Why I'm Reinventing Myself...Again

Ten years of growing, learning, and listening to the land—and what happens when we finally slow down enough to hear ourselves

This year we’re taking it easy at Alchemy Farm.

We’re in our 10th year, and this is the first one where I’m making time to be present, to enjoy quiet moments, to rest. It’s meant letting go of things I thought I had to do—like tending over 1,000 dahlia plants. If you’ve grown dahlias, then you know what kind of time commitment that takes.

It’s also meant letting go of work that doesn’t make my heart happy, like harvesting dozens of buckets of flowers a few times a week. Instead, I’m enjoying the flowers. I’ve been walking amongst the gardens in contemplation and gratitude, instead of the perfectionist, over-achiever, having-to-get-things-done mind.

I’m allowing myself time to process the last 10 years and this monumental task we took on.

Starting a flower farm is not for the weak of heart. And starting a flower farm with no plan and no experience is not something I recommend.

A farm is a living, breathing creation. It’s all-encompassing and demands everything. It brings you to your knees with exhaustion but also feeds your soul with beauty and wonder.

For years, I fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day—worried about the weather, the weeds, the garden pests, finding farm help, and how to make a living doing this work that fed my soul.

Here, I’ve designed and planted gardens, started plants from seed, learned how to prepare and sell at farmer’s markets. I stocked our farm stand with gluten-free baking, jams, chutneys, relishes, baskets of freshly picked fruit, berries, and veggies.

Using my training as an artist, I’ve taught myself how to be an eco-florist, working with the personality of flowers and plants to create flower messengers for people’s loved ones.

While also using my graphic design background to run our website and social media accounts. I’ve also drawn on my skills as a teacher to offer workshops and garden tours, sharing the magic of the farm with visitors.

I learned a new language—the Latin names, secret incantations, of hundreds of plants. I learned the secrets to germinating their seeds, planting schedules, which beneficial bugs or potions each one needed. I’ve cried because an irrigation pipe failed and no one noticed the dead plant bed.

I’ve had to move—supple weaving of plans like a seasoned dancer—when sudden weather changes brought early rain or unexpected winds that broke flowers destined for a wedding.

I’ve cursed voles that felled new apple trees, knowing they’re part of the ecosystem and help aerate the soil—but still. I’ve watched in wonder as tiny black beetle pests were decimated by the sudden arrival of a flock of ladybugs that quickly dispatched them.

Nature has me in constant wonder. And the farm has been my teacher.

Now it feels like it’s time to pause.
To put pen to paper.

I’ve known I was going to be a writer since I was six years old and wrote my first story. As a teenager in writing class, I learned that writers need to gather experiences to write well. (Did I mention I’m an overachiever?)

It feels like I finally have something important enough to write a book about. To share what I’ve learned. To invite readers to create their own special place with, and in, nature.

It doesn’t have to be a farm.
A small yard, a balcony, a single pot of herbs by the window—any of these will invite wonder into your life.

As I’m slowing down with the farm, coming into alignment with its natural rhythms, I’m in walking meditation—quietly writing a prayer of thanks, of reverence to the Earth, to the beings we share this magical place with.

Would you be interested in a book, a retreat, a course, a series of masterminds—would you be interested in walking this path with me?

Or is there something else that would support you in your journey?