On the Verge

and on the other side

Things are on the verge.

Peonies are about to pop, tiny fruits are shrugging off the husks of their former floral selves, wildlife is awakening and testing the boundaries of where they’re welcome (looking at you, giant black rat snake), and the nursery paths are filling in with a growing fullness that will soon make it difficult to traverse through.

All this action and intensity, thankfully, is matched with an equal amount of beauty.

*currants, asparagus, elderflowers, curly willow*

With daylight now stretching past 8:00 pm, we wind down our own action with early evening walks around the acreage. It’s then that we check on all that’s transpired throughout the day, often collecting new spears of asparagus, noting what’s thriving, or not, and everything in between. It’s also then that we soak up the overwhelming amount of wonder we feel so lucky to be enveloped by.

This is our 7th spring on this property, and more than ever an increasing variety of maturation is unfolding across our hundreds of perennial plants. Patience is paying off. Most notably throughout the past week, our attention has been on our 8 largest Pawpaw trees, nearly all of which have begun to flower for the first time ever.

*the very first Pawpaw flower to reach full magnificence at foggy blossom*

We planted this original collection of 8 back in 2019, but we first fell in love with the luscious, native fruit in 2016 when we attended the Ohio Pawpaw Festival on a whim. Throughout that early fall weekend, while ecstatically tasting the yellowy-orange-fleshed fruit for the first time, we didn’t know we were on the verge of finding this acreage, and a home for our farm dreams, the following spring.

Discovering Pawpaws 8 years ago motivated us to begin foraging for wild edibles of all kinds, and we still visit our lineup of special spots in public spaces that offer mature and abundant yields of fruits and nuts each autumn. It has become a beloved hobby, but beyond the joy of finding treasures in the woods, it now seems as if Pawpaws may also have been the earliest inspiration for our eventual perennial path.

When we began Foggy Blossom, however, it was farthest thing from our minds.

*mid-spring in the willow fields, while the rows are still visible*

Our annual beginnings seem like ancient history now, and of course Willow has become the star of the show, but Pawpaws will always hold a special place as our secret, first favorite.

Experiencing the first flower from a tree we cultivated from infancy feels like a full circle moment, and has me wondering about all the small seeds that get planted in our hearts and minds, but may take many years to root and mature into something tangible. How many are percolating right now, unseen?

Spring always seems to rush in with a familiar rhythm that has us confident we know exactly what lies around the corner, but being on the verge of anything is never entirely clear until you’ve landed on the other side.

Originally published on May 5, 2024

The Rhythm of a Life

A Decade Shaped By Diagnosis

Density is taking over as vacancy rapidly dwindles from both the acreage and our calendar.

In the natural world, such is the midpoint of spring. Within our lives, such seems to be the ever-growing new norm. Even still, certain voids are prominently present.

From the emptiness between rows of new willow growth, to long, rainy evenings spent catching up on TV, there are obvious gaps where time is still stretching open. In identifying those expanses, however, the forthcoming filling of them, and the energy that will require, seems to overwhelmingly pull focus.

But as we prepare for upcoming workshops, adventures, and the general pandemonium of maintaining 12 acres in summer, all of which will fully usher in the deepest level of density across the board, a pause for noticing the now feels necessary.

*an empty rib-style basket, ready to be filled with weavers*

As I write this, rain is gently falling on the roof, and I can hear turkeys loudly gobbling on a nearby hill. There is laundry churning, and a long to-do list looms, but this blank page is all that truly needs my attention.

Within the emptiness of every new draft, though, I feel endlessly challenged to expel distractions, and part the ominous clouds of anxiety, in order to build some lattice of lucidity. I work to expound upon a simple starting idea, trusting that some semblance of a thesis will arise.

Hours dissolve, another void vanishes.

Throughout the past decade, our life has been full of various forms of spaciousness. There were the obvious collective years of the pandemic, but there were also our personal years (far before Foggy Blossom) spent as caretaker and patient, as I endured treatments and recovery following my cancer diagnosis in 2014.

Those seemingly endless stretches spent experiencing the idle devastation of a life-altering disease could only be filled with hope, tenacity and resilience, which were the forms from which our farm dreams were able to take root.

The vision of Foggy Blossom was born in that void, and we owe all of today’s fullness to the education that arose from there.

The residue of cancer remains, and shapeshifts between an ever-present force, and fully obscured memory, from day to day, but as the years move along the future holds a stronger magnetic pull in our minds.

Last week we finished leading our 8-week Foundations of Willow Basketry class, which was a monumental effort to pull off. It seemed impossible at times, but willow may be the best source of inspiration for embodying resilience and fortitude, and reminding us that we have a history of doing so.

Perhaps that’s why it wound up being the most prominent plant we work with.

*a sweet souvenir from the last night of our class*

10 years ago we didn’t know what the future would hold, and even though the path is clearer now, there’s no way to foresee how all the spaces will be filled as time moves through them. As an antidote, there’s always room to simply notice what’s here, now.

In moments of reflection, the layers of all that’s passed, and all that’s on the horizon, seem to rise to the surface and unfurl into a wider vision. There, fullness and emptiness flesh out the rhythm of a life, which willow shows us how to face with aspirational strength and grace.

Here’s to digesting all the vacancies and densities - past, present, and future - with those traits in mind.

Originally published on May 12, 2024

I Don't Know Why I'm Doing This

Compulsion vs. Construct

Lately we’ve met several (unconnected) people who have taken to weaving, whether with willow or other materials, and they’ve each had similar comments about their burgeoning interest.

They say something to the effect of, “I don’t know why I’m doing this, I just feel compelled.” Some have even remarked on how unbelievably challenging weaving can be, or how unsuccessful their attempts have been, but that there’s a seemingly primal urge that guides their hands to continue.

These conversations have us thinking about all the threads that wove together our unique blend of art and agriculture, and how involved we were in designing the architecture of that evolution, or not. The conclusion seems to be that we were willing to be led, so certain forces took the reigns.

It’s been a good reminder to remain open to whatever may be seeking a receptive place to land, even if it defies personal reason.

We are currently in New Hampshire where we’ve spent the last 4 days leading basketry workshops at an incredibly beautiful farm. It has been an intensely immersive experience for the students, most of whom have never worked with willow before. Perhaps they were answering some version of that primal call, or maybe they simply wanted to get away and try their hand at a new craft. Maybe they imagined themselves as the next great basketmaker.

Whatever the motivation, all of us have been confronted by the clashing of idyllic expectations and physical realities, which have a habit of unfolding in opposition.

For years, both Dan and I followed paths paved by others, both artistic and agricultural, in an effort to embody certain idealized archetypes by example. The molds we tried to emulate never truly fit, and having such stringent ideas about who we wanted to be, or were meant to be, or what were capable of, kept us from receiving the more intuitive compulsions that couldn’t break through the noise of our constructs.

This remains a challenge.

It can be incredibly difficult to keep dumping out your proverbial cup in an effort to maintain a receptive sense of emptiness, naivety and beginner’s mind. Clear-cut plans and a distinct handle on who you are, and what you can do, is comforting. The opposite can feel like a directionless abyss until you find your footing.

All the folks who don’t know why they can’t stop weaving seemed unsatisfied with their inability to articulate a reason, which is a relatable frustration for analytical minds. But if we’ve learned anything, it’s that one good feeling can serve as a stepping stone to begin forging your own path from.

We may want to be skilled in one way, or successful in another, or follow the exact trail that others have blazed in the name of ease, but rather than scheming so much in advance, perhaps the best pursuit is to follow the feelings instead. This takes practice and attuned attention to all the resonance receptors within us, many of which we lose touch with over a lifetime.

*The most spectacular space we’ve ever taught in!*

On top of that, sometimes good feelings lay on the other side of hard work, camoflaging them in the moment and making the challenge appear insurmountable. We always hope those who struggle the most in one of our workshops will find themselves falling in love with basketry by the time they get home.

Perseverance can be a gamble if you don’t know why you should push through, or what numinous force may be doing the pushing. Dan did not see himself as a basketmaker, and certainly never as a teacher of the craft. I never imagined I’d enjoy writing like this (which often feels like the highest expression of compulsion), or that I’d find great joy in illustrating things like plants or basketry tools, but here we are.

Perhaps weaving will not become the be-all and end-all art form for everyone who tries it, but it may be one of the gateways to get back in touch with the incomprehensible intuition we all tend to lose a connection with in this modern world. If we can tap back in, there’s hope to weave our own way, one moment at a time.

From there, and only in hindsight, can we start to see the person and life we’ve uniquely constructed by instincts over reason.

Originally published on May 19, 2024

May's Million Moments

and thousands of miles

The peonies are beyond bloomed, and the rate of ripening across the acreage has hit warp speed. It feels like we have too.

Throughout the past week we’ve traveled nearly 2,000 miles across 4 states to complete our 2nd teaching engagement of the year. As the final days of May sit ahead of us this week, here’s a look at where we’ve been and what we’ve been up to.

On the 7th we finished teaching an 8-Week Willow Basketry Foundations class at Contemporary Craft in Pittsburgh. We made buttons for our fantastic group of weavers to commemorate our experience together.
This mammoth Fishing Spider appear on our outdoor cushion, but luckily I’m a fan of arachnids and will be drawing this beauty soon.
Speaking of drawing, I recently made this colored pencil illustration with some of my favorite flora and fauna.

We planted thousands of new willow cuttings throughout the fields.
In the studio, thousands of dried willow rods were soaked and mellowed in preparation for workshops.
Thousands of hair follicles were trimmed from Dan’s head.

*A bumblebee enjoying a romp around a thimbleberry blossom*

On the 14th we embarked on our drive to New Hampshire from Pennsylvania.
Arrival at Sanborn Mills Farm to teach 4 days worth of workshops.
A look at the baskets made in our Rope Coil Bowl class.
All cleaned up on the final night of our trip.

*Bunches of blueberries, so close to getting their blue hue*

Surprise blooms from Crossvine we planted years ago.
A pair of stunning peonies.
Blackberry canes growing like mad.

Amidst all the engagements, duties, and travel, we’ve enjoyed some nights out this month. Bowling, ice cream, and visits to the city were welcome respites, and we’re looking forward to relaxing into the rest of this Memorial Day weekend to fully replenish our stores for the next stretch of adventures.

Field Notes Archive - May 2024

On the Verge