Things I am currently concerned about, a list:

  • is it SEASONAL AFFECTIVE or is it GRIEF? a constant january question. does it matter why/ how I’m sad? do any of my coping mechanisms count as ‘healthy’? why is year six so much sadder than year five? how did I forget its possible to feel this way?
  • am I using instagram as a crutch, as an obstacle to create things that are not instagrammable? why do I think about what to write on my instagram captions instead of what to write in my NOTEBOOK, which will NOT BE SHARED until it is ready?? why do I even care? I’m not interested in being insta-famous and literally gain nothing from sharing my art/creative juices on there, besides affirmation from my friends. how do I detach in order to create things that are more productive? how do you create things without a goal/deadline in mind? how do you find deadlines?
  • will I be burned out forever? or is it a cycle like my grief, washing up and down like the goddamn tide?
  • why am I having such vivid dreams? will my sleep ever become restful again?
  • will we ever be able to farm without the constant pressure of the county and their need to regulate regulate regulate?
  • how can I use my resources for good?
  • when will I write my novel? will the haralsons wait for me forever or will that plot slowly dissipate until all I have left is the chaotic barn party scene I have already written?
  • when will I count as ‘a writer?’
  • do I have what it takes?
  • is love a state of being or a verb or a decision? can it be all three?
  • how do we live against that horizon? (stolen from the intro of Storm Lake, by Art Cullen, which I have not read the rest of because it was a gift for my grandpa which then I stole back to read snippets of during our visit. it is *on the list*)
  • what other books should be on my to-read list?

It turns out this was a list of questions. Reading them all together induces a slight panic.

In other news, the best book I have read so far this year is Seed to Harvest by Octavia Butler. I’ve been finding solace in making my way through her works and admiring the ambition and scope of her writing. The worlds she could imagine??? The ways of being human and not-human??? The resistance of every single character??? Incredible.

However, it may be replaced by the best (only) book I am currently reading, which is Very Different: H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald. Only because it is a book so relatable, a book for Maja in January. A book about birds of prey and grieving the death of one’s father. I’m glad I bought it. It is the particular style of memoir that resonates the most with me—artistic and wandering, uniting an entirely procedural plotline (taming a goshawk) with the deep and chaotic wonderings of grief and how did I become this way and in how many ways does this thing fill a void in my life/heart?

I would rather be reading it now than writing this list, but I have to d o s o m e t h I n g and get back on track. I would like to be making such an incredible amount of art, and there’s only four weeks left before lambing.

The only question I have an answer for is this: will I address the three-season long hiatus between blog posts? The answer is no.

An Open Letter to the Johnson County Board of Supervisors

My name is Maja Black, and I am currently farming in Johnson County with my sister, Carmen. I am writing in support of Kate Edwards and the motion to end the 40 acre rule. Much like Kate, we grow vegetables for a CSA that provides food for over 200 families in our local area, eight months out of the year. However, unlike Kate, Carmen is not a tenant farmer. She is lucky enough to have had both the opportunity and family support (emotionally and financially) to buy forty acres.

In short, this means that on our farm, we have the ability to create infrastructure that works for us—to own buildings and hoop houses that make production easier, safer, and possible for a longer season. We are able to make these decisions about buildings, about more permanent infrastructure, not only because Carmen owns the land, but because the land is zoned agriculture. In contrast, Kate is limited by the fact that she is renting land, and shouldn’t invest in permanent infrastructure before she owns land herself. And if she were to buy less than 40 acres right now, it would not be zoned agriculture, which means that she would have to go through a whole lot of paperwork to do anything agricultural on her property, much less build any infrastructure.

All of this is to say that there are some key things that make farming in the way that we do feasible: 1) Owning your own land, and 2) Having that land be zoned agriculture.

As small vegetable producers, we are working so hard to provide food for our local community—our produce wouldn’t survive the long distribution chain that industrial vegetables take to our grocery stores. We try and grow food that is fresh and healthy—without the use of chemicals and additives. We are working, every day, to adapt our current food system into one that nourishes and benefits everyone, not just the people at the top, making money off the system.

As advocates of Johnson County, you use producers like us to tell a story about how local food can work, and what a great job we are doing, here in Johnson County. In return, it would be really amazing to be treated as experts in our field. To be treated as responsible farmers should mean to be listened to as some of the most knowledgeable people about land use and sustainable management. And as those experts, we are telling you that we need to be able to access land.

The reason I farm with my sister, and the reason our friend Anna is farming with us, is not because we love each other (though we do). The reason is that neither Anna nor I have the resources to start our own farms yet, much less purchase 40 acres of our own, and farming together is a current solution that lets each of us be on the land, working towards our goals. What are you doing to help us access land?

Eliminating the 40 acre rule would create opportunities for young producers like us to work toward something different. This is about local farmers who produce food that is good for you to eat, telling you exactly what we need to make the local food economy you are asking for, and we need it today. If you support local food, you should support local farmers.

Thank you for spending the time to make our county a better place to live.

A poem for spring bodies!!


Bare shoulder sunshine,
fingers deep in the soil
Don’t even need a trowel, really,
just the depth of your hand
and the straight line running down the row.
The rhythm of the shuffle down,
Kneeling to squatting to bending to kneeling,
Sometimes I sit.
(I try not to sit)
Plant the collards deep,
up to the growth point
Can you feel how good it feels?
(to be a plant and)
to be finally released from the small scale of your soil block
and buried up to your neck
in fresh soft dirt
(SOIL, excuse me)
so much space to stretch
and reach
And when it rains, to feel the rain drops
that fell just for you
Sink down into your soil, your spot, your home.
To grow big and tall,
Reaching for a sun
you don’t know you can never reach,
But feels so good on your bones (leaves)

Nourishment can mean many things.

I’d been getting angsty about winter body, winter stress
It takes a different kind of energy to keep warm
even swaddled under the blankets
(when winter is six months of darkness)
A different kind of determination.
But now, suddenly–
The only things the body needs to do are:
1. Keep moving
2. Keep moving
3. Enjoy the sunshine.

I’ll see you next week when it rains and I have to come back inside.


me and my collards!!! squinting in the sun!!!

Sepia-toned Storytelling

I have not posted in a long time. Many reasons for that, including the instant choke-hold having an audience (albeit a small one) put on my writing confidence, but mostly because there have been some crappy things at the farm and that’s hard to write about.

A good friend, at the beginning of my blog sharing, told me to write about every bad thing, write it down and talk about it and acknowledge it. And I think that is an easier thing to say than do; and much easier to do if the bad thing is like, “I was so cold harvesting vegetables today that my fingers went numb,” or “A deer ate 80 cabbages last night.” Those things suck, and the cabbages is definitely a significant loss, but at the same time, you can pick yourself back up from that.

But this spring. Oh, this spring. Up until yesterday, there was still snow on the ground from a heavy snow on April 8th, we can’t get our plants (including hundreds of dollars worth of onion starts going dormant in our basement) in the ground in any foreseeable future, and we are having x number of health concerns about our animals. But I’m not going to write about those problems just yet, because there is too much to say and too much emotional sewage to wade through.

What I want to write about is why I feel like I can’t talk about things that are going poorly on the farm. As farmers, especially ones that market directly to our customers, who for the most part care about us using organic and humane practices (which we care about too, for the record), we have to sell more than our produce. We have to sell our image, which too often gets cast as this sepia-toned instagram farm filled with bounty and beauty.

It’s complex to try and parse out what this means for us and for farming. On the one hand, this happy and pastoral farm image we must sell is kind of true– many weeks out of the year, it does feel pretty idyllic out on the farm, and I love to share pictures and stories about how much I love my life, because I really do. But that image is also one-sided and doesn’t leave any room for us to be human, to make mistakes, and for bad shit to happen. The customer wants to believe that organic, local produce comes without any struggle, that they are buying into this pastoral ideal as well as the vegetable.

And we work to maintain that image because we cannot afford to lose customers. Our dependence on our customers makes it hard to be truthful when we want to talk about things not going well. We don’t want them to lose trust in us or think we are doing a bad job. So we continue to paint things with a positive spin, to look on the bright side, and work to remain a source of not only healthy vegetables, but healthy vibes in our community. But the truth is that there are so many variables in farming that are so outside of our control. We are one of the only industries that is fully dependent on the weather– drought, snow, rain, flood, wind, heat– all of those things can destroy our livelihood pretty dang quick. And simple mistakes– like planting the cabbage 16 inches apart instead of 12– can drastically impact our yield. There is so much uncertainty in farming that sometimes it feels like stuff is always going wrong, but that is just par for the course.

What this shiny image of farming does is furthers the separation people have from their food. The consumer has become so distanced from the food being grown that many of the industrial processes today I think would horrify them, and do, when they end up watching those food documentaries that exploit people’s sense of horror/ emotions. But beyond this type of storytelling, those stories are hidden away by the vertical integration of food production. They are hidden because they’re not great.

The stories the customer does have access to (and wants to) are ours– local producers, members of our community, women or minority farmers with a hopeful and positive story to tell. However, if we continue to just propagate this shiny idea of what “our” kind of farming looks like, is it actually helping our food system? If we are not truthful about our experiences growing food, how could we possibly get the support we need?

Someone running for state office in our district came out to visit the farm the other day, and he said something along the lines of, “I’ve noticed a lot of women farmers in the area. Is that mostly what you’re finding these days, that this is a growing movement of mostly women farmers?”

The answer was of course not, if you look at the statistics, over 90% of young/beginning farmers are white men (New Food Economy). The reason it seems that way to our young white male politician is that the women and minority farmers in our area have to do so much more outreach and storytelling to be accepted, to be heard. We are creating a narrative that includes us, but in doing so, it is somehow skewing the reality.

I’m sure if you looked at our farm community from the outside, it would seem to be filled with women farmers. However, that farm community is mostly vegetable and farmer’s market producers. If you include the commodity crop producers, the women farmers would be a much smaller percentage of the whole.

And from the inside, I can tell you that I know or know of almost every woman farmer in the area. There’s not actually that many of us. While it seems like a lot, I think that is actually just indicative of the dearth of minority farmers in the area.

So where does this leave us? This eternal question of how to tell our stories. If we want to sell our food, we have to sell the shiny instagram farm. If we want to be respected as women farmers, we have to be perfect. We have to be tough and fierce and badass, as well as being goddamn nourishers of the land that are able to grow food so well, so wholesomely. We have to hold ourselves to such a high bar, because the spotlight’s on us. But in making room for different kinds of farmer’s voices, we can’t forget how far we have to go. We can’t change the reality by overwriting the narrative. We can’t forget about every farmer and farmworker in this country that struggles to make a living. We can’t see some examples of unconventional producers succeeding in our area and think that we’ve made it. Keep the goal in mind, our freedom and food is on the line.

Endnote: And it’s funny, even as I revise this post, I find myself toning down my description of our current strugs on the farm. I hate for anyone to think we are having a bad time, I don’t want anyone to worry. We’re fine. We’re fine and we’re doing a good job and we’re gonna have a great spring season!! That’s the story it’s so tempting to tell. Because it, too, is true, and is easier to palate. So if there’s anything you take from this post, it’s that we’re doing great.

Welcome to Agriculture

I started this morning trying to give CPR to a dead baby goat. It was tangled with its sibling, breach (coming out butt first), and Carmen had a time getting them sorted out to get them out. It probably died of stress before we even intervened, but. Still tried to resuscitate. Still kind of butt-y.

I’m not sure any of the old farmers I know would have ever tried to perform CPR on a dead newborn animal. It feels like the kind of confused desperation that you do as a young person when you don’t know what else to do. And, I mean. The goat was dead. But we had to try.

It’s not the only problem we’re currently dealing with, and when Carmen called one of our neighbors, who has been raising sheep for 60 years, for some advice he just said, “Welcome to agriculture.” And I think that is really fucking true. We like to post all the cute pictures, we like to tell stories about us young farmers trying things and succeeding, having great times, making good food. But that’s not the whole truth, and That. Is. Agriculture.

When you raise animals, just like if you work in a hospital, or as a vet, or I don’t know, as a coroner, you are living on the veil between life and death. Death is immediate and a physical process, and generally kind of inexplicable. It isn’t like on Grey’s Anatomy, when they always know why the person died– the brain aneurysm exploded, or the kidney transplant failed to take. Sometimes it just happens.

Of our little team of midwives, I’ve been the one to encounter a lot of the dead ones this year (when they have died overnight, etc). And don’t get me wrong– we’ve had a very low death rate so far– but when you are lambing, animals die. The process for mammals to enter the world is shocking and miraculous, but also it is very easy for things to go wrong. New life is bookended and shadowed by death, and as farmers, we suck it up and keep moving. We do our best, and take good care of our animals, but sometimes we don’t get the win. And every time I have found a dead baby– there is this sinking feeling, combined with a gritting of my teeth. And I’m not going to lie, I had a good sob out in the barn by myself at 6 am at one point too.

“There’s no crying in farming” (shout out to A League of Their Own) is about the furthest thing from my truth that I can imagine. But it also feels like a goal. Kind of.

I think the important thing with the shitty times is that we have to hold our both/ands very close. We have to feel the impact of death, we have to feel sad and understand the value of life and our morals. But we also have to keep moving, because in agriculture, you encounter death, and there’s no way not to. It doesn’t mean we’re doing a bad job, even. It’s part of working with animals, and the life we have chosen (are choosing every day), and not only that, it’s important to talk about.

I think maybe one of my biggest issues with vegetarianism/ veganism at this point is the implication that eating meat causes animal death, and that choosing not to eat meat prevents animal death. It seems indicative of someone living very out of touch from death and what that means on a visceral level, and how that would even play out. It comes from a lack of understanding of what animal agriculture is and can be.

I’m not going to deny that some forms of animal agriculture are less humane than others, but I think that we need to get the fuck over ourselves when it comes to animals and death and dying. EVERYTHING DIES. And in the wild, animals die all the time, especially during birth (for mammals). What we do, on our farm, is help facilitate as many healthy and successful births as possible, something that doesn’t happen when mammals give birth in the wild. One of our CSA customers just told us about watching a deer in their backyard give birth on the edge of this small precipice and the fawn fell over a 9 foot wall. And lived!

I’m rambling a little bit because we stayed up late last night out in the barn, and have been doing a lot of work so far today. I just think it’s important to talk about death, and not just in hushed tones at funerals. You deal with a lot of death when you work with a lot of living animals, and that is the way it is. It’s sad but shouldn’t always be horrifying, because it is so incredibly normal and a part of life. The end.

March is Shitty Feel Better Soup // make something with your final storage veggies soup

I’ve been trying to get on an every Monday posting schedule, but I got flattened by a cold this weekend and had LOVELY lovely visitors, so today I am posting the soup I made because the outdoors looks like this:IMG_20180305_133326901_HDR.jpg

Brief farm update: We are up to 38 lambs, I think, and Jag had triplets last night!

IMG_20180305_105817936IMG_20180305_105825834They are so stupid and cute I love them. This little girl looks JUST like the buck (below).


Veggies you still have on hand in March. Mine included:
sweet potato
carrots (those icky baby ones that take too long to chop)
canned tomaters

some kind of stock/broth option
beans (canned or presoaked)
cumin, coriander, bay leaves, salt, pepper, mustard seed, paprika
all your sorrows and worries (don’t worry, they dissipate in the steam)

Preparation is pretty straightforward. Sauté chopped sweet potato, adding chopped onions, garlic, and carrots after a few minutes. Cook for 5, then add stock and canned maters and spices. Add beans (rinsed and drained). Stir in your sorrows slowly, lean in for a little steam facial. Simmer for a dang while, as long as you can stand. Throw in chopped cabbage at the end.


Serve with the dairy product of your choice.

Reasons why I’m glad I didn’t go to MOSES this weekend (Also filed under why I don’t always feel like a farmer, ALSO filed under everyone should be a farmer)

MOSES is the largest organic farming conference in the country. This weekend there were many many farmers, young and old, etc etc attending workshops about organic production, from vegetables to grains to livestock, in La Crosse, Wisconsin. I didn’t want to go to MOSES this weekend—I’m very relieved I didn’t go, actually, for a number of reasons. Some of which are practical:

First, we’re lambing, so leaving the farm even for a few errands is sometimes a stretch. Our lives are in the barn right now.

Second, I personally don’t do very well at conferences. Introvert, emotional, interacting with hundreds of people. Not a great combination.

But the third reason is something that kind of bugs me about myself—an assumption I have about who goes to things like MOSES. Because while a lot of people attending MOSES are actually farmers, there are a lot of non-farmers, aspiring, or beginning farmers too. People growing on a single empty lot in a city, or on a sixteenth of an acre of their grandparents land, or grow microgreens hydroponically in a trailer. And because they aren’t doing what I’m doing—not to the scale of the farm I’m a part of—the snarky, judgmental part of my brain wants to say they aren’t farming. Because we maybe don’t have a lot to share with each other, production-wise, I want to write them off, I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t have an idea of what someone growing smaller than me can offer me. And I want to write them off because I don’t think their experiences count under the category of farming. And it’s stupid, because I know there are farmers that would do that exact same thing to someone like me—who call vegetable farms gardens, and would scoff at our flock of 30 ewes (36, but who’s counting (just kidding, I’m definitely counting, we’re lambing, don’t you remember)).

And I think this thing I struggle with, with categorizing other producers in a way that excludes them from *what is farming*, is exactly the same thing that makes me sometimes (often) feel like I am not a farmer. The most common barriers to farming are things that I don’t have a straight-forward relationship to either, so why am I judging these other aspiring or beginning farmers? Let me lay a couple out for you.

Land access

It is safe to say that land access barriers mark the number one obstacle to young farmers actually farming. In Iowa alone, farmland is over three times more expensive than it was in 1990, even after adjusting for inflation (Iowa State Farmland Values Survey). When you combine that with the fact that 97% of Iowa is privately owned, and 92% is farmland, and the average age of the Iowa farmer is 57 years old, you can see why it is hard to access farmland in Iowa (State Data Center). Land is too expensive, owned by old white men, and privately owned/ not for sale.

(A quick note to acknowledge that it is pretty fucked up that we even talk about land in this way—that it is very colonial in the first place to approach land from an ownership perspective, and that all land in America was stolen from indigenous peoples.)

Not only that, but not all land is the same, according to county and state zoning laws. If you have land that is not zoned ag, there are a multitude of different restrictions on the type of business and farm you are allowed to run, and higher taxes to pay on residential or commercial property. Not only that, but in my county, there is an inane law stating that in order to be zoned agricultural land, one must have a property that is 40 acres or more. Based on the average price of an acre of farmland in 2017, 40 acres in Johnson County would cost $293,040, an amount that is inaccessible for beginning farmers.

My personal relationship to farmland is a pretty good situation, all things considered. My sister purchased a farm from a woman we’ve known our whole lives, and while I haven’t yet decided how I want to permanently be involved, I’m working for and with her on the vegetable CSA and our livestock operation. My own troubles with this barrier are trivial—it is just me, making a fuss about calling myself a farmer without my own farm. But that’s pretty dumb.


Related to the fact that farmland is so expensive is the fact that start-up costs for a new farmer are monumental. Depending on what enterprise you start with, after you find access to land, and depending on the situation on that property, you not only have to buy seed stock, but you probably need to buy tractors, tractor attachments, fencing, feed, livestock, etc, and each one of those things I just named costs a buttload of money. Even cows. Cows are fucking expensive.

This is why family farms were a thing. Because it is almost impossible to start from the ground up, passing functional operations on through the family was one of the only ways to make ends meet. But now that even that often leads to debt and ends not meeting, rural farmkids are leaving. They have been leaving, and it’s still true. There are no jobs here besides the struggle of farming, so kids of farmers move to cities for other kinds of work. For a “better life.”

Capital always has been and probably always will be a huge obstacle to new farmers. It’s a big topic and there are new and creative ways farmers are attacking it, from kickstarters to grant writing. For the record, I don’t think it is realistic or a good example to fund your farm off of grants and then sell what you are doing as economically sustainable farming. Just for the record. But anyway. Capital is a big problem. My sister was able to purchase the farm with a combination of money our family had and loans. Not everyone has that privilege, and even with that privilege it was logistically difficult to buy the farm. And the farm came with the infrastructure to run a CSA and keep sheep on pastures– many of the other starting costs were incorporated into the sale of the farm.


This one is a little subjective, and I think one I struggle with a lot. There’s no education or training requirement to start farming, if you have access to land and capital. So then what amount of experience qualifies you to begin farming? There are ag degrees at many colleges, but what do those actually prepare you for? On graduation day, can you go out and just start farming successfully, from land management to bookkeeping? Probably not. How many years do you need to work on someone else’s farm before you should strike out on your own? What if you have worked only for short amounts of time on many farms? Do you have enough relevant experience with the day-to-day management, year in and year out, to do it by yourself?

Should anyone be farming by themselves?


Once you overcome all these massive obstacles to becoming a farmer, you still have to have the guts and wear-with-all to say: “Yeah. Fuck yeah, I still want to do this. I’m going to farm because I like growing things more than money, personal time, or any other priority I might have. And I have the confidence to do so, because I know I’m a badass and can make it work.” (And while I am privileged to know so many awesome badass women farmers, I’m going to go ahead and say that this type of confidence comes more easily for men, who have been socialized to have confidence. Yay for them!!!)

I have confidence issues every damn day. From how I ask my sister whether we should go check on the animals to my hesitation to even write this article, I’m constantly asking myself whether I’m good enough. Whether I qualify. If my experience gives me the authority to say anything on the subject. Whether I could do this by myself if I wanted to, or if I wanted to start my own enterprise.


All of these barriers and definitions of what is farming are keeping people from working together. Also these are not the only barriers to farming– there are many many different obstacles besides the ones I mentioned. We all need to get over ourselves and our own ideas of what can constitute a farmer Pretty Damn Fast. Because we have a crisis on our hands, a crisis of aging farmers and changing climates. Everyone needs to adapt their expectations, and stop perpetuating stereotypes that you have to have land, capital, experience, and maybe be a white man to be a farmer. Because the goddamn answer to this crisis is that everyone should become a farmer.

Of the people I know from college, I literally think I know two others besides me that are farming. Of my high school classmates (from RURAL IOWA), there are even less. There are a lot of jobs to do in this world, I know, but I think the stigma of what farming means and who should do it, and then the logistical impossibilities on top of that, are stopping a lot of people who would be great farmers from farming. There are so many different ways to grow food, and so many types of food to grow. The options would be endless, if it wasn’t so hard to start farming.

Everyone who attended MOSES this weekend should be a farmer. Everyone who owns farmland should either be farming or rent to their land to a young farmer. Or both. Everyone who has capital or could help young farmers access capital should be doing all they can to get young people on the land before all the old knowledge goddamn dies with the old generation. Everyone should have relationships with farmers, even if they live in big cities, and should put their money where their mouth is. Everyone should be a farmer.