A Season of Deep Change: Letting go of Alchemy Farm
— and reclaiming what was always ours
The woodpecker knocks, first on a tree in the yard and a few minutes later loudly on the side of the house, startling me with his presence. A raven slowly glides by the picture windows that look out to arbutus and fir with mountain glimpse beyond. It’s spring equinox eve and I wonder if this is the raven that used to visit me at the farm, the one who called out to me in the mornings as I walked the dogs.
I can see the mountain, that the farm is nestled into the base of, as I sit here writing. It’s taken me months to be able to sit down to write. Months to begin finding my way back to myself, moving through feelings of deep loss, grief and letting go and finding a way forward. The funny thing about letting go of the farm is how the relief of no longer having to care for the farm is mingled with deep sorrow at leaving the gardens, all my plant relations and memories held by place.
The new stewards are perfect. I know this. Their two young boys will grow up in a place of wonder. Adventures filled with tree forts, tadpoles, forest trails, ponds brimming with water creatures, dragonflies, bees, snakes gliding through tall grass.
I know the changes they are making are like the ones we made when we became the guardians of the land. I know they need to make it their home now.
And yet, my heart reeled in shock when I heard from neighbours that the huge Western hemlock by the driveway had been taken down. The last thing I did before we drove away for the last time was put my hand upon her and tell her new people were coming to care for her, for the land. I asked her to make them feel welcome. I knew she was struggling, but every year the tree guys assured us she was still healthy. I understand the practical decision to remove her, it’s easier to do when you are new and haven’t spoken to her daily.
Up until the moment of the news of the tree I’d been ‘okay’. Reminding myself that the perfect people were there now. That I was grateful for our new home. But that night, I woke up sobbing, in the black of night, deep loss and thoughts running through my mind of: wishing we’d tried harder, tried to hang on to the farm, to the beauty, to the dreams we’d planted there.
I left the name of the farm with the land, thinking that it was Alchemy Farm, but after the tree I realized that Alchemy Farm was mine and my husband Robin’s dream. My—our—work for the last 10 years has been a journey into alchemy. I knew that I had to continue that journey, to continue writing about alchemy, about nature, to share the wonder around us. The new family have to find their own name, their own way.
I began to feel myself again once I’d made the decision to reclaim the Alchemy Farm name—my work, my heart for a decade. I finally began to feel like I could begin to find my way forward. I’ve started planting new pollinator gardens and learning the language of this new land. The dogs, Ruby and Blue, love running through the forest, stopping to look up, the resident squirrel teasing them and chattering loudly.
I’ve begun to feel a sense of freedom as I walk along the winding driveway to my new studio. The studio is in a state of unpackedness, but I finally have the time to begin dreaming of new work. We are surrounded by magical arbutus and Douglas firs with fingers of Old Man’s Beard moss, a forest floor thick with moss covered rocks, a seasonal pond and creek meandering through westcoast beauty.
We are finding our way through this season of deep change. What about you? What are you letting go of?