"We always start the season with seedlings because we want to encourage people to grow their own food. Nothing tastes better than a vegetable that's minutes fresh from the ground."
Steve Otrembiak, one of the regular vendors at the summer Saratoga Farmers Market, shared this story on Sunday, March 23, during a community forum on the social, economic, and environmental benefits of shopping at the farmers market. The story captured for me the spirit of farmers markets and the relationships that build between vendors and customers around them.
The forum was organized by representatives of two local colleges -- Skidmore and Empire State -- and the Friends of the Saratoga Market, an all volunteer organization that a half-dozen farmers market regulars formed in 2011 with a mission of helping the Saratoga Farmers Market continue to prosper. I was one of the initial organizers of the Friends of the Market (FOM) and currently serve as its convener, a role that leaves my over-extended, somewhat disorganized self feeling a bit frazzled at times. Nevertheless, the work that I do with FOM has enriched my life in Saratoga Springs and my work as a faculty member at Empire State College greatly because it puts me in touch with farmers and the art and joy of growing and eating incredible food.
Good food formed a foundation of the forum. It opened with an assortment of foods prepared by Parkside Eatery, a Saratoga Springs business, that were prepared entirely with ingredients from the farmers market. When I say entirely, I mean entirely. Even the dressings were made with yogurts, vinegars, fruits, vegetables, and cheeses from the farmers. Parkside representatives bought the ingredients at the market the day before, arriving at the market around 11 a.m. with a local photojournalist in tow.
Following the food was a panel of farmers and customers that in addition to Otrembiak included cheese maker Liza Porter of Homestead Artisans; Abby Foster, the granddaughter of M&A Farms owner Arnold Grant and an agricultural educator with the Cornell Extension Service; Joyce Elliott of Empire State College; Elizabeth Cohen, a student at Skidmore College; and Carol Maxwell, founder of the Lake Avenue Elementary School's "garden project."
Otrembiak noted that as spring moves toward summer, fresh vegetables and fruits start to replace the seedlings that his farm would initially sell. But the customers buying their produce would still report back on the plants they had purchased at the start of the season, providing periodic progress reports. Sometimes, Otrembiak said, they would bring in a discolored leaf in order to get advice on a potential problem. At other times, they would bring a sample of the plant's harvest. Customers also would bring recipes and occasionally samples of dishes prepared with the plant.
"So the relationship builds up and continues," Otrembiak said.
The analogy of seedling to food seems appropriate for understanding the forum's theme "Growing Community". As relationships form between farmers, gardeners, food enthusiasts and others, a community is built and can be sustained year after year.
Otrembiak's story was just one of many shared at the forum that crystalized the power of farmers markets in my mind. I've lived in Saratoga Springs for approximately four years, and unless I am out of town it is rare that I miss a market. I've long sensed that while shopping at farmers markets is all about buying food, something greater is at stake. Being at the market is about learning the vibe of a community and perhaps also about finding your fit within it. This process of learning and of discovery doesn't come with one visit to the market or through occasional visits. It's a sustained practice that -- like growing your own food -- requires attentiveness, nurturing, patience, and time.
Other panelists also described the market as a venue. A place where friends meet, where ideas are exchanged, and where politics are expressed were some of the expressions that came up.
"I'm not sure I'd want you all to see our vendor meetings sometimes," quipped Homestead Artisan farmer Porter, adding that through differences rather than a bland unity communities grow.
Cohen, the Skidmore student who is examining the impact of farmers markets on local communities as part of a senior capstone project, pointed to structural factors in a broader society that might deter such growth. She noted that farmers markets often are perceived as being expensive and intimidating for lower-income individuals and suggested that such concerns be kept at the forefront as farmers markets gain popularity.
Cohen's words hit home for me, at least partly because I have always lived with a sense of being an outsider: I am a daughter of immigrants. I am a woman of color. I am a newcomer in a community where people have extremely tight family and kinship ties. And I am an adult who moved frequently al over the country for school and for work through my 20s, 30s and 40s. Moving to a small, fairly rural community like Saratoga in 2010 after having lived in Chicago, Kansas City, Seattle, Honolulu, and Seattle again produced not only a geographic sense of displacement for me but a cultural dislocation, as well. However, having been a regular farmers market patron in Honolulu and Seattle prompted me to inquire if Saratoga had a farmers market even before I moved here and, upon learning that it did, to visit it as soon as I arrived.
Reflecting on Cohen's words later, I thought that knowing what it was like to feel out of place might offer a new way of understanding how to promote sustainability through an ethos of inclusivity. A society that stays closed to new people or new ideas cannot last long. But for the newcomer understanding how to come into a new setting might take time. Perhaps this knowledge might be like the selling cycle of the farmers market itself -- that process of plant to product to relationship that Steve Otrembiak evoked so poetically.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Personal sustainability
My colleague Sue Jefts and I met today to shake off the cobwebs on our Poetics of Sustainability project, and to begin finding ways to make our dream of offering a workshop on personal sustainability to faculty, professional and support staff, and students at our college into a reality.
Our hopes for the workshop soar each time we bring it up. However, the reality of the times sometimes has a tendency to crush back those flying hopes. It is a tough time economically for our college and for the nation in general, not to mention the global world that increasingly interconnects us more and more. It is an era where fiscal discipline for taxpayer funded institutions such as our college tends to translate into fewer enjoyments and more and more work. Job security feels less and less certain, and the very existence of higher education as we currently know it even seems to be under the microscope. Will our colleges, our employers be able to sustain themselves through this time period -- a period that seems less like an economic cycle and more of a full-scale restructuring?
Perhaps they will not. So, it seems in this time of duress, that learning how to sustain one's sense of self and one's spirit become all the more important.
I remember ending 2012 with an emotional crash. I was soaring high with the multitude of projects that my college had offered me, and I was working in over drive. Work in over drive was cutting into a lot of things that I cherished: time to write, time to sleep late and spend time with my husband, time to exercise and dream about completing challenging events like an Ironman. I was drinking a lot, and even though I eat relatively healthy foods, I was indulging in junk food binges more than I like to care to admit. In short, I was cutting corners into my down time in order to work and accomplish more.
The crash came at an opportune time: two weeks before Christmas, a much-heralded period of time that many spend with families and loved ones. My husband and I spent it in the best way possible. We relaxed at home, sitting for hours before our fire and sometimes even sleeping by the fire. We read books, pet our cats, and went for walks. I stopped checking my e-mail and began circulating word that I had been hit with something that seemed like it might turn into the flu. That was partially true because I did have a bad cold and was sneezing a lot -- symptoms that medical doctors encourage their overworked patients to use as excuses to slow down. But bottom line, I emerged from the down time with a new insight. I realized that the work pace I was putting myself through was not unusual for a person in an assistant professor position who is hoping to do what she needs to do to gain tenure and the job security that this designation has traditionally promised. I also realized that if I did not receive tenure, I would survive. But if I didn't take care of myself, I might not survive.
And so these days I take care of myself.
Sometimes, taking care of myself feels overwhelming. It shifts priorities and shortens the time available to satisfy work commitments. There's the conventional rule that eight hours of the twenty-hour work day must be devoted to sleep. There's the marathon and triathlon training modality that mandates one to two hours be dedicated to working out, five or six days a week. There's the writing regime that calls for more and more time for the page and less and less time for the world. And, for me, there's the call to service. If asked to do something that I feel will genuinely better society, I usually say yes.
All of this self-care creates an interesting dilemma. Even as I work very hard, sometimes I do not feel as if I am working at all. With that comes conflicting emotions that sometimes translate as defensiveness and sometimes as guilt. I am leaving the office at 4 p.m. because there's a cycling class at the YMCA at 6 p.m., and I want to get in a run before that. I am staying home until 11 a.m. because I have a lot of reading for my classes to do and it's easier for me to read at home (yes, in front of that cozy warm fire) than it is to read in my office, sitting straight up in a chair that even with all of its wondrous ergonomic properties remains too large for my feet to easily touch the floor. I am following a self-defined logic, but how do I explain it to others? How can I be a hard worker if I waltz into the office in late morning or early afternoon? If I waltz out after a few hours because a workout is calling.
This rubric of self-defined logic seems to lie at the root of what it means to create a sustainable life. It is individualized, and not something that can be scaled to accommodate large masses of people or replicated for others to emulate. Yet, I feel, it is extremely important. And, as Sue and I share our visions for such views of sustainability with others, it strikes a chord. People are looking for it, even if they are unsure what the "it" they are seeking actually is.
Our hopes for the workshop soar each time we bring it up. However, the reality of the times sometimes has a tendency to crush back those flying hopes. It is a tough time economically for our college and for the nation in general, not to mention the global world that increasingly interconnects us more and more. It is an era where fiscal discipline for taxpayer funded institutions such as our college tends to translate into fewer enjoyments and more and more work. Job security feels less and less certain, and the very existence of higher education as we currently know it even seems to be under the microscope. Will our colleges, our employers be able to sustain themselves through this time period -- a period that seems less like an economic cycle and more of a full-scale restructuring?
Perhaps they will not. So, it seems in this time of duress, that learning how to sustain one's sense of self and one's spirit become all the more important.
I remember ending 2012 with an emotional crash. I was soaring high with the multitude of projects that my college had offered me, and I was working in over drive. Work in over drive was cutting into a lot of things that I cherished: time to write, time to sleep late and spend time with my husband, time to exercise and dream about completing challenging events like an Ironman. I was drinking a lot, and even though I eat relatively healthy foods, I was indulging in junk food binges more than I like to care to admit. In short, I was cutting corners into my down time in order to work and accomplish more.
The crash came at an opportune time: two weeks before Christmas, a much-heralded period of time that many spend with families and loved ones. My husband and I spent it in the best way possible. We relaxed at home, sitting for hours before our fire and sometimes even sleeping by the fire. We read books, pet our cats, and went for walks. I stopped checking my e-mail and began circulating word that I had been hit with something that seemed like it might turn into the flu. That was partially true because I did have a bad cold and was sneezing a lot -- symptoms that medical doctors encourage their overworked patients to use as excuses to slow down. But bottom line, I emerged from the down time with a new insight. I realized that the work pace I was putting myself through was not unusual for a person in an assistant professor position who is hoping to do what she needs to do to gain tenure and the job security that this designation has traditionally promised. I also realized that if I did not receive tenure, I would survive. But if I didn't take care of myself, I might not survive.
And so these days I take care of myself.
Sometimes, taking care of myself feels overwhelming. It shifts priorities and shortens the time available to satisfy work commitments. There's the conventional rule that eight hours of the twenty-hour work day must be devoted to sleep. There's the marathon and triathlon training modality that mandates one to two hours be dedicated to working out, five or six days a week. There's the writing regime that calls for more and more time for the page and less and less time for the world. And, for me, there's the call to service. If asked to do something that I feel will genuinely better society, I usually say yes.
All of this self-care creates an interesting dilemma. Even as I work very hard, sometimes I do not feel as if I am working at all. With that comes conflicting emotions that sometimes translate as defensiveness and sometimes as guilt. I am leaving the office at 4 p.m. because there's a cycling class at the YMCA at 6 p.m., and I want to get in a run before that. I am staying home until 11 a.m. because I have a lot of reading for my classes to do and it's easier for me to read at home (yes, in front of that cozy warm fire) than it is to read in my office, sitting straight up in a chair that even with all of its wondrous ergonomic properties remains too large for my feet to easily touch the floor. I am following a self-defined logic, but how do I explain it to others? How can I be a hard worker if I waltz into the office in late morning or early afternoon? If I waltz out after a few hours because a workout is calling.
This rubric of self-defined logic seems to lie at the root of what it means to create a sustainable life. It is individualized, and not something that can be scaled to accommodate large masses of people or replicated for others to emulate. Yet, I feel, it is extremely important. And, as Sue and I share our visions for such views of sustainability with others, it strikes a chord. People are looking for it, even if they are unsure what the "it" they are seeking actually is.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Holistic management
A workshop on "Starting from Square One: Creating a Farm to Match Your Goals, Skills, Values, and Resources" today opened a whole new understanding of sustainability for me. The workshop was part of the annual Northeast Organic Farmers Association of New York's annual conference taking place in Saratoga Springs this weekend. Because of my participation in the NOFA-NY's "Locavore" challenge in September, I ended up on the organization's mailing, and learned in November that one could apply for scholarships to attend the conference. I applied, and was thrilled to be awarded one of the scholarships. Determined to make the most of the opportunity, I pulled myself out of bed before 6 a.m. and made it to the conference by 8, with plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast and browse through the exhibition hall books before things began.
What impressed me about this particular workshop was its emphasis on integrating personal values, lifestyle choices, and other professional work into the farming life.
"Farming is not for the faint of heart," stated presenter Erica Frenay, who owns the Shelterbelt Farm with her husband and works with a Small Farms Program operated by the Cornell Extension Office.
Because of the challenges of farming, she noted, "It's important to know that nobody farms alone."
About seventy people attended the workshop, which seemed like an unsustainably large number for a "workshop". Frenay and her co-presenter Kylie Spooner, however, made the three-hour session work with grace and skill. What worked especially well was their blend of personal stories with their emphasis to us on not getting fixated on their stories but rather to focus on the processes they were going through. They also put us to work on a series of individual writing exercises, a strategy that always works well for me. And they encouraged our stories, which turned out to encompass processes that all of us were able to learn from. (Well, I suppose I can't speak for everyone, but I learned a lot.)
Frenay and Spooner built the workshop on the principles of a concept known as "holistic management", which they defined for the uninitiated as "turning sunshine into money." I was unfamiliar with the term, but as the workshop progressed, I realized that the principles mirrored several other practices I've used throughout my life to set intentions and reflect on what's important in my life. They broke it down to three categories: Assessing your resources and skills; envisioning a holistic goal; and then setting some SMART goals for your farm that might be achievable within a one to five year time-frame. SMART refers to goals that are specific, measurable, achievable, results-defined, and tied to a particular timeline. The product, as I understood it, was not a fixed, concrete path to success but more one of establishing a potential destination that might require multiple -- and sometimes diverging -- paths to get there. As Spooner put it, "Think of it [the destination] as the North Star. The North Star doesn't care how you get there."
Holistic management parallels a "goal search" exercise that is part of Julia Cameron's best-selling book The Artist's Way. I have used the goal search for more than a decade to establish an annual goal and action plan for myself, and I have asked hundreds of students whom I teach to complete their own goal searches in some form or fashion. One of the struggles in doing the goal search centers on delineating the difference between "a dream" and what Cameron calls "your true North." She explains that many of us might have the same dream -- for instance, to be a famous writer. What fames means will vary with each person. Defining it for yourself gets at the "true North." I felt that Spooner took the true North concept even a step further when she observed that it doesn't matter how you reach -- or travel toward -- your ultimate goal.
With the work of holistic management came a lot of snippets of hands-on common sense. The farming activities that my husband and I engage in began fairly modestly, with a small backyard garden in Seattle that I described in a talk recently as being the size of a walk-in closet. From that point in about 2007, we began increasing our emotional, physical, and financial investments in this activity that we first called gardening and now are calling farming year-by-year. Last year, the year 2013, marked a watershed year in that we raised enough vegetables to feed ourselves for an entire year. That watershed moment made us realize that we ourselves were no longer just in it as a hobby. It was a commitment to living in a particular way, a commitment to sustaining ourselves, our creative and professional lives, our politics, our health, our communities.
This might be the pre-conditioning for the holistic management process to begin. But turning to common sense, there were a lot of things we had not done that Frenay suggested beginning farmers should do to understand themselves as farmers: register their farm as a business, open a bank account that is independent of the personal account just for the farm, and start researching the federal laws pertaining to what counts as income generated on a farm. I think that a year ago such details would have felt mind-numbing. Today, they felt clear and logical. They seemed to open a new path toward sustainable growth.
What impressed me about this particular workshop was its emphasis on integrating personal values, lifestyle choices, and other professional work into the farming life.
"Farming is not for the faint of heart," stated presenter Erica Frenay, who owns the Shelterbelt Farm with her husband and works with a Small Farms Program operated by the Cornell Extension Office.
Because of the challenges of farming, she noted, "It's important to know that nobody farms alone."
About seventy people attended the workshop, which seemed like an unsustainably large number for a "workshop". Frenay and her co-presenter Kylie Spooner, however, made the three-hour session work with grace and skill. What worked especially well was their blend of personal stories with their emphasis to us on not getting fixated on their stories but rather to focus on the processes they were going through. They also put us to work on a series of individual writing exercises, a strategy that always works well for me. And they encouraged our stories, which turned out to encompass processes that all of us were able to learn from. (Well, I suppose I can't speak for everyone, but I learned a lot.)
Frenay and Spooner built the workshop on the principles of a concept known as "holistic management", which they defined for the uninitiated as "turning sunshine into money." I was unfamiliar with the term, but as the workshop progressed, I realized that the principles mirrored several other practices I've used throughout my life to set intentions and reflect on what's important in my life. They broke it down to three categories: Assessing your resources and skills; envisioning a holistic goal; and then setting some SMART goals for your farm that might be achievable within a one to five year time-frame. SMART refers to goals that are specific, measurable, achievable, results-defined, and tied to a particular timeline. The product, as I understood it, was not a fixed, concrete path to success but more one of establishing a potential destination that might require multiple -- and sometimes diverging -- paths to get there. As Spooner put it, "Think of it [the destination] as the North Star. The North Star doesn't care how you get there."
Holistic management parallels a "goal search" exercise that is part of Julia Cameron's best-selling book The Artist's Way. I have used the goal search for more than a decade to establish an annual goal and action plan for myself, and I have asked hundreds of students whom I teach to complete their own goal searches in some form or fashion. One of the struggles in doing the goal search centers on delineating the difference between "a dream" and what Cameron calls "your true North." She explains that many of us might have the same dream -- for instance, to be a famous writer. What fames means will vary with each person. Defining it for yourself gets at the "true North." I felt that Spooner took the true North concept even a step further when she observed that it doesn't matter how you reach -- or travel toward -- your ultimate goal.
With the work of holistic management came a lot of snippets of hands-on common sense. The farming activities that my husband and I engage in began fairly modestly, with a small backyard garden in Seattle that I described in a talk recently as being the size of a walk-in closet. From that point in about 2007, we began increasing our emotional, physical, and financial investments in this activity that we first called gardening and now are calling farming year-by-year. Last year, the year 2013, marked a watershed year in that we raised enough vegetables to feed ourselves for an entire year. That watershed moment made us realize that we ourselves were no longer just in it as a hobby. It was a commitment to living in a particular way, a commitment to sustaining ourselves, our creative and professional lives, our politics, our health, our communities.
This might be the pre-conditioning for the holistic management process to begin. But turning to common sense, there were a lot of things we had not done that Frenay suggested beginning farmers should do to understand themselves as farmers: register their farm as a business, open a bank account that is independent of the personal account just for the farm, and start researching the federal laws pertaining to what counts as income generated on a farm. I think that a year ago such details would have felt mind-numbing. Today, they felt clear and logical. They seemed to open a new path toward sustainable growth.
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