ATWOOD FARM, May 2023: Words and Pictures from our 3rd Joshua’s Trust Nature Writing Workshop

Meadow Wind

Sitting on a low, broad stone today, looking at a hodgepodge of a stone wall and, beyond that, meadow, I am taken back to the solace of a childhood meadow in Vermont. My brother, sister, and I crossed a similar wall to get to it.

So little was I that I was engulfed by the tall grasses. I felt the scratchiness of the greenery on which I sat, but it felt good and real, a living thing that held me. Around me, the sweet smell of plants—most of which I could not name—told wordless stories. The smell of manure from a farther field mixed in with the heady botanical potpourri, earthy alongside ethereal. From a distance the less aromatic element was just fine; I welcomed the scent with its implications of sunbaked hay.

Grasshoppers, bees, butterflies, ladybugs, crickets, and beetles surrounded me. I watched as they climbed, crawled, and flew, seeming so industrious while, simultaneously, in no hurry at all. The sun bounced off their collected colors. The grasses hummed with their collective song.

Birds called from the treed perimeter, no doubt conscious of the young human nestled in their grasses. The oak over the wall looks like it’s seen some history. Was it planted to offer shade in a hot pasture? Our place in Vermont had just such a tree. It conveyed an air of steadfastness, as if saying, simply, “I am with you.”

Have you ever been in such a place on a windy day? If you sit low in the grass, it undulates around you, waving and whirring. The oak joins in the dance, gesticulating more emphatically than its shorter cousins. For a short while the animals go silent, pausing to consider the voice of the wind.

What a benediction to go forth from such an afternoon, basking in the buzzing, bright meadow, watching the landscape stir, and reveling in the calm, chirpy aftermath.

Katherine Hauswirth

Isabelle Atwood Property 5-26-2023                                                                                            

I opened my eyes to see a line of stone wall that separated mown from un-mown grass.  It ended at an abrupt forest edge. All around the fields, tall trees formed a tapestry with hues of green and brown interwoven in a never-repeating pattern. The tapestry’s relatively even texture provided a sense of cohesion until I chanced upon the one tree that rumpled its surface.

Pouring out in a bubbling cascade of almost yellowish-tan color, the fine texture of this tree’s crown seemed almost tropical. (Where were my binoculars when I needed them!)  The top of the tree’s crown was much shorter than the surrounding trees. Its curved trunk was aimed to pierce the woven fabric of the forest edge.

That curved trunk! I see what this tree is about. It needs light, but its neighbors have outpaced it in height.  Its trunk has grown with a bend and twist in the search for good light. The lopsided lollipop-shape of its crown came about as its lower portion gradually died from lack of light while the upper crown grew more and more one-sided to get as much light from the open field as possible.

Even without binoculars, the curve of the trunk is clear. The rumpled, cascading texture of the tree crown suggests sprays of flowers. Aha! I see what this tree must be, but I walk over to look closely anyway.

In the sunlight, the bark on the trunk looks just like a giant’s breakfast of huge, grey cornflakes. And, yes, the yellowy-tan is a Black Cherry’s spent flowers. This tree was lucky to find itself able to grow toward a reliable light source. But just in case, that mass of flowers will lead to fruits and seeds for another generation.

Charlotte Pyle

In the small Atwood orchard, trees, lichens, clover, mushrooms, and uncounted insects co-exist in a harmony that humans struggle to emulate.  We are slow learners.

One year there were so many fallen apples in the orchard that the deer, doubtless horrified to experience morning-after hangovers and on the verge of becoming alcoholics, sensibly refused to eat any more. The not unpleasant scent of fermenting apples lured the bees and yellow jackets, worms and ants to feast. Within weeks the apples had become insect nourishment, the mess vanished.  Nature doesn’t waste.

Careen Jennings

Atwood Farm in late spring: long at rest, long past its productive years. Before me, a chickadee repeatedly celebrates its capture of an inchworm. The fragility of life is thus balanced with its green profusion, particularly in this season of avian fledging activity.

Perhaps the spirit of Isabelle lingers here, or perhaps the best gift she gave us is her absence, a mystery we must accept—that time is long and individual lives are short. That nature cannot wait for any of us, whether we are conscious of it or not. Ask a chickadee. Isabelle isn’t here, except in memory.

I am still; nothing else is. Even the trees seem in a hurry to reproduce, shagbark hickories and maples spreading seeds far and fast on the breeze. In the orchard, tiny green apples form. In a bluebird box hidden in the shade, eggs are near hatching. And over the wall, by the algae-covered pond, bullfrogs announce…whatever bullfrogs announce.

George Jacobi

The role and importance of ecological knowledge: we must be caretakers.

Basic ecological knowledge of one’s surrounding landscape was for most of human history, inherent in daily life across most cultures. Not only because of the inherent need to know for survival, but as a traditional part of growing up. When you are dependent upon the land you live on, you form a deep connection with the land. You learn her cycles and rhythms and live in sync with them. Today, in our modern society, the one reality that hasn’t changed is that we are dependent upon natural systems and ecological services for our survival and wellbeing. 

What we have lost is our connection and understanding, and most importantly our respect for the beautiful life support system that is our photosynthetic, furbound, and mycelial mother. 

Thanks to the destruction wrought by colonialism and excessive capitalism, many of us depend on far removed and highly processed means of production, with resources often from across the globe. With the loss of daily immersion and interaction with the natural systems that sustain us, it is hard for us to remember the importance and fragility of natural systems. This disconnect stems from the excessive industrialization of colonialism/imperialism.  These systems prioritize profit over life. Modern capitalist systems stemming from colonialism put the comfort, convenience, and profit of a few of the health and wellbeing of many. Short term profit is put over the continued survival and long-term functioning of natural systems. The ongoing disconnect and disregard for nature drives the continued growth of harmful extractive systems, just as continued immersion in a colonial society drives a deeper disconnect from the land, it’s a vicious cycle. The longer we continue harmful practice, the more difficult it will be to return to a healthy and equitable relationship with the land. Morality aside, our (and other species) survival is dependent upon returning to a more sustainable way of living with the world.

Perhaps, if our drifting away from a relationship with the landscape has been a vicious cycle, then can our return become so too? Creating a system that works with rather than against the natural cycles of the land rather than against her makes it inherently harder to destroy her. Returning to a more direct relationship with the land and a community-based society allows people to see the change and benefits that come with this. I hope people having a strong connection with the land in turn makes people less willing to put up with, return to, or support an exploitative system that does not work for the benefit of the people or the land. After all, It is harder to oppress or manipulate people who can rely on their landscape rather than corporations or the government.

That is the strength of indigenous resilience. Indigenous lifeways of connecting to the land depend upon looking at existing natural cycles and both mimicking and encouraging them, so as to both live off existing natural bounty and encourage more. Colonial ways prioritize extraction directly against the natural rhythms for short term benefits. The notion of clinging to a system that at its core is dependent upon working in opposition to natural rhythms and cycles that dictate this entire planet, convinces me we need a change. Shifting to a system that works with rather than the rhythms of the landscape not only gives us freedom from dependence on colonial systems and governments, but allows us to have a strong sense of identity and community around our landscape, it is something we can all help take care of and appreciate.

In Mohawk, and other Haudenosuanee nations, along with ideas in Annishinabe and Apache teachings, the role of humanity is to be a caretaker of the planet. After all, we are one of the few species able to combine our ecological knowledge and scientific skills to improve and foster healthy ecosystems. Colonialism uses this knowledge to exploit the land for capital and profit. I think it is long overdue for humanity to step back into their role as caretakers, to once again plant the forests and sculpt the desert to benefit not only us, but all who live here. 

Returning to natural rhythms allows us to gain a deeper respect for all living things. Shifting to our more equitable role as caretakers means we have to create more sustainable not only because they would benefit people, but because they would curtail destruction of our planet. We must form our solutions both from a place of deep respect/love for the earth, and an understanding that we need a healthy planet for our survival. Working against the natural rhythms with exploitative systems isn’t worth the short-term benefit. We must return to our role as caretakers.

Gavin Hauswirth