this i believe
inspired by reading "this i believe: the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women" (edited by jay allison and dan gediman in association with NPR) i decided, as the collection encourages, to write my own.
i believe in dirt. more properly termed soil, for all its aliveness from which life is sustained.
i remember being four years old, working alongside my parents in the greenhouse. my job was watering the disc-like seed starters until they swelled to three inches. then i could put the seed in the opening at the top and push it down with my forefinger, my expression alternating between concentration and delight.
i'm named after my great grandma nettie who raised chickens and gorgeous flower gardens. my favorite photo is of her standing beneath her ten foot sunflowers, squint-smiling into the sun.
another relative, who spent his life farming in Alberta, told me over coffee around the camp fire about his practice of letting the land rest, the importance of cover crops, and putting nitrogen back into the soil.
i've tasted the difference between an artificially ripened tomato (akin on the palate to what pale pink packing foam might taste like) as compared with one that bursts on my tongue with all the sweetness of sunshine. and there is nothing like eating a carrot straight from the garden.
when pouring for guests in the tasting room, they tell me they can taste the difference in wines from various levels of volcanic soil and elevation. "wine," i say, "is from the dirt and dirt keeps us humble."
the name Adam in Hebrew, for example, means "from the earth", a reminder of our own mineral-miraculous composition and place in a landscape bigger than ourselves.
it's this primal connection to the soil that reminds me nature needs no improvement. she will continue to sustain us if we care for her.
this i believe.
i believe in dirt. more properly termed soil, for all its aliveness from which life is sustained.
i remember being four years old, working alongside my parents in the greenhouse. my job was watering the disc-like seed starters until they swelled to three inches. then i could put the seed in the opening at the top and push it down with my forefinger, my expression alternating between concentration and delight.
i'm named after my great grandma nettie who raised chickens and gorgeous flower gardens. my favorite photo is of her standing beneath her ten foot sunflowers, squint-smiling into the sun.
another relative, who spent his life farming in Alberta, told me over coffee around the camp fire about his practice of letting the land rest, the importance of cover crops, and putting nitrogen back into the soil.
i've tasted the difference between an artificially ripened tomato (akin on the palate to what pale pink packing foam might taste like) as compared with one that bursts on my tongue with all the sweetness of sunshine. and there is nothing like eating a carrot straight from the garden.
when pouring for guests in the tasting room, they tell me they can taste the difference in wines from various levels of volcanic soil and elevation. "wine," i say, "is from the dirt and dirt keeps us humble."
the name Adam in Hebrew, for example, means "from the earth", a reminder of our own mineral-miraculous composition and place in a landscape bigger than ourselves.
it's this primal connection to the soil that reminds me nature needs no improvement. she will continue to sustain us if we care for her.
this i believe.
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