The Light and Dark side of Running a Purpose-Driven Business

People are curious about my journey of starting a flower farm. I followed a dream which has been daring, difficult and incredibly satisfying. In this blog, I hope to share a bit about what I have learned along the way.

I have been on a long road with plants, beginning as a child in the backyard wilds of the Vermont forest. The earth knew my name and was always calling to me. I found jobs where I could be outside in the dirt and the elements. Meeting the desert plant family changed me forever. I was captivated by their spiny adaptations, how they could survive on cliffs in the sun, without leaves, and offer beauty, utility and medicine to the people. As I learned more about the natural world I wished to be in service to the protection of wild places. I studied, sketched and pressed plants as a botanist and spoke to them in their Latin names. I was taught that some plants are considered bad guys and was recruited by the government to kill the invasive trouble makers that were taking over native habitat. I gladly led armies of volunteers to beautiful, remote places to eradicate these weeds. There were millions of acres to protect and restore, but after awhile I felt like my efforts were a drop of rain on a thirsty landscape.

All this time I had always been a gardener, wherever I lived for however short a time. I planted seeds and grew food and created little pockets of native habitat in backyards. When I reached midlife and realized I had less time ahead of me than what was behind. I started to get serious about how I spent my time, and wanted to organize my life around what I love. I made some big changes—left my marriage, and quit my job and started apprenticing, interning and volunteering on farms.

After thinking about it a lot one day I woke up with a new dream to be a farmer. There is a freedom to design your life at the intersection between your passion, your skills and what the world needs most. I would be able to be around plants all the time and be growing them—not killing or studying them. I would wake up on the farm and not have to go into the “field” as botanists refer to the place where they go to see plants. This winding, dirt road (more like a path with a few rock karins) is ultimately how I got here, to Wild Heart Farm. When I walked through the gate of this one-acre riparian woodland in the floodplain of Beaver Creek, I knew this was the place.

The farm in 2022 when things were just getting going - the land has good bones. Photo by Amy S. Martin

Every vocation has its ups and downs. The glamorous side the public sees and the sloppy, sometimes sad backstage shenanigans once the show is over. I wanted to grow flowers because they make people happy. Watching a flower grow from a seed into a gorgeous blossom that attracts butterflies and bees makes me extremely happy. Even better is to follow that flower all the way back to the beginning when it becomes a seed again. This is the closest I have ever been to witnessing real magic. And plants do it without even thinking about it. Against all odds. Again and again.

Our immediate farmily—my partner Mike and sister Kelly and our two darling dogs. Photo by Amy S. Martin

Then there is the economic sustainability of not just starting, but keeping a business thriving. How do you make a dream pencil out financially so you can pay the bills? I wanted a place where I could apply everything I learned so far about conservation, restoring ecosystems and reading the land. Then I became a farmer and wanted to grow every pretty little tasty thing I saw in catalogs. I wanted to be successful and this meant making a profit. The balance between listening to the land and production farming is a seesaw. The culture on social media feeds the machine of never being enough, there is always something new to grow, or another farm prettier than yours. I never though flowers could be anything other than a flower, but the industry refers to them as “products.” Finding time for myself and the land to rest has been difficult. At the end of every season I am more exhausted with the cumulative stress and all out stamina required to not only grow flowers but design and deliver them for very important life events.

Out foraging and exploring my backyard native plant communities is one of my favorite activities.

When I created my Wild Heart Farm haven I was really tired of patriarchy. I was sick of listening to men explain things to me. I wanted to create a place where women rule—they are the decision makers and culture keepers. I wanted to escape capitalism by starting a purpose-driven business that ran on reciprocity and yet I could barely pay myself (let alone others) minimum wage. Everywhere I turned for advice I was asked for a business plan and a greater profit margin, which means growing more, doing more, selling more. I wanted to break colonial legacies, and yet here I am a new age colonist growing flowers on stolen land. These systems are hard to uproot in oneself. For me it is an ongoing conscious effort.

The shecosystem we are part of with other women-owned businesses (chefs, chocolatiers, winemakers, potters, herbalists, earth builders, you name it!) is ever growing, and incredibly resilient. I feel like I am part of a web of goodness. I can both support and be supported. In 2021 a dozen flower farmers from across Arizona gathered at the farm to connect and share challenges and opportunities. Today there are three times that many flower farmers in our state and we are joining forces as the Arizona Flower Collective to get our local stems to florists. Running my own farm I learn new things about myself, about plants, about math; I am constantly growing and evolving. The men involved in our farm are loving and gentle. No one drives a tractor and everyone gets a turn on the broadfork. We all feed each other and are fed.

Dani and Terri are dear friends and stunt double as floral designers for our events.

There is great satisfaction in creating something bigger than yourself. In making an offering to the world with a few words, placing a dot on Google, inviting people in. Nothing happens quickly—we aren’t all zinnias ready to bloom in 80 days. We won the neighborhood over one flower bouquet at a time in the midst of the COVID pandemic. We slowly grew a community of supporters through our CSA who unflinchingly invest in our farm by purchasing shares upfront when my credit card is maxed out early in the season when there are no flowers to sell. They pump me up every month when I deliver their flowers. These are relationships that are growing and deepening. The children born into our community know this heavenly land of wonder and magic. People need flowers throughout their lives and we are here to bear witness and offer beauty and meaning.

The farm grows all of this, and hopefully as I find inspired moments there will also be more teaching, stories, songs and poems. Thank you for reading this. Feel free to share thoughts in the comments.

What We are Thankful For

Taking time to reflect on what the farmily at Wild Heart Farm is grateful for, our collective feelings range from the microbes and worms deep within the soil to the towering trees overhead. We appreciate the underground army of goodness and the microbial activity that supports the plants to flourish. 

Some squirrels are emboldened to come down from their canopy and share water with the dogs and doves.

The confetti of golden leaves flutter to the ground while acrobatic squirrels dance within the canopies readying themselves for winter. Watching this dance, we reflect on the entire year– when the trees first got their buds and then sheltered us from the sun during summer. Now, they put on a little show before they are appreciated as mulch in the coming year. Like the squirrels, we are also finding treasures we have gathered and tucked away, such as dried flowers and embellishments like yucca pods and acorns. As the days grow shorter and colder, we decorate wreaths and succulent pumpkins. The flowers can still be admired and display a new form of beauty and deepen our gratitude. In other words, we appreciate everything that nature has to offer in all of the stages of life. 

We have much gratitude for leaves all year round, but especially during fall when they change color and blanket the farm. Like squirrels, we gather them into piles and save for mulch.

Looking back, the butterflies were amazing this year. Finding them throughout their different stages and learning their favorite plants has been a magical experience over the season. We do not take them for granted and wonder if today will be the last butterfly we get to admire until the spring. While the chorus of the crickets grow faint, listening to their song is a lullaby that transitions the day to night. 

Another gratitude we want to share are the peacocks. A pair have chosen us and we are slowly welcoming them as part time residents on the farm.  Watching them has brought a lot of joy to the farm and their presence has made an impact. Finding their feathers left behind is a treasure. Especially when the multitude of colors glimmer in the eastern sun that warms us for another day at the farm. 

We have part time resident peacocks. Peacock feathers find their ways into pumpkin succulent crafts and winter wreaths.

We are most grateful for the community that is growing around our farm and flowers. The women who work at Wild Heart Heart Farm, our WOOFers who volunteer, our collaborators, our CSA members, and the growing community of people like you who support us in our mission to grow more beauty and nourishment.

Microbial Magic: A no-till approach to regenerating soil life

At Wild Heart Farm, we practice no-till methods to improve soil health. Limiting soil disturbance by reducing or eliminating tilling can help maintain soil moisture, build organic matter and minimize weeds to name a few benefits. The no-till technique works well for gardens and small-scale farming.  In this blog, we will share ways Wild Heart Farm supports soil health without using heavy equipment. We have tried many methods and observed the results over the years. We hope this gives you a better understanding of the no-till technique and sparks some interest if you want to try this in your own garden. 

How to begin

Let’s start at the end (which is also the beginning!) when your plants are done producing and you want to prepare the ground for something new. The first step in no-till is to cut the plants at the soil level and leave the roots in the soil to decompose.

Make sure the soil has some moisture since this will support microbial activity. These microbes need water and food to work their magic–breaking down roots, moving nutrients and stimulating plant growth. The root matter you leave will become food for the microbial community – this is the life of the soil. As a result, there will be an enrichment of increased microorganisms! Alternatively, tilling or removing the roots can damage soil microbes’ habitat and make it more difficult for them to access food and repopulate. 

This video of sister Kelly demonstrates the cutting first with a weedwacker, then a lawnmower.

To further assist the breakdown of the original crop, we place a black plastic tarp (recycled billboards are the best) anything that eliminates light and retains moisture. This helps prevent weeds from accessing sunlight for new growth. With a tarp in place, the shade helps the plants decompose and microbes populate, which builds the soil food web.

Elaine Ingham is the soil food web guru and we love how she illustrates the underground interconnectedness.

The organic matter will break down in the soil and the microbes will feed on the roots. In return, this process will give the microbes more food to rebuild their population and bring nutrients to the plants. A book that does an excellent job of portraying this process is called Teaming with Microbes by Jeff Lowenfels and Wayne Lewis. They wrote an entire library of great soil books!

After a few weeks under the black tarp, the previous crop should be broken down. Look under it and be amazed at all the abundant life, especially compared to ground with bare, dry soil. Depending on the size and vigor of the plants they will be either non-existent or partially broken down. 

Introducing the Broadfork

Take the tarp off once it has reached this stage and use a broadfork or a garden fork to aerate the soil for new roots and give microbes oxygen. Using the broadfork is an alternative to tilling at this stage. It opens up the soil without disrupting the microbial community and allow amendments to be mixed without bringing weed seeds to the surface to germinate. Like an undisturbed forest the no-till approach hosts moisture, promotes life and will reduce pulling unnecessary weeds in the future. What’s not to love? P.S. Broadforking is way better than going to the gym, and the long run saves time. You are building a whole city underground that will be working tirelessly to do what they do.

Working the soil with a broad fork is a workout and is best done on low amounts of caffeine to reduce injury.

Making holes in the topsoil with these tools will also help mix amendments into the soil. Amendments will differ depending on the size of your bed and the results from your soil test. Submitting a soil sample to a soil lab will allow you to learn more about what amendments would be best suited to balance soil health. We use A & L Western Laboratories and your local cooperative extension will have recommendations of other sources.

After the soil has been broadforked and amendments added, rake the soil smooth to help mix everything. Compost is one of the best amendments to add organic matter to the soil. It is important at all stages of this process to work the soil and keep the soil at the right moisture level—not too wet or too dry. Try squeezing the soil in your hand. If it hold together with a few crumbs falling away it has good moisture. This will help the new seeds or plants germinate and establish with greater success. After planting the seeds, we cover them with burlap for a few days to keep the moisture in the soil, which helps germinate seeds more rapidly by keeping the soil from drying out. With transplants, we soak them first with kelp solution to reduce shock and cover the bed with row cover draped over wire hoops. This acts like a humidifier or a greenhouse to shelter plants from the sun, insects and keeps the soil from drying out.

Cover Crops

Another way to support microbe activity is by planting cover crops as a succession after your main harvest has been cut down. Cover crops can both add and hold onto nutrients in the soil, making them available to your future crops. In order for this process to be maximized, it is important to cut down the cover crops when about 30% of the plants are in flower. 

Cover crops are much more than just planting plants; they invite the alchemy of photosynthesis, transmuting the energy of the sun to help enliven the rhizosphere (the intricate web of life that lies beneath the ground). At Wild Heart we have our favorite cover crops and for multiple reasons and uses. Legumes such as hairy vetch, field peas and bell beans are great winter cops that help build nitrogen in the soil. Other legumes like red and crimson clover offer bright blooms, attracting bees while also adding nitrogen to the soil. Red clover flowers can also be harvested for a nutritive tea. Buckwheat grows tall, tender stems and produces beautiful white flowers for bees and adds airy interest to flower bouquets. Phaecilia is a beautiful purple flower (known as scorpion weed). It attracts bees and helps hold nitrogen and scavenge calcium in the soil. Grasses/grains such as wheat, rye, and oats help produce biomass both above and below ground. There are numerous cover crops to choose from based on what your soil needs and the time of year. Research which ones are best suited for the zone and season and reason.

You can terminate the cover crop with a weed wacker, a lawnmower or just a pair of hand pruners. It always makes us feel better cutting these plants down when we imagine of the feast the microbes will enjoy. Janine Benyus, a biomimicry expert talked recently in an interview with On Being’s Krista Tippet about the process of regenerating hardscrabble land in Montana - “Setting a banquet for the real helpers--helping the helpers, is, asking what would the microbes want now? Literally creating the conditions conducive to life and then life heals it.”

A bumble bee feeding on Phaecilia cover crop blossom, which in turn will feed the soil microbiome when it is cut down and the roots decompose. Photo by Loni Packar

Thinking like a forest

The no-till practice encourages a farmer to think like a forest. Mulching, incorporating cover crops, maintaining good soil moisture and the right amendments will enrich and balance your soil. We have seen the benefits of the no-till method by monitoring our soil reports and testing the microbiome with a microbiometer. These benefits include, increasing soil organic matter, increasing water hold capacity, reducing soil pH, less weeds and overall healthier plants. We also do not have the expense of heavy equipment like rototillers or tractors.  This spring, when our field was flooded in 1.5 feet deep water for 2 days, our soil and plants remained in place, and bounced back quickly. Repeated tilling pulverizes the soil structure and makes erosion a strong likelihood.

We hope you will experiment with some of these approaches to soil care in your garden and enjoy the addition of cover crops. We also like this step by step article by Little Green Yard that makes it easy to implement. Let us know how it goes–there are no hard and fast rules, just pay attention and get out of the way!

Written by Portia Griefenberg, Kate Watters with help from Loni Packard and endless inspiration from this place we grow.

Meet Antigone and Erin - Earth Artists

By Portia Griefenberg

Antigone Allena has studied natural building for several years. Her journey began after becoming sick from living in a toxic home, which led her to explore other options. She did not want to live in a structure with off-gassing carpet and glue-in laminates (to name a few toxic materials commonly used in buildings.) After becoming inspired by Ianto Evans, who began the cob building renaissance in the Pacific Northwest, Antigone learned that there is another way to live without chemicals. 

Community building with cob

Over the years, Antigone has studied with ten natural building practitioners to learn a variety of techniques. She practices an ancient communal way of building where people gather together to learn, share meals and create something useful and beautiful. She became inspired once she learned that one can use clay and soil directly from the land where they live. Depending on the area, individuals can also use cattails, straw, hemp, or other similar material. Over time, Antigone realized she can construct buildings that are simple, artistic, beautiful, and are completely non-toxic. Her passion is to learn as many techniques as she can, apply what resonates with her, and share that knowledge. 

Antigone’s joy for sharing her love for cob is contagious

Antigone likes teaching cob/natural building workshops because she loves watching people forge lifelong friendships through simple work. Even though online and book resources are available, in Antigone’s experience, cob building translates best in a hands-on setting. Each person brings a unique flavor to the process and the group builds a beautiful structure as well as an enduring community. 

Antigone believes that problem-solving in our environment to mitigate natural forces such as floods and fire is something we humans have always done. The gentle approach of natural building engages with the land to ask how it wants to flow by observing natural contours. Antigone witnesses that as groups come together, their inspiration and insight makes the project incredibly beautiful and sacred. We are not just building a wall, we are creating this piece of art that is part of the landscape and respects the Earth. 

Antigone’s business partner, Erin Shepard, is an amazing artist and her strength is an eye for balance, colors, and textures. Together they form a collaborative team to lead workshops.

Working with natural materials inspires the artist within

Sometimes attendees arrive with a belief that they are not “an artist,” or are or are not “handy.” Erin and Antigone work together in a workshop to elicit a natural sense of creativity and play. The joy people encounter when working together with natural earthen elements and building with their own hands taps into a collective, creative wellspring.

Follow Antigone and Erin on Instagram to get inspired by the magic they are making!

Transforming Specialty Cake Baking--One Flower at a Time

By Portia Griefenberg

Lexi Striker is the owner of Sugar Mamas Bakery in Flagstaff, Arizona and has been providing thoughtful and beautifully decorated cakes and pastries for the Flagstaff community for over ten years. This woman-owned establishment is known not only for delicious cakes and pies, but also for the intricate and creative designs that weave the beauty of flowers and baked goods together. The shapes and layers of the various flowers remind Lexi of the connectedness of nature. Lexi enjoys integrating flavors that go well with flowers to create more natural-looking and tasting cakes. This transition was sparked by her frustration regarding how most food currently looks contrived and unnatural. 

Lexi’s pressed flower and fruit cake-subtle and profound at once.

The mass-produced sheet cakes are too generic for Lexi’s preference. She wanted to stretch her imagination and add more of a personal touch to her creations to avoid burnout. Lexi’s pivot from traditional baking to focus on decorating with flowers brought a sense of joy and liberation to her life. She was inspired to make the switch by other bakers who decided not to accept classic requests like Happy Birthday or Harry Potter photos on cakes. This gave her creative freedom.

Lexi did not realize she could change the trajectory of her business and detach from the traditional confinements of baking. Since she began working with flowers sense of enjoyment and passion has been renewed. Embracing this newfound creative freedom.

Colorful designs with fresh flowers set Lexi’s cake apart from her competitors

Throughout her journey, Lexi overcame the lack of annual fresh flowers growing in Northern Arizona by pressing flowers. The art of pressing flowers became more intentional with each changing season as she learned what works fresh, dried, or preserved. Lexi’s relationship with Kate, owner of Wild Heart Farm, strengthened Lexi’s relationship with flowers and empowered her to start growing them herself.

Gradually, Lexi gained more confidence in her growing abilities and now explores new ways of appreciating plants. Instead of only focusing on the flower, Lexi plays by using the odd pieces of a plant and finding new ways to enjoy them. In addition, foraging and searching for various alternatives on how to bake sustainably brings Lexi joy and gives her a creative outlet. Through trial and error, Lexi has accumulated a wealth of knowledge with seed collecting. She continues to learn  how and when to collect the seeds, where they are placed on the different flowers, and how to use them harmoniously. Along with finding new ways to engage with flowers, Lexi also considers how to use locations that will support her growing efforts. She transformed her mother’s front and backyard into a garden to pursue her edible education and planters at Chef Laura Chamberlain’s kitchen.

Homeade cupcakes, baked with love, topped with fresh garden flowers

Laura is a professional chef in Flagstaff who sources seasonal vegetables, herbs and flowers from local farms. Along with Lexi, Laura also uses Kate’s flowers and herbs from Wild Heart Farm. The three women have supported one another along the way by intertwining their establishments with the beauty of seasonal farm fare. Cross-pollinating their gifts and passions, these three women-owned establishments continue to bloom as they support and collaborate with one another. 

Farming in the Floodplain: Lessons in Resilience

On the Spring Equinox, I was in the midst of arranging bouquets for the first week of my spring flower share when flood waters rose rapidly. Beaver Creek is across street, 500 feet from our farm gate, and was steadily becoming more fierce from rain on top of snow melt pummeling down from Flagstaff. Within minutes we were considering evacuation, as our entire street and the lower half of our farm was consumed by the river.

We escaped with our dog, our WWOOFer volunteers (Willing Workers on Organic Farms), fixings for dinner, and buckets of flowers. The flowers were remnants of pre-flood peace, as I harvested daffodils in a light drizzle that did not feel malicious. They bore a rain-soaked mistiness, as if recalling a distant memory. 

I gathered the elements from what felt like a previous life, which I had to wade through calf-deep water to retrieve from my She-shed. Double tulips in a variegated pink and pale creamy yellow almost the color of sunrise and new beginnings. On high ground in a friend’s driveway, I packaged these bright faces together as a prayer for our farm, and our neighborhood, including a poem titled “Hope,” by Rosemary Wahtola Trommer.

What is your plan B? When things go terribly wrong? This is not a question we ask ourselves very often, but the reality of living with climate change is that the one thing we can count on is change.

The next morning we returned to the farm and the waters had receded. In the midst of surveying the damage, a second wave of flooding consumed the land again. This time it was faster, deeper, scarier. We evacuated again and I escaped to the normalcy of flower deliveries in Sedona. On the Cornville road the sun was shining through low clouds, while Oak Creek was flooding over the bridge and I was diverted through Page Springs. The angst was quelled by sharing flowers with our customers. I bought fancy chocolate, homemade bread, and radicchio to treat our farm-ily in exile and our host to a pasta dinner. Good food always provides immense comfort, care and communion. 

We cooked dinner together at our Rimrock friend’s house, who is herself a former flower farmer. Over a bottle of wine, she told us farm stories from twenty years ago, and we laughed at the absurd things that this occupation requires. I wondered what I would be doing in twenty years. What stories will I be telling?

The mind, like an arrow, shoots straight to fear. What will the flood take away? What will it destroy? I wondered if our farm, the buildings, and everything I have been working for would still be there in the morning. 

We bought this farm at the start of 2020 and barely saw a speck of rain the first year. We weathered a brutally hot monsoon-less summer followed by a mild winter. In the past six months, we have experienced two floods, from two different directions. Many of us are coping with the realities of extreme and more frequent weather events. The question arises: is it possible to live here? How do we adapt and become pliant like the willows that bend in the flood to form new roots and shoots?

Surveying the damage, we were fortunate. Our house and the office were safe. The farm outbuildings are full of a thin coat of silt, but all the contents are salvageable and the structures are not permanently damaged. The same cannot be said for some of our neighbors who lost their living space, belongings and a sense of peace. The latter is the most difficult thing to replace.

The miracle is that our plants survived and remained rooted. They demonstrate the resilience and hope I have in nature. After being submerged by a rushing river current for nearly two days, they rose up. Plants have such a strong will to live, to survive, to reach for the light.

The cheerful daffodils have dirty faces and yet still emanate an uplifting, lively fragrance. They seem to be saying: “Don’t think of everything that has been undone! Think of all you received!” 

The list of gratitudes grows each day. For Lonnie and Whitney, our WWOOF volunteers who stayed calm and helpful throughout the flood even though their worldly possessions (located in their vehicles) were at risk. They rolled up their sleeves to redo work that had been done the day before with grace.

I am grateful for the flood of concern, love and prayers that flowed almost immediately. Like a watershed, it came from tributaries of our community; friends, family and fellow flower farmers, our social media clan, our neighbors. This care uplifted my spirit and floated me through.

The cleanup has largely been joyful. A Sunday work party of our farm-ily, friends, employees and their families repaired the fallen fence to keep out the marauding javelinas, raked debris and spread piles of wood chips on the muddy pathways.

I watched as people carefully dusted off the faces of all the new ranunculus leaves, helping their green shine through. Friends chatted away while propping up the flattened garlic with damp leaves from the flood, admiring all the worms. I served a pot of chili beans with a giant farm salad and iced tea. We sat in the orchard surveying all this small army of loved ones completed in such a short time frame, and plants and people alike glowed with the accomplishment. The spring sun shined on the field, the fresh mulch, the now standing fence and I felt held by so much love. Working the earth together and sharing nutritious food from the land is the communion of spirit.

Rivers and watersheds connect us. We cannot ignore what happens upstream, and our actions impact lives downstream. The river carried away our amendments, compost, mulch piles and few farm seasons of tears, sweat and plans. It brought debris, destruction, rich soil, new seeds and wisdom of place.

Ten Reasons to Join the Wild Heart Farm Flower CSA

Flower Power

#1. The necessity of Joy. Need I say more? "I have come to understand, to believe, how we witness makes our world. This is why attending to what we love, what we are astonished by, what floummoxes us with beauty, is such crucial work." -Ross Gay 
I wrote a column about this for our Letter from Home this week.

#2. Flowers pump out the love. Flowers help us love the world when it at times feels unloveable. Like when you pull over and carefully throw yourself into a patch of desert wild flowers. Flowers are proof you are loved by mama Earth and appreciated by a farmer who is working hand in hand with the mama to grow beauty for you. 

#3. Learn and appreciate the flowers. As a member of our flower flock, you get introduced to all kinds of new flower varieties you would never meet in a grocery store. In the weekly emails, you learn a little bit about how they are grown, their ecological niche or how to use them as tea or medicine.

#4. Support a farmer and human being who is doing what she loves and sharing it with the world. Every day since I founded Wild Heart Farm I jump out of bed with a deep sense of purpose because I have witnessed the way flowers neutralize difficult situations on the worst days and amplify love and joy on the best ones. I love to grow beauty, resilience and a deeper connection to the Earth by sharing my fresh farm flowers.

#5. Buying locally grown flowers helps reduce the carbon footprint, and strengthen the domestic economy. 85% of the flowers found in grocery stores and flower shops are grown overseas. The sad fact is that the international flower trade is rife with unfair labor practices and health concerns for workers in this industry (largely women), including recent investigations of forced labor and child labor.

#6. As a CSA member you are privy to invitations and special offers like farm retreats, special add-ons like flowery micro green mixes and fresh veggies, and get a 10% discount at Living Chocolate in Sedona when you pickup flowers. When you join the Wild Heart annual CSA you can schedule a visit to enjoy the farm with family and friends.

Sharing the joy of flowers feels good.

#7. Flowers have a long-term positive effect on moods. Several recent studies show a reduction in depression, anxiety after receiving flowers and greater sense of creativity, enjoyment and satisfaction with life.

#8. Sharing the joy of flowers feels really good. When you give them to someone you love or even to yourself.

#9. After a long, snowy and cold winter you may be hungry for spring, for life and for color. It will feel like spring every week when you get a different bouquet of flowers.

#10. Ralph Waldo Emerson reminds us that the Earth laughs in flowers. Laughter is good medicine. 

RAD REST: Finding Natural Patterns of Rest

I don’t know a single person today who isn’t exhausted-and that’s not ok with me! I hope to shine light on our shared physical and emotional depletion to illuminate the inherently possible and adamantly necessary ability for our rehabilitation through natural rhythms of rest. I have been trying to better understand my relationship with productivity and relaxation and hope to touch on ideas and observations that can potentially reflect back on your life. By sharing these thoughts I seek hopeful and truly restful alternatives for myself, and the more I understand and accept the import of such in our Earthly existence. I hope to evoke a deserved pause among People Who Care so we give ourselves the valued time to do what we truly want in this brief and remarkable life. Thank you for taking the time to read this essay and to consider my opinion. I love you friend.

Big big love, Sarah Grover

RAD REST

I am a farm hand and fairy apprentice at Wild Heart Farm as of this past summer. Being just a slight part of this magical ecosystem has given me such a beautiful opportunity to interact and learn from humans and nature like never before. I’m a Wild Child from birth but was raised in our hyper-commoditized, over-packaged, under-appreciated society that inflicted shame on many of our nature-rooted tendencies. I have not been given much social space to peacefully and lovingly be wildly me, as I’m sure many of you can relate to. This has created a lot of pressure in my life around feeling trapped. This trapped feeling leads me to work really hard to escape it (instead exhausting me and depleting myself further), or to be really angry, scared, and/ or sad. All these acts create high anxiety in my life and have led to years of unrest in my soul, my mindset, and general overall body. This is not the reality I want to accept for myself.

 My time at Wild Heart, however, has been unbridled– with true freedom and acceptance. In being heard and seen and felt and loved by all the beautiful people involved with Wild Heart, I have started to feel less confined and therefore less of a need to rant and focus on being caged freeing myself from the cage in my mind. My time spent ‘working’ at the farm now feels like time for me to be free from the chaos of consumeristic destruction and toxic interpersonal relationships. I am part of a larger force of creation and growth and reciprocated nurturement… and of essential rest. 

Wild-Hearted Women’s Radical Rest Retreat yoga session Sarah in action
Kristen M. Caldon, Photographer - Insta @photographicexplorer

It’s a beautiful revelation that echoes true in my observations of the natural ecosystem flourishing on, around and because of the farm as well. In my succinct and English flavored understanding of ‘wildness’ I am starting to see more peace and calm entangled in the complete picture. 

Behold the beauty of nature

And to put it one last way; I’m finding a lot more Heart in the Wild than they let me believe was possibly correlated. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, ya’ll and I behold the beauty of nature. The beauty of peace, stillness and calm that we are turning so rapidly away from. Sure, phones are cool; it was nice to type these thoughts onto a computer and send them into the interwebs for you all to tap into. But yaaa’lll! I’m just reminding us to go outside! I’d have rather just walked outside and seen you there and smiled and waved. But neither of us are there yet and I’d be honored to do it together. 

Patterns of rest, resilience, mutual aid and cooperation are found in nature. Photo by Kate Watters

We all know what the heck is happening around us. There are endless articles, reports and research, the goose bumps and bad vibes that point to the necessity of rest, more sleep, less screen time, drive time, work time, etc. But how realistic is it to actually be able to survive in the society without buckling almost every day under superficial, external pressures to keep performing—earning—spending and succeeding? The need for rest is deeper and more radical than colleges will let us publish about.

If we want true and natural rest, we need true and natural patterns of life. 

Birds having access to water in a desert is peace. Similarly, we can create a little bit of peace for and in our human ecosystem. Kate giving me a place to earn monetary funds so I could buy seeds to grow food WHILE listening to me rant about capitalism and question the role of money in my life and our interactions has given me peace. Not meeting resistance when this topic is explored is something many of us don’t know because we have been on tracts for so long. I’m not even saying I’m resting still. I’m far from being ‘natural’ or upholding much of what I believe is best in a human’s life. However, I wish to understand and hope to inspire others to think and seek answers. There is power in rest and if we are truly at ease, we are acts of resistance to the cruel, competitive, exhausting world we otherwise subscribe to. Which, to me, is badass. And awesome. And what we need more of. 

A pioneer of the radical rest movement from the Nap Ministry says:

“Your obsession with productivity as a function of your worth is preventing you from tending to your soul.”

— Nap Bishop

In that one line she sums up everything I’ve been trying to say. So if you take nothing else from this essay, just reread that line. We are deeply amazing and interesting and soulful creatures that can create pure magic and kindness and goodness within and around us. It is up to us to do that for ourselves. But it doesn’t always look like ‘doing’ something.

The abandoned cabin at Orchard Canyon on Oak Creek we dream of moving to Wild Heart Farm or something equally awesome to provide radical rest. Photo by Kate Watters

We are poor, damaged beings trying to survive the silly shit we created for ourselves and I believe we can get through it—together. We can help one another by being peaceful. We can create spaces of peace by being at rest. However we can also create peace by making rest for others. We all know someone who deserves a nap even more than us right now- why don’t we make a bed for them and watch their kids for one frickin’ hour? We all know someone who deserves a massage because they work hard. Why don’t we take thirty seconds to squeeze their shoulders? F@#$ social parameters keeping us distant and stressed. We can create rest for ourselves and for others without judgment. 

At the end of the day, I’m just a confused hippy kid, taking a deep breath and screaming some hopeful s*%! into the ether. I am grateful in my times of rest so I leave you with thanks. Thank you for your time to read these lovingly curated words. Thank you for being intrigued by our potential heightened human connection. Thank you for being a part of Wild Heart Farm Family and this world. Thank you for being such a special wave of existence. You are sacred. Be kind to yourself, my friend. It’ll make it easier to be kind to others. I love you. Do good, be well and rest up! 

Sarah in action at Wild Heart Farm harvesting high vibration micro greens
Kristen M. Caldon, Photographer - Insta @photographicexplorer

Journey into the Heart of Corn Part 3: Seed School

By Kate Watters

It’s mid-October and the sky echoes with endless blue. A halo of deciduous trees embraces the change of season. The corn fields on our Rimrock farm have turned from green to golden, which means it is time to harvest.

Fifteen people—many of whom I have just met—are wandering through the fields in search of ears, as if on a treasure hunt. Flint is a type of corn used to make masa for tortillas, tamales, or hominy for posole. Unlike sweet corn, which is picked fresh, flint corn must cure on the plants. The hard-like-flint kernels allow these varieties to be stored for long periods, and be less prone to insect and rodent damage, all traits selected by ancient farmers.

The strangers in the corn fields are not a band of marauders, but a group of curious gardeners here for a day of Seed School. They are neighbors with homesteads, farm hands from nearby communities. My sister Kelly (who helped plant the corn) came from Tucson. They all came to save seeds.

I have been anticipating harvest day like a child waits for Christmas. The ears are camouflaged, so when you find one and unwrap it, it feels like winning a beauty lottery. No two ears alike in size, shape, or color. It’s a feast of diversity. Many are a deep, almost black-burgundy color, but all colors of the rainbow appear to be represented—red, orange, coral pink, and golden ears freckled with explosions of blue and pink. The field is alive with snapping sounds and satisfied murmurs.

The wild group of seed collectors fresh out of the corn field.

These two corn fields originated from different seed sources and therefore have unique stories that you can read about in previous FlagLive editions. One field is from seed I was given in 2018 by a Oaxacan farmer and his wife, an expert tamale maker. I planted the Oaxacan seeds at a farm-to-table garden in Oak Creek Canyon and it grew beautifully for two seasons. The yield was enough for the chef and me to make an epic posole, and several batches of tamales. When I left to start my own farm in 2020, I took some of the seeds with me.

The second field is from my neighbor Bill’s plants. I met Bill and his wife Belle at a delicious and memorable potluck last summer. Bill waxed poetically about his corn journey while he cranked out wood-fired pizzas from heirloom grains grown on their homestead. Bill has an innate curiosity and passion for seeds—especially grains. He spent the last 30 years co-founding several nonprofit projects and seed companies and co-directing Native Seed Search in Tucson. Now his energy is focused on reviving ancient grains (while growing and eating them) and teaching people how to save seeds. Four years ago, he set out to grow a great tortilla corn in his backyard by curating four different varieties, planting them together and then saving the seeds.

This spring, my sister Kelly and I helped Bill plant his corn, which involved poetry and an epic meal of corn tortillas and Anasazi beans. That evening’s conversation drifted from seeds to Bill’s stories of the challenges and rewards of being a foster parent through the years. It seemed like strangely similar territory to our food system—both broken with living beings in need of care and feeding.

Bill McDorman of Cornville Seeds, Kelly and Fritz planting the Oaxacan corn field seed.

These are challenging times to be a human or a seed. Five companies own 90 percent of seed varieties, and the majority are chemical companies. We have lost 90 percent of our food diversity. Climate change continues to wreak havoc in our backyards. My visit to Oaxaca, where I witnessed the deep connection between people and their food traditions, reminded me: seed selection has been going on around the world for thousands of years, as long as humans have needed to eat. Now, more than ever, we must re-learn the ancient technology of seed saving.

When you plant a seed or nurture any living being (human or otherwise) you cannot know the whole story of how your actions, or the environment influenced the outcome. You are part of a continuum. When we assumed the responsibility fostering Bill’s extra corn seedlings, the seed was also planted to teach a seed saving workshop together.

Meanwhile, back at Seed School, the students harvested all the corn that was ready from the two patches, separating the ears open from ears closed—a trait we wish to select for in the future. An open ear during monsoon season collects moisture and is prone to mold and worms. In the end Bill’s seed produced more corn overall by a landslide. There is more to the story of why, but I’ll save that for the farm tours.

Sister Kelly harvesting our foster corn

Part of Seed School is enjoying a meal together from an array of garden goods, including homemade tortillas. The work of harvesting, separating, processing, grinding, and pressing the masa to make the tortillas is ancient and communal. The key ingredients are time, community, and hunger. When there are many hands, much laughter, and stories it eliminates the drudgery. The tortillas taste like earth and fire, and remind me of all the colorful shapes and sizes that corn assumed in Oaxaca. When corn is the center of your world, you naturally find countless ways to package meat, cheese, beans, and grasshoppers inside it for maximum taste and calories.

When you grow corn, you enter an ancient relationship with the mother of culture: an 8000-year-old, unspoken agreement to take care of one another. I have felt this motherly presence in my corn field, and as I write this, with a pot of posole corn simmering on the stove, the house fills with an aroma of motherly comfort. Fostering Bill’s corn seems so much easier than fostering the kids he cared for or the students my sister Kelly is teaching in Tucson. There are many things in the world that need our love and attention, including seeds.

Although I grow flowers for a living, the corn is sustenance for my earthly body and spirit. Sharing corn with people feels good and familiar, like learning a new song and finding the melody comes naturally. Each Seed School student went home with a handful of our corn seeds—selecting whatever colors and shapes they found appealing.

The author and her dog, Juju appreciating the corn rainbow

The journey of this seed continues with exponential possibility; generations of seed savers who came before us and those who continue take their food, gardens, and seeds back into their own hands.

Walking the Flower Path: A WWOOFing Experience at Wild Heart Farm

By Courtney Giancaterino

October 1, 2022

In my experience WWOOFing (Willing Workers on Organic Farms), I have encountered incredible, hard working, earth and heart centered people from all walks of life. I’ve left each farm that I’ve volunteered at with a host of new farming skills, new friends, and a warmed and inspired heart. And my time at Wild Heart Farm has been one of those special experiences that has changed me for the better, and left an imprint in my mind and spirit that will change how I farm in my future. 

I had the privilege of volunteering at Wild Heart Farm in Rimrock, AZ for the month of September. Wild Heart Farm is small and inviting property where Kate, lead farmer, her partner Mike, and a host of other devoted farm hands are dedicated to growing mostly flowers. When you walk onto the property, the land is stunning, but the experience is more than just visual. You can literally FEEL the beauty of the land infuse your soul— imagine towering ash trees, fields of multi-colored flowers, and giant butterflies soaring around in what I make up to be a certain kind of glee only butterflies feel. 

Beyond that, you can feel the peace and gratitude of land that has been infused with the labor and prayers of love. Land that has been respected. Land that has been regenerated. Land that has been listened to and it's wishes heeded. 

Courtney looking at home at work on the farm - Kristen M. Caldon, Photographer

I once asked Kate how she got into growing flowers, and she shared her enchanting story about how she hadn’t set out to do this, but one farming experience led to another and she eventually realized this was a spiritual calling for her. One only needs to spend a small bit of time at Wild Heart Farm to understand this fully. The flowers are grown with incredible intention and devotion, commitment to soil health and natural growing methods. Not only do the flowers offer beauty and sometimes food—if you haven’t tried Dalia confetti on your salad, I highly recommend it—but they also offer habitat and nourishment for pollinator species. As a result the property is brimming with bees and butterflies. 

Monarch butterflies were a daily dose of joy on the farm, stopping off for nectar on their journey south. Photo by Mike Knapp

As a side note, experts estimate that at this time in earthly history, more than 40% of pollinators are threatened with extinction. I had not spent a lot of time in my life prior to volunteering at Wild Heart Farm thinking about the extinction of pollinator species. And while the subject of this is far beyond the scope of this post, I’ll just mention that when you google “Why are pollinators important?,” the first search engine response is “Without pollinators, the human race and all of earth's terrestrial ecosystems would not survive.” If you feel moved to keep going down that rabbit hole, I highly recommend it. Otherwise I hope this inspires the sense of awe in you that it did in me when I realized how important growing flowers truly is. 

Bouquets for loved ones, blushing brides, and Community Supported Agriculture members are made with great care and unique consideration by Kate and her flower team. The flowers are even occasionally sung to at Wild Hearted Women’s events and impromptu concerts in the fields hosted by none other than Kate and Mike themselves on vocals and guitars. 

I accumulated unforgettable memories during my time at Wild Heart Farm. I remember the satisfaction of learning how to arrange aesthetically pleasing flower bouquets. Feeling the astonishment of finding a heart painted seed found in Mother Earth’s love note, a plant called “Love in a Puff.”  Watching with excitement as microgreens sprouted up from the ground just a few days after seeds were planted. Diving into the challenge of how to protect the beloved dalias from getting eaten by grasshoppers. Learning the names of flowers I had never heard of, like lisianthus and celosia. Enjoying soulful dinner conversations with Kate and Mike. Indeed, my time at the farm was incredibly special. 

One of Courtney’s beautiful farm bouquets - Kristen M. Caldon, Photographer

I’m grateful for the generosity of Kate and Mike, the warmth of all the others that I met who support the farm and are walking the Flower Path, and of course, the flowers themselves for gracing me with their beauty and soul nourishment during my time. Before I left, I shared that my time at Wild Heart Farm had changed me because I now understood the importance of growing flowers, and that I planned to do so one day when I was blessed with a piece of land to steward. Thank you, Kate, for following your spiritual calling, because you never know who else you might inspire to follow theirs, too. 

Wild-Hearted Summer Self-Care

Farming is so much work and with the added the stress of making wedding flower designs, one can drown in the endless sea of tasks. We have found a way to thrive is to create space to experience the joy of what we are creating. We want to introduce you to this amazing crew of people who keep the flowers growing and our hearts full.

The white board to-do list beckons with tasks undone
Image by Kristen Caldon-O’Neill

Kate, founder

“Swimming is a way I treat myself, especially in the Verde Valley where we have so many creeks nearby, including a swimming hole across the street. On vacation in Vermont and Montana I swam in every body of water I encountered. The sensation of my body entering the cold water feels freeing. A second treat is ice cream, a comfort food that is loaded with  nostalgia from my Vermont childhood when we made ice cream by hand stirring and added fresh strawberries from the garden. This summer in Vermont, the whole family went to Siloway Maple for creamies made with their 4th generation maple syrup from the farm. You sit on a hill and look out over the fields and beyond to the mountains. It is heavenly!”

Swimming in Beaver Creek as often as possible is a way to treat ourselves right

Terri, lead floral designer

“Self care to me is oh so many things!  In my 44 years of living I have found there are two non-negotiables.  First, have fun! I try to find ways to have fun every single day! This can be as simple as giggling at the hummingbirds buzzing about my kitchen window, blowing bubbles with friends, or putting a little skip in my gait. Life is so much more beautiful when you can infuse a little fun throughout the day. Yes, I am still a child full of wonder in many ways, thank the stars! Second, stay connected to mother nature.  I love to heel-toe barefoot, slowly through the dewy morning grass, hug trees, play in the mud, jump in cool creeks, meditate in the granite dells, sip on some spring water while falling in love with the latest sunrise, and, most importantly, thank Mama Earth for her infinite blessings every single day.  She holds us, provides for us and for me, recharges my whole mind, body and spirit in ways nothing or no one else can.  With love in my heart and a smile on my face, I encourage you to seek solace in the natural world and just have as much fun as possible in your own unique ways!

‘Every day may not be good...
but there's something good in every day.’  Alice Morse Earle”

Terri, a true nature spirit, picking our wild Sacaton grass for bouquets on the farm

Dani, floral designer

“I take long baths with salts, dips on our neighbors pond and read books in the shade!!”

Dani is wearing a cute smock and big smile after taking a family vacation
Image by Kristen Caldon-O’Neill

Kelly, right hand woman

“The self care activities I need are regular dog walks to the river, cooking and preparing food for the week, listening to music, taking a bath, getting a massage and doing yoga.”

Kelly gathered flowers and decorated her birthday cake made by Lexi of Sugar Mamas

Image by Kristen Caldon-O’Neill

Sarah, farm apprentice

I try to root as self-care. Life under capitalism can make me feel over extended and under appreciated rather quickly. I try to come back inward to intentionally spend time doing something that I appreciate and does not overstimulate and agrees with me. On days I create space for self care things look different. I have given myself time to feel into a natural rhythm of of life. I allow myself to wake up to the opportunity of water, harvest and communing with my plants and garden ecosystem. I can strip leaves and feel soil temperatures and snip flowers I have been waiting for all season. I can stand in gratitude and dream of how colorful my soon to be breakfast will be with these inspiration from past me. I can mourn the loss of the cherry tree that never went to fruit and shriveled up instead. It’s not a comfortable beat but its a necessary pause in life I don’t often “have time” to honor. When I give time for self care, my cat follows me around just happy to have me there and I can nuzzle her anytime I need to, which is often. I get to use my craft of cooking to create beauty and nutritional abundance for myself. I have a hard time doing this on the day-to-day as I feel a tendency to serve others first and leave little time for myself. This small act of making a balanced meal is truly uplifting and wholesome for me from me.

When my intention is self care I don't involve anyone in my plans and pack light. I head for the trail or the canyon or the creek spot I've had my eye on during my morning chug-along. I don't need to wait for anyone or bring extra water for someone or pick anyone up on the way. I just do what I want with purest intent. I hit the trail and peer through bushes to spot their ripest berries. I trudge along a powdery trail with promises of a finale of crawdads and rock pools, and slip and laugh only to myself. Not out of embarrassment but out of amusement. Whatever happens, I have the time to allow it. That's sacred for myself. To remember I don't know where I'm going but I could enjoy being there. I can breathe and recognize I'm breathing. I can feel and try to get through the feelings. I can just be with myself in a slower, more natural and authentic way than I can be on my way to a job or standing in a line. All this is my way of Self Caring. Going slow and having time to take in natural patterns and occurrences.

Sarah, center, enjoying the fruits of her efforts on the farm with her mom on her left and best friend Sarah on her right

Image by Kristen Caldon-O’Neill

Mike, partner and medicine maker

“I find the ritual of watching the summer sunsets relaxing and inspiring.  With monsoon clouds, the vast array of light shows invite awe. It is a daily reminder from nature of how quickly things change and a reflection: Can I enjoy all this beauty and watch it go?”

Mike takes in the Rimrock monsoonal sunset as a daily dose of self-care.

Love People and Feed Them - Journey into the Tamale

by Kate Watters

Sept 15, 2022

When you receive an invitation from an abuelita at a Mexican market to help her make tamales, the answer is: always YES. My July FlagLive column (link) begins with corn seeds in Oaxaca Mexico, and now Chelsea(my farm friend and traveling companion) and I find ourselves in a small village an hour outside of Oaxaca City. From the moment we met Marita and  tasted her homemade tamales, we were smitten—by both. The tamale is a labor of love, even if you start with a bag of corn masa from the supermarket. Add the growing and processing of the corn for this steamed treasure of dough and filling wrapped in corn husks, and it becomes an act of love. Love of corn; a seed that holds a legacy of human ingenuity. 

Marita, the tamale abuelita at the market selling her famous tamales

That morning we met Marita’s daughter, Juanita, at the village square. She was carrying a colorful plastic pail you might take to the beach to build sandcastles, but it was full of plump, freshly nixtamalized corn kernels. Nixtamalization is an ancient process to remove the hull of the corn seed by boiling and soaking corn in an alkaline solution. Not only does this make the corn easier to grind, it also increases the flavor and aroma and reduces the risk of disease from fungi that colonize grain crops. Now the bucket of soft, swollen corn kernels are ready to grind into masa. This is a service available in most Mexican villages at the local tortillaria. We leave with our corn transformed to freshly ground corn masa. At our next stop the butcher adds freshly rendered fat directly into the pail, an essential binding ingredient for the corn masa. 

At the butcher with the masa to get a key ingredient - fat.

Finally, we make our way to Marita’s kitchen where the real work will ensue. This kitchen is designed for use with a concrete floor, refrigerators of varying sizes, and a big table in the center covered with a colorful plastic tablecloth. A low wall of adobe bricks connects it to the backyard—another hub of activity—and woven grass thatch walls provide shade and airflow.  Jesus beckons with a sacred heart and open arms on a calendar decoupaged with grains and plants. Before we begin, Marita serves us the chicken mole and black bean filling to sample in an enamel metal bowl decorated with painted flowers with a fresh tortilla to cradle it all. I love that we beginwith nourishment, as we have a long day ahead of us. 

Tamale-making pregame meal

There are no measuring cups or kitchen aids.  They mix by muscle memory and with fluidity, as this is a weekly routine to feed their family and neighbors. Juanita shows us how to roll the masa on a tool unique to Mexico—something like a tortilla press shaped like an ironing board. Then she ladles the two types of fillings; mole—itself another day of preparation with grinding and fusing of countless nuts, seeds, chilies, spices with chicken—and black beans expertly soaked, simmered and spiced. Lastly, an Hoja Santa leaf (translated holy leaf) with flavors of anise, eucalyptus and mint, is delicately laid on top.  The sides of the corn masa are folded three ways and then wrapped in the corn husks, which were also obtained from the same cobs that yielded the corn. 

Marita tenderly patting the masa into the corn husk by hand

The steps are demonstrated by Marita while she murmurs in a low, almost animal-like growl interspersed with fits of laughter as we attempt to decipher the details in our elementary Spanish. Then we attempt the same motions with klutzy movements, while Marita demonstrates the simple method of pressing the masa into the corn husk by hand with her fingertips.

At last we have a towering pot layered with tamales ready to steam. The fire pit has been primed and the coals are hot. Marita places a thorny branch on the lid she explains helps keep the crows away. Juanita shoos us away from cleanup duties as her mom beckons to us to sit down next to her to chat as they steam. Chelsea is no stranger to feeding people and looks at home in her apron. I remember the wood-fired pizzas she made for 40 apprenticeson the U.C. Santa Cruz Farm with the homemade dough from various local grains she was testing. Both of us love to cook and eat, especially food we have grown. There is something magical that is infused when you begin with a seed and it ends up on your table, feeding friends and family. It is the ultimate gift.

The tamale steaming on an open fire. Chelsea L, the author (who is 5’4” tall) and Marita R

After about an hour of swapping stories of the plants we grow and recipes, the tamales were ready. The finishing touch was to let them rest in a big plastic bowl beneath one of Marita’s hand-embroidered flower towels. Now for the long anticipated moment; peeling back the soft, hot husks to taste love, earth, and literally seeds that made this nurturing and delicious comfort food. Juanita pours us all a short glass of mescal and we toast to the tamale and each other

I returned from Oaxaca with seeds and ideas and one of Marita’s special towels. The trip had literally been a feast of delicious food that filled my belly and ignited a my hunger to grow real food and feed people.  

At our farm in Rimrock under the harvest moon, the cicada orchestra reaches deafening crescendos as we sit down to eat a stack of homemade corn tortillas wrapped in Marita’s colorful towel, with our neighbors, Belle and Bille. Bill, a passionate seed saver and educator, gave us his extra corn seedlings and we planted them along with the Oaxacan seeds this spring. After a summer of desert heat and sufficient monsoons, the field is glorious sight. Bill is beaming at the success of our collective corn patch, as the Cornville seeds he gave us, now four seasons selected and saved, are by far the most vigorous. The plants tower over us as we peel back the sheaths to find a variety of colors—burgundy, a deep blue black, a small pink, a creamy yellow and occasional blue kernels revealing the genes of generations of farmers and seed savers. 

As I marvel at the beautiful varieties of corn growing at our Rimrock farm, I realize that no matter where these seeds physically came from, what’s most important is that they come from the hearts of those committed to protecting the food and traditions of the cultures of our living Earth. I’m honored to be a part of a community, near and far, of farmers, food lovers and seed savers on a collective mission to love people and feed them. 

Journey into the Heart of Corn Part One: Oaxaca Mexico

By Kate Watters

July 22, 2022

The full buck moon rose bright enough to illuminate clouds from an afternoon monsoon burst. The corn fields at our farm shimmered with beauty and aliveness; the sheer will and life force of these plants drawing me in. Although is only their third full moon, they have now surpassed me in height. This corn field is full of green arrows of purpose on a mission to make another generation. 

Everything has a beginning and an end, yet with seeds, the arc of time is expansive. 

Seeds hold multitudes of stories within them. This soil remembers corn from indigenous ancestors who planted seeds on this land just downstream of Montezuma’s Well over 1000 years ago. I will never know all the people who had a hand in the mutual survival of the corn varieties I am growing this season, but I will introduce you to a few. 

In January of 2018 I traveled to Oaxaca, Mexico with farmer friends Yunuel and Chelsea. The trip evolved into a food, farm and seed pilgrimage that led me deep into the origin story of corn. Just hours after arriving in Mexico City at Yunuel’s tiny apartment, we were off to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The miraculous image of her appearance 500 years ago on Aztec farmer’s Juan Diego’s tilma or cloak, shows no sign of decay. The story of Guadalupe has fascinated me for decades and her image signifies love and resilience. I lit a candle from an existing flame and placed it among the individual prayers, forming a long wall burning from colorful votives. Yunuel said they recycle the wax for the candles—one eternal, collective flame. I joined a circle of reverence with other pilgrims to keep hope burning.  

Candles burning at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City.

Yunuel helps grow equitable food systems in Mexico, and is a mother and gardener. Chelsea grew up in Georgia as the 5th generation on her family's farm and carries on the tradition of saving seed from these varieties. The seed for our Mexico trip was planted while we were apprentices at U.C. Santa Cruz Farm. Yunuel, homesick for Mexico, made corn tortillas for our cohort of 40 apprentices from the corn we grew that season. Chelsea fed us bread she baked in a wood-fired oven infused with hand-processed corn brought with her in pillowcases. I brought blue corn seed given to me by Navajo farmers at North Leupp Family Farm, and grew a small patch near Chelsea’s corn, so our enthusiasm mingled a bit then. At the end of the season I returned to Arizona with a pillowcase of California-grown Navajo blue corn and curiosity and reverence for this amazing plant.

The oldest corn was found in caves in Oaxaca 6,000 years ago, the result of cross-breeding by indigenous people from a wild, grass-like grain called teosinte.  On our trip, we followed corn kernels to museums, markets and libraries for a week before a chance meeting led us to farmers actually growing corn. Yunuel left her phone at a restaurant and when she returned, a man was sitting at our table reading a Mexican agriculture book. After a short conversation, this man, Rícardo, a Mexican anthropologist studying Oaxacan corn genetics, connected us with Pedro, from Santa Catarina Quiané, outside of Oaxaca City.  

Corn figures prominently in graffiti mural art in Oaxaca City Mexico

We met Pedro at the Tianguis Gastronómico, literally translated as gastronomic market. Tianguis is derived from a Nahuatl or Aztecan word for market, which is an ancient tradition in Mexico.  The experience was a heartfelt culinary and sensory feast that I will never forget. Corn was featured prominently — an atolé drink, a corn pudding,  handmade corn tortillas filled with pit-roasted goat barbacoa, and, of course, tamales. Pedro’s adorable and sassy abuelita (grandmother), stood less than four feet tall behind a pile of tamales. She explained the process of how they were made with corn from her husband, Abel’s milpa (a corn field often planted with beans and squash) and invited us to her casa and ultimately to make tamales with her (which is another story).

Handmade corn tortillas to cradle barbacoa tacos at the Tianguis Gastronómico

Abel walked with a cane and wore a wrangler shirt and his backyard had a pile of corn the size of a truck.  Piles of corn and winter squash under simple cement block awnings is a common phenomenon in this village. This is where people hang out, chat and poco a poco process corn. Abel demonstrated the tools he made for shelling corn from the cob. One more ancient method employed the spent cobs lined up like cobblestones for a softer edge. A more modern manner is a board lined with u-nails used to scrape the kernels off. I remembered my blue corn pillowcase, languishing on cobs in my closet.  It is tedious to remove the dried kernels, nixtamalize (a process in which dried kernels are cooked and steeped in an alkaline solution), then grind into a masa to make tortillas, or tamales. Here it is just a joyful activity you do with your family and neighbors.

Chelsea learning how to shell corn in Santa Catarina Quiané

I brought many things home to remember my experiences in Oaxaca—including an embroidered market apron, a rug dyed and woven by one of my hosts, and a feast of colorful photographs; but the day spent shelling corn and making tamales continues to enrich my farming life four seasons later. The trip seeded something inside of me that continues to grow and no doubt led me to find this land in 2020 and begin a life in place. Mexican farmers showed me the possibility of a livelihood based on having what you need, living in community and making and growing with your environment.

On a near full moon in the corn fields at Wild Heart Farm, we lit dozens of candles in tall votives left from a recent wedding, reminiscent of those burning for the Virgen, whose statue overlooks the fields. Abel’s corn is now three seasons removed from its Mexican homeland and grows with other corn seeds, with different stories, together with the dream of a Rimrock tortilla corn to feed us and generations to come. 

Wild Heart Farm corn field at dusk lit by candlelight

Finding Nature's Way

Greetings!

My name is Evan Heard, I have been working and staying at Wild Heart Farm in Rimrock Arizona for about two weeks at the time of this writing.

Evan planting anemones in the peony patch

I recently graduated from the University of Arizona with a degree in Sustainable Built Environments. Throughout my studies, my perspective on life’s purpose was altered dramatically. I came to see the legitimacy of the climate affairs our world is subject to today. I became cognizant of the grim future my generation will undoubtedly face. Pondering these recognitions, a question continuously arose: what significance did any work hold that wasn’t contributing to slowing down the rate of nature’s demise?

I began to devise a plan; what role could I play in saving mankind from the doom of climate change? I started by looking at what consequences of climate change appear most prominent. A major concern expressed throughout my studies was climate refugees. It is very possible that within my lifetime, the major coastal cities will become unlivable in their current ways as a result of sea level rise. Where will all these climate refugees go?

Hopefully, the displaced will seek out more sustainable methods of living to avoid the climate’s progression into apocalyptic conditions. But where will they look for guidance? I believe that as we move into this stage of climate change it will be essential that proper examples of sustainable communities are established to provide blueprints to this massive exodus of climate refugees. I have come to recognize part of my life’s mission as one of these examples, pioneering a new relationship between humankind and Mother Nature.

But where do I start? How do I become this pioneer?

Evan helping construct Hugelkultur beds with a layer of dead logs and branches to conserve water and soil.

Coming out of college, I felt quite lost. I knew I had an important path to fulfill, but no idea of where to begin. I remained in Tucson and started working on a start up farm nearby. I quickly discovered this farm would not be where my knowledge would expand; the farm owner was exceptionally aloof and provided close to zero guidance or direction. In spite of that, this farm did bring me a friend that would completely revolutionize my idea of how a life can be lived. Two weeks after my start date on the farm, she arrived in her van which had also served as her home for over a year. Our connection instantly clicked and she began to share the tales of her nomadic lifestyle. It was here that I discovered the program WWOOF. I knew traveling around the country to explore organic and regenerative farming strategies was an ideal way for me to grow into my desired future, but doing so felt like a far off dream. 

Evan and his van, “The Orb", have brought color, good cheer, and muscle to the farm this spring.

Mid-December came and I simultaneously left my job, my partner, and my living situation. I released all that was holding me back from my honest expression, leaving me with just my recently purchased van and the items I was able to fit within it. This was certainly an intimidating leap, setting sail into unknown waters, but my faith was stronger than ever before. I trusted that my surrender to a sovereign way would lead me towards every experience I was meant to endure (this has only proven true and exceeded my expectations thus far).

I serendipitously ended up in an intentional community west of Tucson. Although lacking proper self-sustaining methods, the land had an encyclopedic level of wisdom to share regarding the dynamics of community. Here I witnessed the power of aligned intention. The intention of this land was to heal and hold space for others' healing. With the members of this community all aligned in this motive, I witnessed immense degrees of growth as we conjunctly worked to liberate limiting thought patterns in ourselves and the collective. The expansion of self and love that occurred on this land could not truthfully be described as anything short of magic.

While living on the intentional community, I was gifted a copy of the book The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. Two days after receiving this book, a cousin reached out to me with an invitation to Peru (those who are familiar with The Celestine Prophecy will understand the absurdly synchronistic nature of this occurrence). I accepted, and ten days later found myself arriving in foreign lands.

To capture the full details of my experience in Peru would require a blog, perhaps a book, of its own. But to summarize, I was guided by Mother Nature to an understanding of huachuma. Huachuma translated from Quechua (the indigenous language of Peru) means “removing of the head”. I felt I had come into the awareness of what it means to step out of the thinking mind and start feeling from the heart. I beheld the harmony and grace granted to those capable of listening to Mother Nature. The deeper faith one held for her guidance, the more graceful their path unfolded before them.

Arriving back from Peru, Mother Nature was calling out to me. She sensed the passion and potential in me to aid in her regeneration. I immediately registered for the WWOOF program, sensing this as my way into a deeper connection with her. I had received many signs pointing me in the direction of Sedona and now knew the virtue in following these signs. A quick search on WWOOF’s website led me to Wild Heart Farm’s profile and I immediately noticed my energy in alignment with it. I had no doubts upon discovering this farm that my way would lead me to it.

Surely, I arrived at Wild Heart Farm two weeks ago. Being here has been such a great sign that I am on my true path. Working and living at Wild Heart has shown me the many facets of intentionality that go into creating a harmonious relationship between humankind and Mother Nature. I feel very blessed that this is where I get to start working with and giving back to this beautiful Earth we call home. 

It has been so beautiful to witness the fine care Kate and Mike put into this land, and how that directly results in the manifestation of sanctuary. Putting my energy into projects at Wild Heart brings me much joy as I know I am helping to create a setting that will further allow more people to discover a connection with Mother Nature. I trust that the regenerative work I’m doing is the work this planet truly needs. 

Even in this short time, I feel that Kate has taught me a vast array of sustainable and regenerative strategies that I will carry on to many future farms and projects. Seeing Kate’s dedication to the farm is so inspiring and I am excited to see how it further evolves over the years. I have no doubts that upon the development of my own land and community, a strong sense of gratitude and love for the Wild Heart family will remain in me. For I recognize this time as the start of my understanding in how to harmoniously work with Mother Nature in the creation of sanctuary.

Emerging from the Cave

Happy spring flower friends!

This week's bouquet features orange Van Eijk tulips (a few have Ayaan tulips),  Apricot branches, Heavenly bamboo greenery, Rosemary, and Little bluestem grass (a native you can plant the seeds around your yard!)

The bouquet, poem and flower essence honors the cave, winter, the darkness and what we have learned there.  The red-orange tulips are each a small fire burning. These flowers require a certain number of chill hours to bloom. Sound familiar? Me too! Since our desert winters are so short, I pay a premium for pre-chilled bulbs, a cut flower industry trick so they bloom twelve weeks after I plant them. And just as advertised by my rep, the starchy bulb timer is right on time, if not a tad early. 

The elements gathered to go into the bouquet - a poem, a focal flower, some wild bits, a flower essence and a theme emerges.

I too feel as though I have been coaxed into blooming earlier and more prolifically than my energy reserves can maintain. The hibernation process is a necessary survival tool for residents of the natural world—human beings are not exempt. Yet the dominant culture makes it difficult to take time for rest and reflection. We are pushed to be productive, stay busy and keep going. 

Recently while wandering off a trail outside of Sedona with a friend, we stumbled upon a very magical cave. Ironically, we were talking about the desire for restructuring our lives—to adopt new timezones, habits, patterns that support our well-being.  Inside the cave felt like a protective womb.  At the back, a stone-lined fire circle with a special seat looked out toward the sliver of light at the opening.  The ceiling was blackened with wood smoke and pitch from countless fires. I felt safe, held, seen. At that moment I connected to those who came before, who had sheltered there. I felt the presence of those who lived, prayed, sang and slept in this place.  We sang, prayed and left offerings. In the days since then I have felt different in ways I can’t describe.

Poet Paul Tran gives voice to the transformation from being in the cave. I found it through the Poetry Unbound podcast, which is well worth listening to. Each time I listened and read, then typed the words the poem held more meaning. We have all been in a metaphorical cave of winter and have experienced the ongoing isolation and darkness of COVID. Now, slowly we are emerging and we are different.

The cave opening

I offer the pomegranate essence to help navigate into the increased activity of springtime and our search for more light and connection in our lives. The pomegranate flower is very voluptuous and sensual, aligned strongly with the 2nd chakra—the womb, fertility, our emotional well-being.  The story goes that Persephone was taken by Hades, god of the underworld and she survived on the pomegranate seeds she found there, one for each month. Her mother, Demeter, goddess of the green growing world, was devastated and her sadness turned the fields barren. When Persephone emerged, her mother was so overjoyed spring returned to the Earth.  

I too have been enjoying the tart, juicy seeds of pomegranates from my neighbor’s prolific bush this winter. I studied them with watercolors in an exercise to imagine the metaphorical seeds I wish to nurture in my life. Pomegranate essence invites creativity, abundance and the divine feminine.  You can enjoy a few drops in water, tea or directly on your tongue while asking — where do I get more juice in my life? Tune into the fire in your belly that wants to create and express and make time for this very act of giving life to what wants to be. Harness the growing light, the energy of the Earth waking up, embrace the wisdom from the cave and see what comes through.

The CSA bouquets on their way to be delivered our members.

Finding Home - February Wild Heart Farm Share

By Kate Watters

This month’s Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) share offers a creative way to enjoy the garden and your flowers for years to come. Pressed flowers freeze time — they hold their vibrancy and detail so elegantly in ways that roots and water and sunlight cannot illuminate.

To do this, you really don’t even need a plant press; just newspaper and some heavy books, which is a clever, low-technology process. When I was paging through my pressings looking for inspiration, I found the Japanese maple leaves from my old garden in Oak Creek Canyon. I remembered how my heart burst with joy to witness the flaming splendor intensify as the autumn days grew colder and shorter. The violas and pansies are just damn cute. They seem to be sharing an intimate moment telling secrets in the garden. When paired with the fireworks of frosted explosion grass and chocolate lace flower, the spring, summer and fall gardens collide in a dreamlike scene that can only happen in my imagination.

A pansy garden party - flower pressing by Kate Watters

I realize that even though the garden is barely waking up I am still composing garden beds and bouquets. I bought the pansies and violas at the hardware store in Sedona on the eve of the winter solstice. I was already missing the flowers, and these colorful blossoms called to me from a lonely rack. A more reasonable voice was saying “why must we be blooming constantly? When do we get to embrace our wintering and rest?” Yet I could not resist! I planted a couple six packs in the high tunnel and these little champs have been cheering me on quietly through the time when all the other plants are sleeping.

Pansies, I dare say, need a rebranding. This word is used—mainly by men—to describe an effeminate man or someone of wimpy constitution. In my experience they are the toughest, hardest working plants in the garden. They flower constantly through freezing spring nights and snowstorms converting whatever sun they find into profuse, intricate blossoms on their tiny stature. These flowers (including a lone anemone), are a promise of what is to come from the farm for this upcoming season. I hope it will remind you that we also have to find our comfort zone and the right time to bloom. Not all of us are sunflowers with big fat sunny smiles—some of us are short and appear delicate, but we are each strong and bountiful in our own right.

The poem this month is quite a story. Kevin Devaney, the typewriter street poet, dropped in at our farmer’s market booth on Valentine’s Day eve. As if drawn in by magnetic forces to the sound of the typewriter keys amidst the din, he zoned in on our stand where we were typing Valentines for market goers. I immediately recognized him as the poet who wrote me a poem to memorialize my experience as an apprentice the UC Santa Cruz Farm just as our season was coming to an end. I read it to our cohort at graduation, a song to our moment together, a balm to soothe the parting.

“and what poor people plants make
all up rooting and unbound
chasing their own wanderlust stars”

I recited these lines from the poem he wrote me as we embraced in front of my market stand. He immediately joined our booth with not one, but two typewriters and promptly there were three people composing poetry. Kevin now sells tiny matchbox poem books and poetry collections from days on the street in different towns. It seems poignant to me that Kevin would arrive on the scene at this second time in my farm journey. He offers a glimpse of one way to compose a life, from street corner to festival backstage across the country. It seems as though his talent for spur of the moment poems has been woven into his day to day decision making. He follows the instinct, an inspiration—one word typed out leads to the next. Then a metaphor gathers and prepositions connect them like bread crumbs on a path to the next place to go.

The farmer’s market typewriter trio L to R: Kevin Devany, Steve Hulse, Molly Wood.

When I met Kevin in October 2015 he was only just beginning to write poems on the street as a full-time gig. Since then, he has been on the road living in a van and now a Prius, with a partner and without, and always lugging around a handful of typewriters (named after female literary characters). He has created his own mobile publishing house; making carbon copies of the poems from the street and photocopying and binding them into palm-sized collections to sell. Poems, he marvels, bought him land outside of Moab, within a commune of creatives and carnies who come and go, collectively sharing a compound with sheds full of power tools. In this way, they build lives unique to each individual yet bound by convergent creation.

Enter on the scene our first Willing Worker on Organic Farms volunteer, Steve, a 26-year old young man from Buffalo NY. WWOOF pairs farm hosts with individuals with time and enthusiasm for short-term energy infusions in exchange for room, board and hands-on experience. Steve has volunteered in Buddhist Dhamma centers and farms for the last 2-3 years, crossing the country multiple times in a van with a partner, and now solo in a Subaru, looking for adventure and the life he is destined to lead. He tried on various scenarios; CBD production in N. California, tropical food forests and Hari Krishna homesteads in 10 states. He arrived at Wild Heart Farm road weary and in the midst of a twenty something dark night of the soul, seriously in search of a place to settle in, send down roots, and grow. Oh how I remember this time (multiple times!) in my own life, when I never believed I would find a home. Yet somehow I have many times, and had to uproot and transplant myself over and over again. These homes have led me to this farm, this place to mingle with the deep roots of trees and a long history of ancestral people tending this land.

Steve, our first WWOOFer, was a delight to host.

Our time together, although transitory in nature, can tremendously impact one another. Meeting Kevin when I did, and experiencing his impromptu poem, further connected my love of farms, flowers and poetry. These loves are now combined in what I share with my CSA community. We shared a dinner at the farm as Kevin was leaving after a short stint in Sedona, plans organizing around an opportunity to learn as much as he can from a typewriter repair man in Phoenix who has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Steve has settled in Salt Lake City with his box of seeds and all the miles and farms and meditation halls behind him. We were happy to share this experience with them and now you too are part of the journey.

This poem by Kevin “Finding Home” seemed the perfect company. You can follow Kevin on the web and join his community of poetry lovers on Patreon.

“Finding Home,” a poem published by Kevin Devaney 2017 National Tour of Traveling Typewriter Poetry, Volume 38, Asheville NC II.

A Home-grown Retreat: Ringing in the new year with silence

On the first day of 2022 the sun rose into a cloudless sky, emerging from star-studded darkness and quiet. With my partner, Mike, I rang in the new year silently, savoring the last hours of a self-directed ten-day meditation retreat at our farm homestead. Outside, the garden chimes jingled in the cold morning wind. The quiet was ringing inside my body, an outgrowth of this time we set aside to meditate.

There is no way we would attempt to do a home meditation retreat without first experiencing a formal one. Two years ago, we began the new year at a Vipassana retreat center in Joshua Tree, just as we were closing on our dream farm. This retreat was extremely challenging—both mentally and physically. Sitting for ten hours a day summoned pains from old injuries and places I held stress in my body. They amplified with my attention and a host of negative reactions from fear and doubt to anger and frustration arose. The mind state in which I arrived was akin to a bucking, unbroken horse saddled with untamed thoughts. Chief among them was planning and excitement about this new farm and homestead we were in the process of buying.

I asked the teacher during an interview for advice about how to manage the thoughts. She looked at me with clear eyes and said, “Your mind is like a T.V. —it’s a distraction. Any time spent here giving those thoughts your attention will be wasted. When this is over, you will be so clear. Keep working.”

My mind, my thoughts were exactly like a T.V.! It felt like being in a restaurant with someone you really want to talk to, yet your attention keeps getting pulled away to the screen behind them. As a result, you are less present with the person and the conversation. Yet, you gained nothing from the T.V.!

The home meditation altar in the early morning winter light

At the Vipassana center, they removed most of the distractions—namely cell phones; yet even scented products were prohibited. Men and women were separated at all times. The rooms were unadorned and even books and journals were not allowed. There were agreed upon rules and a set schedule. Only my mind remained (and of course the plants growing along the center walking paths) as distractions from the instructions, which were sitting and following the breath and sensation in the body. As I stayed present with the breath, I noticed how these elements arise and pass, and how this is the inherent state of change at play in the universe. I clicked off the thought channels, “smilingly” as our teacher instructed, each time the mind wandered away. By day 8, they came less frequently and a sense of calm entered my body. On a walk in between sittings, it dawned on me that I did not have to do it all! I could leave my job, and make a livelihood from my new farm. I left the retreat center with my mind clearer than ever.

When I entered the stream of daily life beyond the retreat center it was difficult to maintain that hard-won clarity and attention to mindfulness. Quickly the old habits returned. The home retreat came with its own set of challenges that are are presented in daily life. Remembering the clarity I felt after our first retreat, I was motivated to get clear and concentrated so I could focus my energy to realizing the vision for our farm and my business. How can these flowers and gardens serve the highest purpose for cultivating beauty, joy and well-being?

We did our best to remove distractions, create a firm schedule, and simplify our meals. Irregardless, the home environment is full of distracting objects and the farm was full of unfinished tasks that loomed in front of me. Many areas are still being developed, so during walking meditation instead of focusing on placing my feet, I was designing a perennial garden. Fortunately, stormy, cold winter weather conspired in our favor, which made it easier to focus inward, and let go of the gardens and plants. They too, are resting in dormancy.

For me, the home environment (and my workplace) was the perfect place to notice distractions when they arise. I resisted the urge to adjust a crooked painting on the wall. I noticed how books I’ve had for years suddenly called out for me to read them. I resisted the snack shelf over and over. The practice of letting go of objects, whether they be thoughts or things, is so freeing! As the days wore on, I noticed how mindfulness extended beyond walking and sitting meditations. Each activity was infused with mindful attention—standing up, sitting down, putting on clothes, and even washing the dishes! I noticed the joy of savoring the glow of candlelight in the morning darkness and the pleasant sensations in my body as I stretched into wakefulness with yoga. I savored the first cup of coffee; the warmth of the cup in my hands and the potent aroma from the first sip to the last, while I slowly chewed my toast.

It was interesting to notice the contrast in the quality of my attention on everyday tasks. I realized that most mornings I gulp the last sips of coffee and shove toast in my mouth as I stand in the kitchen before rushing outside to do something deemed important. I become frustrated when I can’t get my clothes on fast enough and untangling the twine that supports plants erupts into a frenzy of hurried frustration while I swear under my breath at the plants, twine and even myself!

It is powerful to continue the mediation practice and see how the mindful awareness shapes our environment and our interactions of daily life. What are the simple things that bring about joy, well-being and creativity? How can we cultivate those aspects of life? As we emerge into the rushing, distracting world, I hope to maintain the practice of loving, mindful attention and watch how this grows on our farm and beyond.

What the Trees Teach: Living amongst the giants

As we enter the darker side of year, the veil between earth and spirit realm is a gossamer curtain. As the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, I sense the transience of each moment. It is time to say goodbye to the garden and I grieve the loss of all of my flowers. A few marigolds are still blooming, and I leave them for the bees and butterflies who may be visiting ancestors from other realms.

Many details about my ancestors and those who lived on this land are not known. Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers, descended from Ireland and Scotland, died before I could be imprinted with their foods and gardens, their smells, or the sound of their voices. On this farm I found pottery shards dating more than 1000 years old. There is brick storage box with protective metal door nestled in the limestone cliff and a 100 year old remnant pear tree still stands watch and yields delicious fruit. On Samhain or Day of the Dead celebration, I called in my ancestors and those who tended this land. I built an altar and placed photographs of my grandmothers and lit candles to let them know I am thinking of them.

This year I am mourning the loss of one of our giant Arizona ash trees—nearly a century old—which felt like losing a relative. Once some time back, the main trunk was topped, and rot crept into the heartwood, extending throughout its core to the roots. The tree leaned over the high tunnel growing area, composting toilet and two outbuildings. An arborist deemed it a “hazard tree,” and I struggled for several months with the decision to remove it. It took a crew of arborists and tree workers an entire day, several chainsaws and a crane to safely take it down. Not to mention a big chunk of my savings.

Arborist removing one of our beloved Arizona ash trees

Now, when scanning the farm horizon, my eye rests on this exposed spot, like a missing tooth. However, this tree’s spirit lives on. The rotted slab is the foundation of the altar, another solid section was milled and is curing for a future table. The canopy is a heaping pile of wood chips for shading garden paths. There is a steady supply of firewood and a circle of giant stumps for gathering around the fire.

At 3500 feet elevation in the desert, it is extraordinary to live beneath this extensive canopy of shade. Farming in the carbon-rich understory, my plants are protected by the underground communion between roots, microbes and fungi. The soil sings with the rich organic matter and diversity of living beings transporting water, nutrients and signals through these root systems.

Arizona ash (Fraxinus velutina) are native to the American southwest often growing near a permanent underground water supply. Guidebooks record them extending to heights of 40 feet and living for 50 years. Yet the trees on the farm have a stronger presence at nearly a century old. They form a protective, magical grove along a limestone cliff reaching nearly 100 feet tall, arching into the desert just beyond the boundary of the farm.

In my daily work is easy to be swept into the micro tasks—a dozen flower crowns for an upcoming wedding, the cool season flower seeds and bulbs that need to be planted, and gardens ready to be tucked into bed for the season. The imposing yet benevolent statues of these trees literally shake me back into the present moment, garnering my attention with the delicate sound of leaves raining down with the slightest gust of wind.

Towering Arizona ash trees are pillars of the farmscape

This fall, we spent several Sunday afternoons lying beneath the blazing yellow-orange leaf canopy, which seemed to be shimmering with light inside and out. What was once a mass of dense green shade was drained of life. I marveled at the effortlessness with which the trees released the energy of everything they had grown this season. Leaves sailed down from the tops of the ash canopy with giddy abandon against an impossibly blue sky. Each leaf met its inevitable moment with the ground as if dancing to silent music. Some flew off as if on a mission, others meandered down, as if skipping through the sky. A few tumbled clumsily and others spun and twirled like pinwheels. I too, became giddy with the freedom and levity of being covered in leaves. I felt wealthy surrounded by all this gold laying on the ground. I remembered a line from the Mary Oliver poem, Song for Autumn:

“In the deep fall

don’t you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind?”

Growing up in rural Vermont the forests were dark with tree canopies. From an early age I sought refuge amongst them. Even then I was communing with my ancestors; unconsciously, allowing myself to be guided by the ways of plants and trees and forests. I wandered the thick, mossy groves of Mount Flamstead behind our family home experiencing the subtle seasonal changes and a now familiar ache in my heart at the sight of flaming autumn leaves against blue sky. I loved climbing them and dreamed of building my own treehouse for a solitary, watchful escape. The trees on the farm bring me back to my little tomboy self and to the wonder I experienced. I remember how the trees comforted me as a child. The woods soothed and guided me, they awakened my heart to beauty and my mind to curiosity. I felt that the earth loved me wholeheartedly.

The author as a child communing with trees

With the trees on the farm I feel the same tenderness, as if I am sheltered, held, and protected in the earth's wisdom and embrace. My ancestors and those who lived on this land were intimate with the earth’s cycles and when I am quiet they whisper to me through the trees. We are not separate. We are nature.

We are the Seeds: Tethered to the fate of plants

Milkweed plants exploding with seeds

Seeds are tiny miracles. I never tire of witnessing them burst from the soil—full of purpose. Our monsoon pumpkin patch grew fast and furious in the long, rainy and humid summer days. When I survey the tangle of vines bearing pumpkins—some over 20 feet long— it seems impossible that they were once tucked inside a teardrop-shaped seed smaller than a dime. They grow infinitely, tendrils grabbing onto anything they can find to get closer to the sun. I am stumped by a mystery pumpkin that does not resemble any of the seed packets in my collection. A single plant made a dozen giant pumpkins, each one its own work of art, in subtle shades of beige and blush, like the glow of the fading autumn sunset.

Digging through my seed cache, I found a brown packet folded into a triangle with a hand drawn pumpkin labeled dessert pumpkin. I remembered getting this gift several years ago at a seed swap. We crowded inside a farm yurt where a friend was living in exchange for work trade. The winter squash outnumbered the women—giant Hopi curshaws curing on the shelves amidst my friend’s winter sweaters and pantry supplies. Perhaps this could be the origin of the mystery pumpkin?

Wild Heart Farm pumpkin patch harvest (mystery pumpkins are the large Cinderella type)

Pollination requires timing and precision almost as if someone is calling out stage directions: Places everyone! Stigma receptive? Ready for pollen? Anthers loaded? On a single plant, pumpkins have individual flowers that produce pollen and others that have an ovary and produce eggs that must be fertilized to make seeds. This is why we need the bees or Q-tips. The flowers are only open for one day and if they are not fertilized they shrivel and do not make a pumpkin.

As a farmer, I have experimented with seed saving and had some wins and losses. In the process, I marvel at the specificity of each flower anatomy and reproductive strategy. I honor the trials that generations of growers employed and carried forward to build the foundation of knowledge where I now dwell. You can appreciate this in the colorful pages of seed catalogs; the years of breeding to select for qualities like double blooms, taste, and resistance to disease.

Seed saving also requires precision and patience. If you want the varieties to remain true, you have to isolate the plants and insure they cross pollinate with another variety. This is why the squash that sprout from the compost pile resemble distant cousins of last year’s and may not taste the same, as they were “promiscuous,” and now carry traits from other squash growing nearby.

Mystery pumpkin ripens high in the pear tree safe from javelinas

Seed savers keep the stories and traditions alive, and some heirloom varieties can be traced back to a region, family or timeframe. I was touched when Ruben, who helped me build a fence to protect the garden from javelina, gave me squash seeds from his village in Chiapas, Mexico to grow. He has been in the U.S. for 10 years and has never been able to return to his homeland. The seeds hold the memory and food traditions of home. When we save seeds in our garden they preserve the potency of place in their DNA.

For me, saving seeds is an act of rebellion, of resistance and resilience. Many seeds on the market today are F1 hybrids; the result of selective breeding from different parent plants in order to create offspring with those characteristics. They have a place in my garden because of their productivity, desired characteristics, and reliability to variety. However, F1 hybrids are either sterile or the seed will not breed true. We must buy the seed again the next year, and the company that bred them owns the patent on that seed and the profit.

Monsoon pumpkin patch with Ruben’s squash

Many gardeners panicked in spring 2020 when the pandemic impacted supply chains and seed companies were overwhelmed and delayed. This is why I always grow some open-pollinated varieties, where pollination occurs by natural mechanisms such as insect, bird, wind, and humans. With pollen freely flowing between individuals, open-pollinated plants are also more genetically diverse. Each season, this variation within plant populations allows plants to adapt to local growing conditions and climate. The tulsi basil seeds from a Sedona gardener grow stronger and bloom earlier than any I can buy from the seed companies. When we let our gardens go to seed, the plants sow themselves, and decide when conditions are right to emerge in the spring.

Open pollinated Hopi black dye sunflower seeds drying

Last weekend our Rimrock library hosted a seed swap. In the room of about 10 people, there was a range of seed saving experience from novice to professional seed savers for market. A man who once owned a plant nursery is now intent on propagating wild milkweed from seed he collected locally. A newcomer brought bags of marigold seed to share, the only thing she could grow in her garden the first summer here. A basket maker who travels with handpruners in her car, shared seeds from a bouquet of garlic chives and wild grasses arranged in ceramic vase. The librarian had Mexican hat sunflowers she had collected from the side of the road in old prescription bottles. A man who just moved from Oregon, literally arrived with a truckload of winter squash and pumpkins he grew for seed, carefully isolating the varieties so we can enjoy eating the squash this year and for several to come.

Seed swap bounty

I brought Hopi black dye sunflower heads still drying in a big basket, as they have probably been grown around Montezuma Well for a very long time. Our seeds connect us to one another and our particular place, which is not an easy place to adapt and grow. In this way we tether ourselves to the fate of plants, we dance with the pollen flow, the bees, the wind and grow stronger together.