Yesterday I spent a good three hours moving mulch.
It was hot. It was humid. It was tiring.
And damn was it satisfying.
Not only because of what I had accomplished, but because somewhere in those three sweaty hours, I remembered why the work mattered so much to me.
This mulch was being applied to a long-neglected corner of the property. An area just beyond eyesight of the farm that had caused it to be a bit of an afterthought in my mind for many months.
It wasn’t until May, when we installed irrigation along the fence line at the request of our neighbors — who hated to see our shared passionfruit vine begin to die — that I started to feel inspired to revitalize this space.
But this excitement quickly lost steam in light of other, more pressing matters on the farm that demanded my attention.
So the project sat there, unfinished, waiting for the next hit of inspiration.
That inspiration came this weekend.
After finishing my Saturday evening chores, I noticed a fair bit of light left.
To my surprise, I had a little energy left in me too, so I decided to give this abandoned space a quick look.
What I saw wasn’t pretty.
A pile of cardboard boxes I had been saving for weed barrier sat alongside a few half-heartedly trenched flower beds, making the space look more like a dump than the lush garden oasis I had been envisioning.
Looking at everything that needed to be done would have been paralyzing, so I chose one thing.
I finished a border along the fence using some repurposed bamboo from an old tomato trellis.
When that was done, I turned my attention to the flower beds, re-trenching and installing their borders.
It was nearly dark before I finished, and my body was completely fatigued.
But my excitement for the project was reignited.
The next day I flattened the cardboard boxes and laid them across the footpaths.
Then I began mulching.
At first, I told myself I would only do ten wheelbarrow loads then call it quits. A fair benchmark, I thought, given the heat.
But as the space began to transform with each load, I found it difficult to stop.
At some point I stopped counting.
Dump. Spread. Gather. Repeat.
Each load required about a hundred-yard trip to the mulch pile at the other end of the property, followed by a decent uphill climb on the way back.
Three hours later, I was exhausted.
Under normal conditions, an effort like this may seem reasonable, honorable even, especially for a homeowner wanting to upkeep the look and value of their property.
That’s not our case.
We don’t own this land.
In fact, we have very little idea when we will be asked to leave it, though we know that day is drawing nearer.
In that sense, working to beautify this place sometimes feels like drawing a portrait in the sand as the tide is rising.
We know it won’t last forever.
But rather than seeing this as a reason not to care, we’ve chosen to see it as an invitation to care even more.
About a year ago, for example, we expanded our cooking space to include an earthen oven.
At the time, this decision seemed a little unreasonable as well. We were already convinced our time here was nearing its end, and that any new investment in the space would be short-lived.
But that didn’t stop us.
Today, that oven has become one of the most defining structures on the farm, and fed hundreds of people who have gathered here to enjoy a meal among friends.
This would not have happened if we had taken the “rational” approach.
And there are countless other smaller examples like this scattered throughout the property.
Beds that were reshaped.
Tool racks recently built.
Spaces we cleaned.
Things we repaired even though we know we might not be here long enough to fully enjoy the benefit of them.
A year ago I shared this sentiment following our last summer dinner:
Be irrational with the beauty you create.
Not reckless. Not wasteful.
Just a willingness to make something beautiful even when you cannot fully justify it through some immediate financial or material return.
Point is, when you care about something enough to commit to making it beautiful, something magical is created.
Something that is hard to name but easy to feel.
Our commitment to making this farm, and the space around it, as beautiful as possible while we exist here is the source of whatever magic people say they feel when they engage with us.
It’s something I’m proud of and it’s something I work hard to uphold.
Even when that means moving mulch uphill in the heat :)
It’s these small acts of love and devotion to this place that I intend to keep making as long as we are here.
And that I will continue to wherever we go next.
✌️