Free and Easy

Picking yellowfoot chanterelles

Crazy how short the days are getting now, and how quickly. Not so long ago, I was up and out by 5 most mornings; nowadays at that hour, I’m generally still deep into some unflattering dream where my children are bowing at my feet in supplication and my wife is asking whether I’d like my fresh-fried doughnuts sprinkled with maple sugar or perhaps with a dollop of butter on top? (the answer, of course, is both).

I always struggle a bit at this time of year, which generally marks the transition between the majority of my waking hours spent out-of-doors, engaging with the land and animals, and the majority of my waking hours spent indoors, engaging with the keyboard. I’ve done a fair job over the past years of compressing the bulk of my paying work into the colder, darker months, and this is swell, but the downside is the inevitable shift in focus of body and mind, and the fact that it’s not yet cold and dark enough to make this transition terribly welcome.

I have pretty much gotten over the idea that I’ll someday earn the bulk of our living off our land (although if I earn the bulk of my living off writing about living off our land – as increasingly seems to be the case – is that not the same? If our on-going dance with our land provides the fruits by which our need to earn a money-living is significantly dented – as increasingly seems to be the case – is that not the same? Hmmm…); this was once a small fantasy that crowded my heels like an annoying child, but I have come to understand that it is not my path. There are many reasons for this. That I’m too lazy and not clever enough should be obvious by now. But there’s also the simple truth that I (and by “I,” I mean “we”) find it increasingly difficult to consider commoditizing the gifts of this small piece of ground.

That is not to say we never sell what we produce; we have a handful of loyal and generous customers, and we are only too happy to take their money. It is even necessary that we do so, because of course while we might consider the fruits of our labors – and even the labor itself – a gift, most of the rest of the world does not operate this way. Or I should say, most of the rest of the human world does not operate this way. Because of course nature might just be the most givingest sonofagun around; she’ll give and give and give ’til she ain’t got nothing left. Or maybe it’s just that we’ll take and take ‘til she ain’t got nothing left.

I fully understand why folks want to make money working the land, and respect their decision to do so. I also understand that it’s my great fortune to be able to make money writing about how I don’t make money working the land (I mean, really: How freakin’ convoluted is that?). But I also know that the moment I started looking at our land as a financial profit center, my view would change. This is what I meant the other day when I talked about money being a claim on natural resources, because as soon as money enters the picture, those resources begin to look like something other than trees and soil and creatures. They begin to look like dollar signs, and as such, our relationship to them inevitably shifts. Generally speaking, that shift does not tend to support the long-term health of those resources, or of ourselves.

Charles Eisenstein talks a lot about the fact that our very lives are a gift, and that we didn’t have to earn anything to simply be born. Indeed, everything we truly need to survive and even thrive is fundamentally a gift because of course until all these things were commoditized they were available to all, regardless of ability to pay. Money and capitalism have slowly eroded the abundance of these gifts, until in many parts of the world even the air we breathe and the water we drink have become unfit to sustain good health.

I know this is not the way the world works today. We buy and we sell, we earn and we save, we seek profit and avoid loss. We see a forest and we think of all the lumber it can provide, and all the money that lumber will bring. We hear “amazon,” and we think “on-line retailer,” not river. We hear “apple” and we think “iPhone” rather than fruit. I write a story, and I think “hmm, maybe I can get someone to pay me for this.”

So yes, it’s true that the gift seems to be disappearing from the modern economy, that much is clear. And I have to wonder if one of the reasons we’ve become so resistant to selling more of what we produce on this little patch of ground is that it reminds us of our origins, of the fundamental truth that our very being was and remains a gift. It reminds us, however fitfully and inadequately, that holding onto this view – again, however fitfully and inadequately – feels a hell of a lot better than letting it go.