I went to work last night, not happy to be ripped from a nice little Saturday of brunch and lazy time lounging with the lady watching the Kentucky Derby, leaving for the yard just in time to miss an impending Giants game underneath a big cozy blanket.
Instead, I went to work and things got weird before they got frustrating. Inside of my first hour in the taxi, I was looking for an excuse – any excuse – to find human beings to be good and decent people. Instead I found drunken derby “fans,” cinco de drinko assholes, the banter so inane I started to feel as though I was slowly being drained of the little intelligence I possess. Maybe taking Friday off had left me unprepared to deal with the madness of Saturday night, or maybe the city was just strange last night; either way, I just stopped talking to people for a couple of hours, playing music in an attempt to try and right my mood.
It didn’t work.
Instead of distracting myself with stupid conversations about the weather we were having or the day’s news or what my passengers were up to, I remained silent. The longer I remained silent, the longer I retreated into my brain, turning over recent life events until I was stuck in an endless loop of dissecting minutia that either didn’t require or wouldn’t be helped by further pondering.
And then my phone rang, and someone needed to talk to me about a problem they were having. And suddenly things weren’t so bad. I started talking to my passengers again, enough to smile a couple of times. Two friends called for rides in a row and my shitty mood lifted for a few hours, enough to ride out the rest of my shift before I came home and passed out just as the sun broke over the horizon.
Four hours and change later, my alarm went off. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered to set it for at least eight hours from when I went to bed but I had agreed to volunteer one last time at a place I have spent a lot of time at.
Three years ago, I wandered onto an old freeway offramp that was being terraformed into an urban farm and shoveled some dirt in an attempt to do something for someone else. What I found was an oasis in the middle of a densely packed city, a place where I could help others and in turn, help myself. I grew up in a big garden between my parents tomato plants and a compost heap and felt instantly at home on this urban farm, spreading mulch and helping build a greenhouse and cooking in the cob oven we made from earth stomped by our own naked feet. I was there at least once a week for most of the first year it was open, providing an extra set of hands for whatever work was going on. The physical labor, the teamwork and the smell of the flowers that started sprouting as a result of hundreds of people’s sweat and blood took me out of my head and kept me present while I was within the confines of the gates.
That feeling started leaving the farm with me, staying with me longer and longer until I started to feel rooted in the present on a ever-increasing basis. I started coming for the kids programs, tending the fire in the oven so the children could make pizza that we would help them cook in the heat of an open flame.
Eventually, I started pulling more shifts at work and I spent less and less time at the farm but the lessons and the friendships continued, and I’ve been finding ways to show up and be helpful to others in the absence of farm work.
A while back, the farm’s closing date was announced, a victim of the interim use permit the city issued the farm and the access of development money to the owners of the property rights. I got a call from a friend telling me about one last public event, and I knew I had to go be a part of that last day.
Fast forward to my alarm going off at eleven o’clock. Every impulse told me to shut it off and go back to bed, but somehow my feet hit the floor and I put one in front of the other until I found myself riding my motorcycle through the front gates, more than a little red-eyed and delirious. I got a few hugs and found my way to the oven, where I made myself useful making tortillas from scratch for the taco bar the farmers had set up to feed people. Something about the dough between my fingers snapped me into focus for a few hours and I shook out the cobwebs while learning how to form tortillas. We made dozens of little dough balls, flattening them before tossing them in a pan and cooking them in the oven, to the delight of the crowd.
Eventually we ran out of dough, and I found myself wandering the beds alone, reminiscing of all the days spent toiling in the dirt, rain or shine. I remembered helping dig trenches for irrigation, scraping honey from the bees’ hives, turning compost, planting seedlings, sheet mulching, chopping ivy, and chain sawing trees. I remembered doing yoga, taking naps in the hammock, showing kindergarteners how to start a fire and lots of laughter and smiles. I stood for a while at the top of one of the offramps, the dirt underneath my feet, watching the afternoon traffic slowly pass by.
I don’t want to let it go.
I don’t want all of the plants to be unlovingly bulldozed into a pile so that condos for rich people can be built on the grounds where I and so many others have such fond memories. A community was strengthened here, and what’s taking its place serves a handful of monied interests.
But it doesn’t matter what I think, because it’s happening regardless of how I feel about it.
I stood on the top of the ramp, looking back at the dozens of smiling people mingling as cake was served, the toddlers playing in the rows of greens.
So I took a deep breath and let it all go.
All things change. All things are exactly as they should be.
I couldn’t help but smile as that thought came to me.
I learned it at the farm.
