Loss

In the early 2010s, I went through something that broke my heart. I do not want to go into details, but it left me feeling deeply sad, angry, and confused. The way I saw myself and my place in my community shifted—no, “shifted” doesn’t begin to describe it. It was more like coming unmoored, or like I found myself tumbling from the world I knew, not knowing when I might roll to a halt, or how bruised or battered I’d be from the rocks I’d bang into along the way.

I was in the midst of this tumble when Robert and Erin launched their Parish Farming Internship. Friends of mine participated in its first year, and the way they described the weekends spent with their small cohort caught my attention. The nascent parish farmers bonded through their garden work, shared meals, their time serving at Moriah Pie, and their theological discussions.

It sounded like a sweet way to spend one’s time.

Robert and Erin soon announced they’d be organizing a new cohort. I don’t think a whole week went by before I signed up.

The heartbreak I’d gone through had made me want to uproot myself from the neighborhood I called home, because there I was surrounded by memories of loss. I took part in the Parish Farming Internship with the intention of finding a way to stay planted in this soil, because even with how heartbroken I felt, I did not really want to leave; Norwood was my home. I thought of my life as a tree, and the pain I felt at my life taking this turn was like a wounding of the tree, like someone had gouged into the bark with a knife. I knew the bark could grow back. The wound would always be there but there would be new growth. And doing theological work and physical work tied to creation was something literally grounding. It would help me patiently wait for the new growth to arrive.