In my kitchen there’s a big old wood framed window that looks out over the trees. It’s one of my favourite views in this house. There are others: the valley and low lying mountain range from my back veranda, the apple orchard I can see from my bedroom, the freshly cultivated field that greets me as I head out the front door for my early morning run. But this one is the best. Most nights all I can see is a deep inked darkness, the trees outlined by starlight. Tonight, the moon is waxing hard to full and the sky is lit up. Earlier this eve, as I stood at that window and made up a tray of walnut brownies for someone who did something awesome for me, my heart and mind were noisy. The daily news of the people of Gaza has occupied my thoughts pretty constantly these past few weeks. Another nation of Brown-skinned people, decimated and lambasted by a corrupt regime in retaliation for the murderous acts of a minority faction that leads with hate and represents no one but themselves. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t help a single one of those far away families in any direct way. But I can lead with love, honesty and radical kindness in my day to day life, as proof that there has to be another way.
The little farm on Splatsin territory that I now call home is part of that living proof. It doesn’t belong to me - I can’t hold title to land that isn’t mine to claim ownership of. So for the next few years, hopefully many of them, I’m respectfully settling, stewarding, growing, preserving and welcoming anyone who comes up the road to my house nestled into a 150 acre cattle ranch. The past 6 weeks have been a whirlwind of getting to know the land I’m on. Breaking ground, cultivating, hauling and tilling, lots and lots of cowshit. Cover crops are seeded. Red Russian garlic, Haskap berries and Yarrow are in. Seed stock ordered. Wood stacked. The apiary is mapped out. My bees are overwintering on the coast, cared for by my amazing and trusty assistant Loki. In the spring, I’ll transport them out to their new home here - which will probably make for a pretty hilarious road movie. The field work has been intense, mostly on my own. All while working a full time job cookin’ up good eats for the crew at the Caravan Farm Theatre. These days, the cookshack is toasty with a roaring fire in the wood stove. There’s always music: Gord Downie, Big Red Machine, Gregory Alan Isakov, Jeremy Dutcher, Raphael Saadiq, Frank Ocean, Joni Mitchell, Bon Iver, Beastie Boys and Beyonce (Break My Soul - come oonnn). Lots of laughter, humans, horses and the aroma of belly filling meals coming out of the kitchen - it fills my cup. I think I’m gaining a quiet, deep respect from the lovely couple who run the ranch I live on - feels pretty damn good. But I haven’t been alone. My peeps are cheering hard for me - that band of loyal, amazing souls. And many good folks out here have offered resources and equipment and support. My tribe - but also people I don’t even know, so generous with their knowledge. I’m blown away by their warmth, kindness and humour. Thank you. The winter months in this cozy log home will be occupied with figuring out irrigation and a self-sustaining business plan that aligns with the things that mean the most to me: community, love, affordable healthy food for everyone - not just upwardly mobile market goers. A modest CSA program right off the farm, so people can see where their food grows. And finding a place for barter systems and gift economies. Putting all my creativity into this.
I miss my daughter deep in my bones. But she’s everywhere on this farm. I’m a super proud mama bear - she’s across the country at university on scholarship, carving out a life for herself. She’s the smartest most gorgeous person I know. Curious and brave. I’d like to think that my mothering has helped make her the woman she is. But really, she’s done it on her own steam. Her messages and late night phone calls: conversations about friends, budgeting (oy the e-transfers) and navigating adulthood - chatting about the courses she’s taking and the essays she’s writing - what it all means to be a young Black woman in the world - it’s such a pleasure to watch someone you love so deeply just fly. She’ll come out in December to visit and I can’t wait.
I’m 53 years old - 54 soon. Boy it feels fucking beautiful to wear that. I’m growing this new farm. A South Asian woman - yeah, flying that flag. It’s one of the most lionhearted things I’ve done since I first held my daughter in my arms. I’ve never felt stronger, healthier and more vulnerable. There’s so much I don’t know yet. So much to learn. But I don’t need all the answers. I’ve never lived my life that way. Just the wildness of the questions.
On one of Feist’s older albums there’s a song, ‘Honey Honey’. I have a special connection to it, because a couple of years ago, I had the pleasure of singing it in the forest every night in the winter show at the Caravan. The feeling of those notes sailing out of my throat in the falling snow was like no other. As I listen to it tonight, sitting on the sill of my favourite window is a jar of golden midsummer honey, harvested from my bees. This particular batch is redolent with the smell of lavender, sage flower and honeysuckle forage. And tastes like heaven. It reminds me where I’ve come from, keeps me in the present and nudges me into the future, all at once. So wild. So very wild. Honey Honey.