Blessings of a January Day

Part of the blessing of these winter days is the quiet openness that extends out on a crystalline morning.  The January cold has stilled our outdoor work, and we simplify, move inward, and tend to hearth and home.  Our spirits rise listening to the murmur of a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, watching fine snowflakes drift down from scattered fluffy clouds, or witnessing the sun's brilliance as the clouds part and spill its light into the landscape.  We emerge from the rush of the holidays and return to the stillness of nature, newly aware of the balm and spiritual connection we receive there.

Though seemingly still, the landscape is not empty, as a lively flock of chickadees flitting from tree to tree through the woods reminded me on my morning walk, their spirited voices breaking the morning quiet like a magic spell.  Leaving the woods, I passed last summer's potato bed and the permanent planting of Jerusalem Artichokes, and smiled at the thought of these unseen caches of food still lying underground on Hawk's Hill.  On my way back up the hill to the house, I stopped in the garden, retrieved a spading fork from the tool shed, and tramped down to the bed at the bottom of the garden where our winter carrots lie, kept crunchy and sweet by the cool earth.  Finding a row label marked "July 5 Scarlet Nantes,"  I shoved the digging fork in alongside the ferny tops.

I pried the fork back, unearthing the golden booty.  Before I slid the carrots from their good earth, I squatted back on my heels as people have done down the millenia. I looked up at the sky and took in the beauty of nature around me for one grounding moment before saying, "Thank you, Carrot Nation, for feeding the people."  Slipping the slender taproots from the earth, I brushed the dirt off and collected them in a plastic grocery bag I pulled from my coat pocket.  A few more forkfuls of earth yielded enough carrots for our family's needs for the next week.

I have taken to saying this simple prayer of gratitude as I collect eggs from the hens, pluck leaves from the kale plants, even when we plowed out long rows of potatoes earlier in the year.  I learned it from my friend, Brad Silberberg, director of The Mesa Creative Arts Center,  who teaches Native American spirituality and often works alongside us on the farm.  I find the prayer immerses me in gratitude in the moment.  And the more gratitude I express, the more abundant my life feels.

Some of the carrots ended up in that simmering chicken noodle soup we ate for dinner, the rest got scrubbed up and tucked in the refrigerator to be eaten out of hand.  We found long ago that carrots taste best when just pulled from the earth, and that within a few days, their sweetness diminishes.  So, now we're hooked, and we enjoy freshly dug carrots as one of the perks of winter's quiet days.

As to the nuts and bolts of carrots, we start our winter carrots around Independence Day, and plant a row on either side of a drip irrigation line.  One carrot seed is planted every 2 inches down the row.  I make a shallow trench with my finger, place the seeds in, and cover them with fine soil.  I've tried using an Earthway planter, but find the job is best done by hand.  It takes a while, but if you have a partner to chat with, the time goes quickly.  My carrot planting partner is our oldest daughter, Sarah.  A Creative Writing major in college, Sarah spins tales for me, sharing the latest developments from her story worlds --  fine entertainment for a simple task.

Carrots may take up to 3 weeks to germinate, so you have to keep the rows weeded and the ground moist during that time.  Once the ferny carrot tops begin to develop, they will out-compete the weeds, and all we do is keep watering (we try to keep the weeds controlled between rows).  And, of course, we harvest.  And offer prayers of gratitude.

At the end of the day, after my harvest and before the night's temperatures plummeted under the clear blue sky, I covered up the remaining carrots with leaves to blanket the carrots' shoulders from the bitter cold.  Voles like to burrow in such a natural "quilt," and eat whatever lies above ground, so I usually wait to mulch until temperatures drop into the teens or below to hold off the little thieves.  At this point, I figure the voles will get some of the tops, but the rest will be saved for us to enjoy.

May these cold January days also bless you with quiet openings and abundance,
Betsy