The land is giving us so much these days; we can barely keep up. We have to keep reminding ourselves daily to harvest the months of hard work and love (not mine, since I just arrived, but that of the other gardeners who have seen these babies through and through). One demographic that needs no reminding are the resident hippie children that run free-range on the land (complete with hippie names such as Guthrie and Yarrow, a flower we find right here on the farm). Myrtle and I love to harvest the flowers in the late afternoon, drowsy from dinner but always excited about our hunt for gorgeous buds. Having spent most of her days on Earth poking around the farm, this two-year old teaches me something new each time she takes my hand and pulls me along the garden paths. Picking calendulas today (edible flowers that also hold medicinal qualities), Myrtle reminded me gently not to pick all of the flowers. “We need to leave some for the bees,” she explained solemnly.

Myrtle knows where all the best currant patches are, although more of those go in her mouth than in the basket. She can spot a ripe strawberry from across the garden, and she strategizes ways to get even the most obscure, hard-to-reach berry. She fits into all the right nooks and crannies to get to the goodies, often leaving me stranded on the outside, jealous of her tiny frame. Once, I ambled up a path as she crawled ahead of me, guiding me to the shining light in the form of a juicy red berry, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the giant spider in front of me. Well, maybe giant is an exaggeration. But there it was, stretched out between me and my prize. Myrtle had walked right beneath it and was none the wiser. She turned around, her wide eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”, she asked. “Oh, you go ahead. I think I’ll just pick some chamomile right here,” I responded, delighted by this little girl’s lovely luck to be raised in such a place.

I never realized how emotional gardening can be. I had a terrible fright this past weekend when I thought I had killed about 6 trays of seedlings. It looked like a graveyard in there, and I was the lone perpetrator. Devastated about the genocide in which I had a bloody hand in- I was supposed to have watered them the day before but had forgotten- I called Matt, my garden supervisor, who was away for the weekend at a music festival. Sorrowfully, I recounted him the tragedy, and to my surprise, he laughed. They had been dead for weeks before I even arrived, so it wasn’t my doing at all! A giant weight was immediately lifted off my shoulders and I happily emptied all the trays into the compost, to rid myself of the memory.

So we’re all hard at work, pulling out the beets and checking on the garlic bulbs, making sure all the babies get watered properly. (Eek. Oops.) The bees are hard at work, too, pollinating flowers and making honey in their hive. Some afternoons, Maralena (the other intern) watches them for hours, and reports back to us with all sorts of fascinating observations. (Did you know they feed “royal jelly” to the baby bee who will become their queen?)

It’s midday. I’m hot. Looking up past the brim of my hat, I see pollen raining from the skies, swirling around in the wind. I scrape around the corn stalks with my hoe, careful not to knock any down. They’ve grown so much in the 4 days or so since I last check on them! We were extremely happy that they were “knee high by the 4th of July”, but now we have to take care of them so they can stay healthy and produce something magical for us in a few months. The sweet peas are getting to the end of their giving season, to my deepest dismay. I cannot think of anything tastier to snack on during a hot summer day in the garden. The raspberry patch is giving it’s last harvest, and each dark red pearl is relished by all. But soon, tomatoes will adorn our salads with juicy color, and blackberries will dangle deliciously on the branches.

I stop abruptly when I realize that I’ve uprooted a baby corn stalk, mistaking it for a tall blade of grass. I am saddened by the incredible potential that was embodied in that being, a future that is now gone.

One thing that nature teaches us is the rising and falling of all things. Some plants die, while others grow and bear life-giving fruit.

Alice Swanson was an exemplary human being, who’s joyful and peaceful spirit will be greatly missed by all.