A reflection on fear I wrote in the aftermath of Hurricane Florence this past fall.
Hurricane Florence is working its way through the Carolinas right now. Although the winds have not been as bad as they could have been, the rainfall and storm surge are causing devastating flooding. Earlier this week, meteorologists predicted all that rain would hit central Virginia. On Monday I was preparing for 2 feet of rain. I dug extra drainage ditches, built more shelters for the critters, cleared debris from our small creek, drained the cisterns to make room for the rain, and stocked up on supplies. It wouldn’t have been enough, but it was all I could do. Fortunately for me, but not the Carolinas, the storm shifted south. Instead we only got a few inches of rain. But as the storms’ south westerly track became clear and my need to busily prepare eased, I realized how much fear I was carrying.
And not just about the storm, though the storm gave form to my fears. The stresses of farming are constant. This year I’m worried about too much rain, but last year it was drought. I worry about when and how much to plant. Will this variety work in my conditions? Is there enough fertility in my soil? Will the flea beetles decimate the arugula crop again? Should I just give up on squash and surrender to the squash bugs? Will my tomatoes get blight again? Will I have anything to sell at market? Will anyone buy from me? How will I pay for all the expenses that add up and up in the early spring? Will I ever be able to pay myself?
And then there’s the livestock. Are they well? How can I afford all their feed? Am I feeding them the right thing? Am I moving them enough so they don’t destroy our woods? Will they escape? How do I keep them safe in the storm? I feel so much responsibility for their well-being.
The financial pressures are real. It takes so much money to run a farm and the margins are tiny. We are close to breaking even. Will we ever earn an income? Will Bones be able to retire? Can I really call myself a farmer or is this just a really expensive hobby?
And the time away from the family. I’m always working. Will the kids resent the farm and all it requires of me?
Meanwhile my body suffers. I feel more achy every day and stupid mistakes threaten me with injury. What if I got more seriously injured? Would this whole farming experiment be over?
Meanwhile the world seems in chaos between hurricanes and wild fires, wars and conflict, increasingly visible racism, homophobia and xenophobia, the collapse of our political discourse, and the ever worsening climate crisis.
The fear and anxiety are a river raging just below my surface. Lately the river seems ready to breach its banks. The fear sits heavy in my chest, sometimes making it difficult to breathe. Some days I feel paralyzed. And yet, the goats remind me vociferously every morning that they need to be fed. And so I go about my work feeding, weeding, planting, mucking, harvesting. I carry the fear with me, but I can’t let it stop me. I can’t over state how vital the relentlessness of farming work is to my soul. If I didn’t have to haul water to the pigs today, I might become trapped in the fear. But I do. So I pull on my boots, drag the hose to the buckets, and bring the pigs their water. Whether it is raining or snowing, blazing sun or dim with clouds, whether I want to or not, I go. And I’ll wake up tomorrow and do it again.
It is a discipline for sure, and a prayer of a sort, in that all our work can be a prayer to God. My work is a prayer that I will eat well and feed my children well, a prayer for this land that I steward, a prayer for my community I feed with the vegetables and meat I produce, a prayer for the well-being of my animals, and prayer that I will faithfully fulfill God’s command to keep and till the earth. And in that prayer, God lifts my fear, ever so slightly. I do not succumb to the fear, my prayer, my work move me forward with God.