comb, I saw another set of senior pictures -- those of my sons Ben and Tim. I see those pictures (and another just behind them of the boys as very young boys) every day. But today I saw them afresh and as a possibility for the primary speech of prayer. As I reflected on their lives (Ben as business man, husband and father in Japan and Tim as good, kind Hoosier fellow), I prayed silently -- God knows the words I would speak could I really name the longings of my heart for these young men.

Spotting -- and praying for -- twos has been a bit easier than I thought. Two women just jogged by my office window. Two strangers that I was able to bless with a little prayer, though they, I am sure, will never know that they were being prayed for. Nor do they need to.

The prayers and attentiveness benefit me (singular) as much as them (twos), I am sure. The act of being attentive throughout the day is opening me to a richer prayer life than my usual "Thank you" or "Help me" or other simple prayers. It also feels more "me" than when I try to pray the hours (which is not my tradition) or try some other prayer practices that just don't quite fit the Bill (so to speak).

I wonder what other twos God will place before me to notice this day?

-- Brent

Rooted and Grounded

I am back home. Home, for me, is the Midwest. In general. Specifically, it's Ohio and Indiana. Ohio is where I grew up and it is still home to me in a way that is very spiritual and yet somehow undefinable. I have been gone from there now more years (barely) than I lived there, but whenever I cross the Ohio-Indiana line and see the arch proclaiming "Welcome to Ohio" or hear Karin Berqquist sing "Ohio" ("I know Ohio like the back of my hand") a sense of melancholy homecoming settles over me.

Just as real, but less melancholic, was the feeling I had flying into Indianapolis yesterday after almost 12 days in Colorado and New Mexico.

Those were glorious days -- vistas that can barely be imagined. In Colorado, I visited my sister Julie and her husband Dave who now live in Montrose. Julie has wanted to live in Colorado ever since she and I were there at Young Life's Silver Cliff Ranch in the late 70s (she as a kid and me as a leader). She says (and I have no reason to doubt her -- knowing both my younger and older self) that as my youngest sister I made her go. But she loved it. And now she and Dave live there. We visited Black Canyon, Ridgway, Ouray and other fascinating places. I took a ton of photographs.

Likewise in Santa Fe and Chimayo. Skies wide open, wispy cloud formations, amazingly colorful desert flowers. What great light.

But. But in the same way that St. Paul tells us that we are to be "rooted and grounded" in [Christ's] love so that we might be filled with the fullness of God, I find that I am rooted and grounded in the Midwestern soil. It speaks to my soul with its lush greenness, multiplicity of flowers and grasses, tall trees, and manageable vistas.

Likewise its people -- generally polite, often understated (if asked how something was, we'll say "Pretty good" or "Not bad" as a high compliment), deeply spiritual -- even if we disagree about what it means to be spiritual. These people, like the land at its best, reflect the goodness of God's love. At our worst, we are like a wicked tornado, shredding everything in our path (and some of that has gone on, I hear, among a gathering of -- of all people -- Quakers this week. I am glad I was in New Mexico for that!).

Regardless. These are my people. This is my home. This is my vision of Heaven -- both here on earth and in Eternity. Good hearted women and men rejoicing (though subtly) in the blessings of God, land abundant and fertile, life a wee bit slower (when I allow it to be), and God feeling near.

I am rooted and grounded in this place.

I hope you feel that way about your place. God be praised. And it's good to be home.

-- Brent

Down on the Farm -- A Bit about our Place

I handed Nancy the Sunday paper this morning and she opened it to the "Homes" section as she always does -- and there we were. Ploughshares was this week's featured home. We had been interviewed (and photographed) a while back for a feature in our county magazine and the article made it's way to the "big city" paper as this Sunday's feature as part of their eco/Earth Day emphasis. I thought I'd link to it because folks often ask about our place (after reading about it my books or on my blog) and John Hughey (the reporter) did a nice job presenting it. And the pictures are great. I told Nancy, when I saw it, that the place looked so good I thought I'd like to move there. ;-)

At any rate, if you're interested in eco-friendly homes, wildlife restoration, and such, you might find this article to your liking.

And here's just a bit more information about our efforts. We started erecting the home on April 1, 2004. We planted the first part of the prairie (9 acres) in spring 2006, along with 4 acres of trees (all native Indiana hardwoods, nut trees, and fruit trees). We'll plant another 17 acres of prairie and native Indiana hardwoods next spring. We have all sorts of wildlife now -- rabbits, deer, raccoons (who sit on the back deck and eat our cats' food --becoming the masked bandits they look like), coyotes, wood ducks, heron, and nesting bald eagles.

Who'd a thunk a city boy like me would have ever ended up here? Or that praire grass and trees and tractors and chain saws would be such a part of my life. I guess the only one is God -- who works in mysterious ways indeed!

Sunday blessings!

-- Brent