I regret nothing

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Cute and Spunky VW Bus for Sale.

That’s what I titled the craigslist ad.

And then two days later it was sold.

Am I sad? A little. That silly little bus brought me a lot of happiness just from being parked in our driveway.

But. That’s the problem.

It spent the majority of its life parked in our driveway.

We originally bought the bus as a cheese delivery vehicle. In reality, tooling up to Seattle at 5:30 in the morning for a Farmer’s Market isn’t really that fun in a vehicle that maxes out at 60 mph, has no heat or air conditioning, and has no radio.

I know. We’re spoiled. But you know what? Farming is hard. We probably shouldn’t make it harder just because it’s adorable.

And so we found ourselves leaving the bus at home and driving up to Seattle in our truck.

Which means this vehicle, which we paid real money for, was just sitting in our driveway. Wasting away. Not making us any money.

So we sold it.

It was a “grown up decision.”

The reality is, many of us that become farmers, do so on a childish whim. We cling to the romance of turning our labor and our relationships with animals into food that tastes better, looks better, and feels better than anything you can buy on the shelves of a grocery store.

And those of us who support farmers directly, whether by buying from farmer’s markets, or shopping local options in grocery stores or co-ops, cling to the notion that food is personal and should not be taken for granted.

Farms feed our inner child—that most pure spot in our souls that still squeals with delight when we see a baby goat bound across a field of green clover. Indeed, it’s the romance of helping birth a creature in the middle of a thunderstorm, or the magic of turning milk into cheese, that keeps us going.

The other day Giz and I returned home to find a litter of baby pigs in the forest. I strapped on her brother and we trudged down to the forest to bring the mama food, water, and some extra bedding to help insulate her nest (because she REFUSES to give birth in the huts we bought for her). The entire way Giz was in full midwife mode. She was calm around the babies, careful around the mama, and so attentive to the situation I felt my own mama heart bursting at the seams. This farm, this ridiculous farm in all it’s child-like glory, is raising two of the best children in the world.

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Farming is hard (I know, I know, I say it all the time) and so when we get to experience these miracles, we are rejuvenated. Our will is re-instated and we are able to vow to fight the good fight (you know, the one where we care about where our food comes from) another day.

Which is why it’s easy to make decisions about your cheese delivery vehicle based on cuteness and not necessarily efficiency.

We’ll chalk that one up as a whoopsie daisies.

No harm, no foul.

And while I’d love to say that this farm will never make a mistake like that again, I would be lying. This farm is my spirit animal. And my spirit animal makes mistakes, believes that dragons used to exist, is still holding out hope unicorns are real, and refuses to run a farm based on profit alone.

Lucky for me Matthew’s inner child likes to color on the same page as my inner child. As long as we can create magical worlds for our children and the community we live in, we will.

That I can promise.

And while we're on the subject! We're filling up spots for our Spring Break camp faster than anticipated! If you'd like for your kiddo to spend a whole week here experiencing poop, babies, and goat cheese first hand, you can register at Brown Paper Tickets >