Not Seeking Results Immediately.

Letter 021

Hibernal Solstice 2023
Movement • Nutrition • Community • Purpose

I Think it's Better to Take Care of Not Seeking Results Immediately.

Come last March, I retired, now I’m drinking tea, a French green tea blend of all things. Haven’t had a coffee now for — let me count 9, 10, 11 days. Coffee nor beer have crossed my lips the whole time. I’ve had the flu, not the Covid — influenza. I think I had the Covid a couple of years ago when the Covid was scary, but then again, it simply could’ve been the flu. Anyway, I’ve had the flu, I haven’t had coffee or beer, I’ve had fresh juices, soup — I always talk about soup — and nabe. Nabe is a Japanese hot pot dish. I think that’s about it. Life is pretty good. There are no 10 ways to improve your life, no top-tips to be more productive, less busy, well balanced, mindful, present and good. We already know how to do all these things and more. Countless scripts, just choose your era, continent, philosophy or spiritual path. It all boils down to basically the same ancestral knowledge, reiterated a thousand, ten-thousand times. We know how to be Good? I have nothing to sell.

I retired, the next day I started a farm, I say farm, more of a field, where I farm. I also sit, listen and look. Each moment — when you really look — is a new season. Not four seasons, but an ever changing landscape of life. Micro to macro. It’s fascinating. I lose myself in thought and upon returning to the physical field, I swear the sprouts have grown in my absence. A spider’s web strewn across my path. I have two assistants who are often the first down path, between the vinyl greenhouses from house to field. Always playful, full of mischief, two cats who’ve decided to make my home their home and their home mine. On occasion — the bolder of the two — taking a ride in our wheelbarrow. Mostly on summer days when it’s too hot to walk. They never cease to amuse. I don’t know how to farm, I did take Rural Studies at school, I also took Nautical Studies, different times. I didn’t pass Nautical Studies, the teacher was a dictating maniac, I was — am — a dyslexic fool and my notes were indecipherable. Why is d y s l e x i a so hard to spell? I did learn to captain a boat, that was easy. I think I could still navigate a boat down an estuary even today. The rules of nature haven’t changed that much. Farming has changed, most of what we learnt wasn’t natural. We mostly learnt how to control, how to capitalise. These aren’t words we use on our farm. 

I retired and I planted corn, the type of corn used for cornflour — cornflour for making tortillas. I wanted to make tortillas, because I wanted to eat tortillas. Not the type of tortillas you find in the frozen section of the import supermarket. The kind of freshly made, nothing but organic corn and spring water you might drool over. On netflix. The plants grew high, but the corn didn’t mature. No tortillas this year. I ate the baby corn, it was good. Other plants planted, but not harvested include, in order of disappointment: rocket, red cabbage, green cabbage, kale, cauliflower and courgettes. They say it takes a few years. They say just because you planted it, it doesn’t mean you should expect it to grow. Expectation is the root of all disappointment. If the natural conditions are suited for growth, it will grow. How do you know if it is suited? You watch, listen and try again. Given time the soil will rejuvenate, given time your ability will grow. “Here are some old potatoes'' he said, “maybe they will grow for you.” They did. I planted a few and dug up a bucket load, two buckets, maybe three. I made soup — again with the soup — I made grilled chips, I miss chips. The chips are the best part of fish’n’chips. My mum used to make chips and fried eggs — it was a Saturday thing. The eggs deep fried in the same chip oil. Delicious. Chips and egg and two pieces of white buttered bread, real bread from the local bakery — before the local shops closed. Stuff the chips in the bread to make chip butties, with ketchup. Dip the chips in the egg, more ketchup. I miss chips. Now I make grilled chips, more like slices, and homemade sourdough bread, no butter, but the ketchup is the same. If I have time I sometimes make the ketchup too. Rewarded by a little work and a little time. “I think it's better to take care of not seeking results immediately.”

I retired and a baker friend —  isn’t it nice to have friends who are bakers — new bakers, younger than I bakers. He gave me a sourdough starter in a small pot and gave me flour too. He gave me magic — he gave me autonomy. Now I make bread and I make pizza; I’m making bread while writing this. Soon I shall stop typing and fold two balls of dough and place them in bannetons for the night. The oven will be heated in the cold morning, the bread will be baked and the kitchen will be warmed. It smells mouth-watering good. Pizza. Pizza Marinara is my pizza of choice, no cheese, sometimes cheese, usually no cheese. Garlic, tomatoes and basil along with homemade pizza sauce. Good taste, good texture, good feeling and full. Garlic grew, as did tomatoes and basil. Just walk over to the farm, pick a few tomatoes and a handful of basil. The garlic hangs in the kitchen. Next year’s garlic already growing in rows. Waiting for the snow. Come springtime-early-summer the kitchen will be restocked. Simple cycles.

I retired and coffee has never been so good. Coffee was coffee, never paid too much attention to it. A cup in the morning, maybe one after lunch, that did the trick. Coffee was coffee. Given time and given the space, add a little curiosity, coffee is so much more. Which roast, light or dark, blend or single origin? Simple questions. Pouring technique? People rave about single origins, but blends are unexpectedly interesting too. I joked — blends were the accumulation of leftover beans. I was wrong. My coffee roaster friend showed me the way. Together tasting in-house roasts and roasts from further afield. Tokyo, Fukuoka, Kyoto and places I didn’t expect to be at the forefront of interesting. Flavours I couldn’t imagine as a twenty something skateboarder in New York. My first cup of coffee was on the corner of Houston & Lafayette. Down the road from Supreme — when Supreme was interesting. Black with spoonfuls of honey to mask the bitterness. Maybe some milk, I don’t remember. Moving tables, making coffee and sitting in for the receptionist — nervously answering the telephone while she lunched. I don’t like telephones, but there I was, the nerve-wracking lunchtimes of an office busboy — office dogsbody. The unseen cog in the wheel of progress. Off the books. Survival. That was my first cup of coffee; practising Photoshop after the real designers returned home. Now I make coffee for those who care to wait. Hand dripped coffee takes the time it takes. Can’t rush, don’t want to. I mentioned my coffee roaster mentor — blend blended, pouring technique grounded. Practised like I practised Photoshop for six months or more. Adjusted with each season. Coffee isn’t just coffee. Why did — baffled — why do we expect coffee to be a constant? An appreciation for coffee lies in the acceptance of change. An ever changing environment producing a limitless opportunity for changing tastes. Why so change adverse? Learn and learn again to embrace change. So on weekends I give my time and pour my original blend for visitors and regulars alike. I also play music — vinyl. Coffee and music are conversation. I’m not good at conversation, as with telephone calls, but in retrospect, I like it really, past the shyness. The dyslexic brain struggles. Connection, community, it’s important. Purpose. 

I retired and I write. Newsletters and stories. I’m not sure what the news in news-letter is? More letter than news. I write letters, postcards and stories. They pay me for the stories. They pay me what they can, but it’s never enough. I pay to do the rewarding work. They say the end of independent journalism — creativity? — is nigh. That writing alone isn’t enough, need something to sell. Monetize. I’m tired of emails, podcasts, posts, DM’s, cold calls, CM’s, in app purchases and exits through the gift shops appeals. I don’t think I want to work like that? A 5 percenter or a 10 percenter? Perhaps if I didn’t leave the house, travelled to destinations and held conversations through a screen. Then maybe it’s enough? It’s not. Where’s the story, where’s the connection? Happenstance. There needs to be a challenge. I need a challenge. I need a connection. I want to learn something, I want to change my mindset. I want to do the work to the only standard I know: Good. We all know the reward for good work is more work. Choosing the work to be done is of utmost importance. There is no hack, no beating the system, just cheating yourself out of opportunities to do good, good work. They say if it’s worth doing.

So I choose to write as I choose to hang out the laundry. I choose to do the work I do and choose the people to do the work with. I retired and I’m busier than ever — that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Outside my window the last five leaves remain on the tree. By the time you read this, there will be none. It’s soon time to dig up the winter potatoes. Three varieties. The last of this year’s farm work. When spring arrives — snow melted — planting will begin once more. More potatoes for chips, more corn for hopeful tortillas etcetera, etcetera. Come July/August, I’ll forgo the farm for gelid rivers — too hot for farming. Let the field grow wild with grasses and flowers. The insects and birds love it, cats too. Neighbouring farmers don’t. It must be controlled. Such an effort; why do they fear it so. The grasses, flowers, insects and nature. Spray it with chemicals, cut it with Japan’s favourite gasoline-driven, silence-disturbing tool: the Weed-whacker. ”If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.” Fight it they do as I float silently. Jump from rocks, the sound of bubbles rising as you sink, pause for a second — submerged in deep river water. It’s too hot for such nonsense. When the farm changes to colours so beautiful and the river runs low, we cut the grass using our hand sickles, scatter handfuls of clover seeds, mustard and flowers too. The cut grass laid back on the ridges and pathways. We lay down, the cats and I, watching and listening. For September /October are the months of music. Warm nights, windows open, listening to nothing but nature’s sleep symphony. No app necessary, not anymore. With the field replanted the cycle is complete. Around we go. Swings and roundabouts.

I retired and Decembers are silent. Something about the cold air? Sound is different. Blue skies, yellow light, fabulous. I’m 52, soon to be 53 and this is the first time I’ve acknowledged the silence. Noticed yes, never internalised. It reminds me of snow. Walking through a forest ladened with snow, no sound but your own, no tracks but those which line up behind you. There are signs of snow on the mountains — I smile— behind my house. A single snowflake on the schedule for next week. It’s time. Earlier this year I promised mountains to be climbed. Hakusan was climbed. Mid November. A day before the season’s first snowfall — up high— a day or two before the hut closes for winter. This was where we slept, on a high peak: Hakusan, White Mountain. Omnipresent in these parts. Worshipped. No monk to sign our Goshuincho. Goshuincho are Japanese notebooks for collecting temple seals. But because we asked — for handwritten blessings — blessed sweats — candy they said — were handed to us in conciliation. The following morning sucked on the walk down, in the torrential rain. Pathways like rivers, waterfalls crisscrossing our steps, soaked to the skin. Spirits high, eating candy blessed by monks. 

…and so it goes.

James