Minnesota news

Well, I meant to write about 3 weeks ago to say that I was moving yet again, and give all you precious readers a heads up. But the night before the 22 hour car ride just wasn't the time. And then I got here and it's all been a whirlwind. So this post will hopefully catch you up on the basics of where I am and what I'm doing. Then I can share smaller details of my life here every now and then. Which is all I'll have time to do I'm afraid. The blog most definitely must take the back seat to other things happening this summer.

So....way back in the middle of the cold, dark Swedish winter I decided that when I moved back to the United States I wanted to live with my older sister and dear friend Rebecca on her and her husband's farm in Southeastern Minnesota. Beautiful rolling hills, covered-in farmland Minnesota. I couldn't picture a better place to transition to life back in the States than to enjoy their friendship and work hard to help them realize their vegetable-growing dreams. They bought their 40 acre farm just a few months ago, and there is much to be done.

We wake up just a few minutes before 4 am (the 3:something is significant psychologically) nearly every day to be in the garden harvesting by 5 am. They grow an amazing diversity of vegetables, herbs, and flowers to sell at 2 farmers markets and through a CSA (community supported agriculture). No chemicals are used, just lots of hand labor, hand tools, and diligent weeding.

I hope everyone had a wonderful midsummer! I'd love to hear from my Swedish readers how you celebrated. Sadly I didn't get to dance this year or see little girls with flower wreaths in their hair, but I thought about Sweden a lot that day. I am teaching Rebecca a lot of Swedish this summer. She is a language lover and eager learner. It's very fun for me to keep speaking!

"To be of use"

To be of use
by Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.