I spend a lot of time in nature. Driven by the requirements of the farm, and the unrelenting demands of the harvest season. My days start early in the field and they end early too. Bed calls me to its cocoon just as the light fades and night falls.
Each season has its rhythm, and this is the rhythm of summer. A steady drumbeat that keeps time with the day, from morning till night; a metronome that ticks the day away with endless tasks both mundane and not. The Spring is soft and melodic, the Fall a sad melody, and the Winter is silent.
This past week, the rhythm of summer reached a crescendo here in Upstate New York, as cascading sheets of rain fell for two straight days throughout our area. Falling on dry soils, the rain ran down hills and swelled creeks, leaving a muddy, murky mess that spoiled the idyll of summer and broke its gentle rhythm. I spent the morning in the rain, harvesting French breakfast radishes for a beloved chef, then delivering orders, crossing roads flooded with water and debris. It was truly apocalyptic.
The rain was our reality check. A reminder that we are not in control, and that Mother Nature is, indeed, not happy with us.
Luckily, in our case, the rain receded and while there will be a recovery period, I am relieved to say that we did not lose any crops. This is, as they say, farming life, in which we realize our lack of control in the face of nature, and our inability to control her wrath.
That evening, the sun broke through, giving us a few hours to harvest flowers to take to the city the next day. The creek was still running high and brown, but the flowers were standing tall, blooming after the generous rain, as if to show off their resilience in the face of such an event. The storm had moved on without apology and without lingering.
I’ve come to understand that this is the rhythm of farming Upstate. The rhythm is steady, but you always need to listen for the breaks in it, the skipped beats, the sudden crescendos, and you build your days around the fact that they’ll come. You can’t count on the rhythm. But you have to be willing to keep time with it. The drumbeat of summer isn’t consistent. And it can take you by surprise when you least expect it.
As I write this, the rhythm has found itself again. The plants are recovering. We harvested yesterday and picked this morning. A few farmers I know weren’t as lucky. Their fields are underwater and there was nothing they could do about it. It’s not fair. It’s just where the storm happened to hit.
What strikes me most, is how quickly everyone gets back to work. Nobody has the luxury of sitting with the loss for long. There’s grieving for sure, and then there’s work to do. A harvest to bring in, orders to fill, a whole lot of mud to clean up. There’s no time to catch your breath. You find your footing or you fall behind.
The resilience isn’t really in the plants, though it looks that way when you see flowers standing tall after two days of rain. The resilience is in the farmer and in the routine and in the sense of purpose that is the essence of farming. You wake up early. You grab your tools, and you walk the rows, even when you’re not sure what you’ll find.
Maybe that’s the real rhythm of summer, underneath the drumbeat and the crescendos. Not the weather, not the harvest, not even the demands of the crops. It’s the daily return. Every storm gets followed by a morning walk in the field, because that’s simply what has to be done. We show up for the farm, day after day, perhaps season after season, because showing up is actually the only rhythm that matters.
