Life Lessons From the Farm by Keaton Smith '21

Life Lessons from the Farm

Words & Photos by Keaton Smith '21

Listening to Jay Leshinsky talk about the Knoll is like listening to a philosopher contemplating mortality. The garden is a sacred space providing quasi-religious experiences. Preparing to interview Leshinsky—the former Knoll manager—I expected to talk science: facts, numbers, data. Instead, I found myself in Middlebury’s café nearly moved to tears by Leshinsky’s poetic ponderings. “It’s birth into life into death, and death feeds the life,” Leshinsky muses, “that’s the way it goes.” Previously, I had only thought about gardens in summer-time: luscious, bright and bursting with colors. But for the workers at the Knoll, fall, winter and spring are integral to the life-cycle. Winter is the resting period. Spring is the birth, and, as Leshinsky puts it, a “burst into this huge expansion of energy and growth.” Then, fall arrives; the days grow shorter, and the plants propagate “because they know they’re going to die.” I was struck by the idea of confronting death fearlessly. Coming to terms with mortality is, of course, part of being human. In my philosophy classes at Middlebury, we read texts in which long-gone philosophers grapple with ideas of death; the 16th-century French philosopher Montaigne even writes that “to study philosophy is to learn to die.” We, as humans, are often paralyzed by the fear of death. In contrast, these plants seem resolute as they prepare—by procreating—for their inevitable death. While we are handicapped by narcissism, unable to imagine a world without us at the center, plants recognize the bigger picture. My chat with Leshinsky led to a meeting with the current farm manager, Megan Brakeley, who helped me understand more about the critical role which winter plays. As the icy January wind whipped by the windows, I asked Brakeley to explain what was happening at the Knoll that very minute. “Blessedly little is happening,” Brakeley grinned. “Voles are burrowing . . . mice are nesting in every available crevice, and snakes are hidden under the tarps.” Throughout the cold winter months, the animals take refuge. Brakeley sees a power in this time of year; the only thing to do is “think about the garden and all the life that will blossom for five sweet, sweet months.” She picks out seeds and dreams of the kale, the flowers and the grapes to come. She also takes a break; the wintertime provides “physical constraints” which, Brakeley believes, “help us frame and understand our ways of being.”

Bringing a welcome break from activity, winter meal, Monument happily runs last-minute deliveries to often marks the end of a plant’s life at the Knoll. How- the College: “that doesn’t happen everywhere.” ever, the prospect of new life stirs underground, and I asked why someone should choose his milk. Brakeley plans for and dreams of brighter days. James responded, chuckling, “just let them have a I wanted to learn how individuals dealing with taste test.” I had heard that James is a good neighbor, birth and death frequently might inform my own reac- and it is clear that kindness, effort and dedication to tion to death. Do I fear it? Forget his community surround his life. Walking about it? So, I drove two miles "But to people like me, around the farm, we saw wide-eyed newdown Weybridge Street to see if I could find out how other farmers death is still scary. borns, cud-crunching adults, and an expansive view of the Adirondacks. deal with birth and death. Foreboding and un- As I entered the farm’s office, a group While vegetables have thinkable, the climate was seated for a meeting. Paperwork scatrigid seasonal restraints, milk flows all year long. However, even without an explicit rest cycle, crisis provokes a fear of death..." tered the table, and everyone nursed a cup of chocolate milk as they worked. Having just come from the barn, seeing the finished the dairy farmers at Monument product made me think about the reason why Farms Dairy know birth and death just like Leshinsky the farm existed and operated as it did. It was about and Brakeley. Calves are born, they grow up, they die, taste, tradition and livelihood. and the cycle repeats itself. Birth and death are integral to Monument When I met the co-owner of Monument Farms, Farms. Winter is no rest because dairy farming is Bob James, we talked business. He proudly told me all-consuming. Dealing with death is part of life—not that his family has delivered milk to Middlebury for four something which paralyzes or frightens. generations. They’ve maintained a good relationship While Monument’s main purpose may be crewith the College because of their customer service. If ating a sellable product, they are not fully-fledged conMiddlebury Dining has a milk emergency right before a sequentialists. By-products of the farm’s operation

include happy taste buds, community pride and neighborliness. I don’t often philosophize over milk or kale. But food affects real people dealing with birth and death on farms just a few miles away. The Knoll and Monument Farms are two different operations, yet regular encounters with birth and death connect them. Death at the farm is normalized. But to people like me, death is still scary. Foreboding and unthinkable, the climate crisis provokes a fear of death, particularly as we witness its devastating effects. I often feel helpless and paralyzed when faced with the task of ‘solving climate change.’ However, by taking a lesson from the farmers handling birth and death without fear, we might respond to the climate crisis differently. Our mortality is inevitable—even the plants know it. Yet, they do not fear it. Leshinsky’s words rang through my head: the plants “propagate because they know they’re going to die.” So long as we are paralyzed by fear, there will be no action. By listening to the plants, we learn to face our mortality bravely, and we are freed. Confronting mortality through action is the only way forward.