April, 2024
Up or Down, It’s Up to You
One of the first things my husband and I agreed upon when we moved to the farm was that it needed an orchard. I imagined visitors being able to pick fruit from the trees and having pollinators happily buzzing around and spreading pollen and seeds. Soon after we settled, we went to a local nursery known for having organic treelings, and a few weeks later our forty little fruit trees were delivered and planted, along with a few mature apple and peach trees purchased from our orchard neighbor. Back then, I knew next to nothing about how to care for the trees. I thought it was as easy as watering them and watching them grow. Like most of my undertakings at the farm, I quickly realized there was a learning curve, and I was on the low end of it.
Luckily, we have a wonderful arborist (Bo) who shows me the ropes and lets me in on the secrets to growing healthy and happy fruit trees without chemical pesticides. I didn’t realize at the time, but those trees were going to teach me plenty of lessons over the coming years. Parallels between nature and life abound - you just have to look.
The first year, the trees hardly budded and I knew there wasn’t going to be fruit. The trees were tiny. Many were staked and their branches were frail, so I was looking forward to the following year when they would produce. The next spring, I watched with anticipation as the tender little buds formed. In a few months we would have fruit! So, when Bo came to walk through the orchard and told me I should probably pluck the fruit just as it was beginning to grow, I was not thrilled. It turns out that in order to set up healthy fruit trees for the future, it is advisable to remove the early fruit during the first few years the trees start producing so the tree’s energy is directed towards growing strong branches and roots, allowing for a more bountiful fruit harvest in the future. Some people let the fruit grow and harvest what they can and others pick and wait.
I had a choice. I could have the immediate reward of some early, yummy fruit or wait a few more years for a better yield. I decided I had gone my whole life without having an orchard - what was another few years? The intellectual concept of patience and the actual practice of being patient are two very different things. My Yoga teacher, Sonia Sumar, of Yoga for the Special Child ®, has taught me through countless hours that patience is one of the “golden keys” to working with children with disabilities. In my own life, I have to practice patience daily or I would be quickly overwhelmed by the breadth of my childrens’ unpredictable physical and mental health. I am taught patience by training our mini donkeys, who famously “need a donkey minute” to process and assess what is being asked of them (and they never forget a transgression, no matter how unintentional or minor!) I have to be patient each time the pigs dig under their fence and I have to come up with new ideas on how to thwart those adorable, rooting snouts. So, now I had new teachers to remind me of the importance of patience. My young fruit trees had to be stripped of their fruit so they could have every chance to grow strong and hardy. Always a student, I accepted my role and waited. Time passed, as it always does.
The next year I decided to pick some fruit from just a few trees that had grown taller and sturdy throughout the year. The peach and plum flowers budded early during an exceptionally warm March. My weather app showed the lowest temperatures moving forward would stay above 33℉. I love my weather app for tracking radar, but when I went out to feed the animals and check on my transferred seedlings and trees, it was clear that there had been a freeze. Delicate pink flowers dropped from the trees, and I had to practice patience another year. At least there were some apples and pears to enjoy. But, mostly I took the freeze as a sign to keep plucking whatever new fruit grew early, and just let the trees grow.
The following Spring was glorious - no late freezes! We had peaches in the summer! There were plenty of sticky, happy faces. I had my first (unsuccessful) attempt at no-sugar-added peach preserves. I got a dehydrator and was planning on making apple chips next. My husband got the cider press out of the shed. However, when our apples started to grow, they immediately shriveled. Many had little holes in them. I had to pivot away from the anticipation of apple chips and cider and just play the cards I was dealt. There was nothing else I could do but consult the arborist and patiently wait for another trip around the sun.
There are a bunch of steps that you have to work through in order to be an organic farm, so I will not claim to be organic. That being said, we do not use pesticides and we make our own fertilizer. We sometimes get little worms and weevils on our apples, but the fruit is still delicious. The problem is that because I am a newbie, I didn’t know that if you are using organic methods you can’t always anticipate what is coming with each growing season. In this case, it was fungus. Pesky, ruinous fungus. I am in awe of the underground neural network created by fungi, which connects our trees and balances our ecosystem (read the January 2023 blog if you don’t believe me). But the fungus that destroyed our orchard? Not so much. It quickly consumed the orchard and quelled any hope for a fall harvest. Taking the advice of Bo, we decided that the next year we would use an organic certified anti-fungal to stop the mass fruit casualties. They sprayed a few weeks ago. We shall see. Life is nothing if not unpredictable.
At the same visit where we discussed our fungal strategy, I asked Bo to walk the orchard with me to see how I did pruning and shaping the trees. This has to be done at the very end of winter before warm weather days surprise and delight us. Mostly, I did well. I learned the previous year how to cut away branches that looked as if they were going to cross others, scaffold in a way that would allow sunlight and airflow, and make sure there was a clear central lead branch on each tree. Bo helped me make decisions about branches I wasn’t sure about and pointed out some suckers I had missed. Suckers are small stems that sprout near the base of the trees and divert water and nutrients from the main tree. Much like the suckers on a tomato plant, these guys have to go so the main tree can thrive. We all have those people in our lives who are draining to be around - I now choose to think of them as suckers and try not to associate with them.
I saved my puzzling tree for last. This one, affectionately named Eileen, well… leans. A lot. She is too strong in her roots to stake. She is actually quite sturdy and stalwart. She just leans. “So,” I asked, “What do I do with this one?” After pushing hard on the trunk with his foot and establishing that the tree was indeed firmly rooted, Bo turned to me, pointed at the side leaning closet to the ground, and said, “Cut all of those branches off at the trunk.” Huh?! ALL of them? They weren’t suckers. They were established branches with good intent! He explained that by cutting what was effectively half of the tree off, the other half would grow bigger, shifting the weight of the tree, and eventually the tree would right itself.
It made sense. And, it also reminded me of how sometimes in our lives, we need to cut off people who don’t help us grow in the right direction. It isn’t easy; however, learning to surround yourself with people who can strengthen your roots rather than weigh you down/or try to bend you to fit in their schema of what life should look like is an integral part of parenting kids with disabilities. Find your tribe; grow your roots.
It is my deepest honor to learn from the trees and be able to provide a place for the community to enjoy in which patience, kindness, and acceptance is valued above all else. Helping Friendly Farm will never be a sucker or weigh you down. In fact, the people at the farm will help you stay strong in your roots when a crazy wind blows.
July, 2023
This Time Will Be Different… Until I Do It Again
When I was volunteering at my son’s elementary school in California, teaching garden science (adorably named B.U.G.S - Better Understanding of Garden Science), I was impressed with the facilitator’s depth of knowledge. At the time, things like companion planting and farming zones were new to me, and I took copious notes during my onboarding, some of which I still refer to today. I, along with the other volunteers, learned that every insect has its purpose. Notably, we learned how insects utilize their specific gifts to benefit the ecosystem. There are a slew of pollinators, producers, consumers, and decomposers working hard to keep the balance and harmony which we humans depend on for nourishment.
Our BUGS facilitator was emphatic that we made sure that our garden science students knew about the value of every insect. That bee they were scared of? Our food supply depends on it. The annoying ant? It helps improve the soil. The creepy millipede? It plays a crucial role in decomposition of leaf litter and nutrient cycling in soil. So you can imagine my surprise when we were shown a picture of a squash bug and the facilitator said, “If you see one of these, rip its head off.” Surely I misheard. I raised my hand and asked if we were really supposed to kill it. The answer: “Yes, preferably by taking the head off so you can be sure it’s really dead.”
We grew all sorts of squash in the school gardens. Yellow, crookneck, zucchini, summer, butternut, cucumbers - you name it, we grew it. Squash plants are sprawling, vining plants with broad leaves that start out fuzzy and become spikey as they grow. It was cool to see how in just a week, a little crookneck could grow from barely an inch at the end of a blossom to a full-grown fruit (yes, squash is technically a fruit). My students watered and weeded them with care, excited to see what the week’s bounty would look like. Then, one day we went out to the gardens and found lots of wilted leaves. Two days later, the zucchini plant was dead and we were left with an empty section in our plot. The following days brought the same pattern. Wilted leaves one day, dead plant within the next few. Within a few weeks, we had an empty plot and nothing to harvest. Luckily, another 2nd grade class had planted carrots so we were able to help with their plot.
Nature is intelligent. Camouflage works. Squash bugs are so hard to find that if you are lucky enough to grab one and then drop it in the soil by accident, it will be extremely difficult to locate. They lay tiny, golden eggs that hide on the underside of the leaves. Then, the eggs hatch into a minuscule army of squash killers. I loathed squash bugs. When I moved back East with a limited understanding of gardening and farming, I assumed (I know, I know) that Pennsylvania wouldn’t have squash bugs.
Our first summer, I worked hard to build hugelkultur beds to serve as the cornerstone of Helping Friendly Farm. I planted whatever organic veggies were available at the local garden store since we had moved too late to start my own. In other words, I planted a lot of squash. Every variety I named above, and probably more - I grew it. I loved my hugelkultur beds. We ate well. Until I went out to water the garden and saw the yellow squash looking droopy and sad. I Googled with dread… and began my battle with the beetles. I’d go out early in the morning to search and destroy. But, nature always wins. After two weeks we had no more squash and I couldn’t make pickles with the cucumbers I was counting on having in bulk.
The next summer, I was prepared. I started my seeds, along with amassing a stockpile of neem oil, diatomaceous earth, dish soap, baking soda, cayenne, and cinnamon. I transferred the seedlings and was diligent in checking and applying the various natural deterrents as the plants grew strong vines and produced yummy squash. Until I went away for a few days. Then, nature won.
The following summer I not only repeated the application of all the organic pesticides at my disposal, but I built new hugelkultur beds that had never seen a squash bug as far as I knew. There could be no overwintering insects laying dormant in the soil. A clean slate… And still, nature won. At this point, my husband asked why I bothered to plant the squash family plants at all. After all, Nature and her army of beetles had bested me time and again. I paused and thought about the literal sweat and blood I shed for a few weeks of butternut soup, zucchini chips, and pickles. “You’re right,” I told him. “I’m done.”
This is our fourth year as stewards of the land. I thought long and hard about what I had learned from my attempts to thwart nature by continuing to plant what I knew wouldn’t survive the growing season. I decided that radical acceptance was the way to go. I would accept that the squash bugs would eventually kill my plants. I wouldn’t go to great lengths to protect them. I would simply enjoy the few bountiful weeks of harvesting without attachment. So, I did it. I planted a few varieties and let it be. I still check for eggs and beetles, but not obsessively as in prior years. I usually have enough yellow squash and cucumbers for visitors to pick and I’ve made a lot of pickles. All is well.
Practicing radical acceptance is one of the hardest things to do. Being a parent of kids with disabilities/invisible illness means practicing it more than others. Sometimes, no matter how much we try to give our children the tools they need to thrive, it still isn’t enough. Those times can be dark, the feelings of despair all-consuming. Other times, those tools are enough. Sometimes our children amaze us and our hearts are fuller than others could imagine. As parents, we try to remain optimistic and teach resilience. I will never give up fighting for services, for resources, and for a cure. That doesn’t mean that sometimes things don’t feel too heavy and outlooks don’t look bleak. It just means that I have to accept this life, this day, this moment, instead of worrying about something out of my control. My energies are better used in other ways. Like planting pumpkins directly into the ground and hoping the squash bugs don’t find them. This time will be different…
April, 2023
Obstacles are Stepping Stones
A few months ago, I read an article about a woman who loved watching videos about people playing with farm animals, so when an opportunity presented itself to “cuddle with cows” at a local farm, she went. Sadly, her visions of petting and romping in a field with baby calves were not met and she left disappointed. Instead of being interested in the people who paid to play with them, the cows were only attentive when a food bucket was in hand.
That article reinforced why Helping Friendly Farm’s animal experience was created - to foster genuine animal interaction, in whatever form that takes. The GOATs at Helping Friendly Farm were trained using the hard work of behavior modification. When we first got the goats, they were curious and rambunctious. It wasn’t uncommon for one to jump on someone, much like a dog excited to see its owner. They did not come when called, nor did they necessarily seek human affection.
Enter operant conditioning, a form of behavioral conditioning first described by B.F. Skinner and used widely in ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis). Basically, it uses lots of reinforcement to increase desired behaviors. The reinforcements are faded over time until the desired behavior is present without the need for reinforcement. Since our target behavior was an affectionate goat, we needed to shape its behavior by reinforcing it each time the goat acted affectionately. For example, if a goat walked over and sweetly nuzzled his trainer (me), the trainer immediately made a clicking noise and rewarded the goat with a treat. After a while, I was able to make the clicking noise and the goat would purposely walk over for a treat and a neck rub. After a longer while, I only reinforced with treats intermittently. Eventually, the use of treats faded altogether and the goat just enjoyed the neck rub.
For undesired behaviors, a form of mild punishment was used. If a goat jumped up on someone, nibbled a wheelchair cord, or did something else I deemed undesired, I sprayed them in the face with water. You’d be surprised how many squirts to the face those guys got before they caught on; I definitely got faster results with the treats!!
As a parent, I have used behavioral conditioning with my kids their whole lives (and my husband for part of his 😉). Throw in some serious follow-through, planned ignoring, practical knowledge gained from Wendy Mogel’s books, Love and Logic (Fay and Cline), and working Plan B (Dr. Ross Greene) when needed, and you have a general idea of how I strive to parent.
Anyway, I have used lots of reinforcements - including verbal and nonverbal praise- to help my children accomplish tasks and hopefully become positive, contributing members of society. We all want our kids to grow up to be as independent as possible. Unfortunately, that’s not always the hand we are dealt. Sometimes independence is not possible and we pray for a strong village of support. Sometimes there are setbacks to reaching independence. No matter what subset you’re in, behavioral conditioning may be a tool to turn obstacles into stepping stones.
Due to the maddingly unpredictable nature of our childrens’ autoimmune disease, the expectations we have for independence fluctuate. If they are in a flare, and therefore physically and mentally incapacitated, there is a quick paradigm shift in our household. I usually prepare and deliver all meals, since even walking to get water can be painful or nausea inducing for them at times. I administer medicines around the clock, rub backs, get ice packs and heating pads, whisper assurances, and sometimes sleep on bedroom floors. I pick up clothes, discarded dishes, and clean trash off of floors and dressers. I search for food that can be tolerated and provide multiple kinds of hydration. I do for them what they physically and mentally can’t do for themselves. I sometimes incentivize them (read: bribe). I basically do whatever I can to get through the long days and nights until they are better.
Usually, after treatment, they pull out of these flares. Then, my intense caregiving has to morph into intense behavior modification. I have to fade the help I give them, just as I faded the treats with the goats. But while it was relatively easy for me to do with the goats, it is incredibly hard for me to do with my kids.
When they’re flaring or having infusions, I get in a mom rhythm. I kick butt at “momming.” I gain balance and superhuman strength, often carrying multiple precariously perched items and a pile of clothes down the stairs while avoiding the dogs underfoot. Finally, at the tail end of a flare or treatment, I get to stop doing everything for them. Yay, right?! Not so fast.
Instead of doing for them, I have to turn my “momming” powers into an almost constant stream of prompts and verbal rewards to reach a desired behavior, like getting food for themselves. I have to bite my tongue. I have to walk past dishes accumulating on what seems like every surface in hopes that my positive reinforcement will work and that my children will be more independent again. Many times this acute behavior modification is even more tiring than just doing whatever needs to be done myself. Nonetheless, I persevere because I know if I don’t, both the kids and my husband and I will be worse off for it.
Parenting can be exhausting. Parenting kids with complex needs can be downright draining at times. In my experience, using behavioral conditioning – rewarding, reinforcing, and fading reinforcements – can be a useful key to maintaining expectations, if not sanity. Full disclosure, I still help my kids by doing things for them sometimes, even if they are well. And, yes, I still give the goats treats every so often. They just don’t expect it and that, to me, is what is most important.
At Helping Friendly Farm, we try to set our animals and our visitors up for success- much as we, as parents, do for our children. What that success looks like varies greatly, and we celebrate each expression of it with pride. I’m appreciative of every family and group that visits HFF for letting us share in those successes.
January, 2023
Listen to the Silent Trees
I found this little book while chaperoning my son’s field trip to DC. It’s no bigger than 4 x 6 inches, but it is full of little nuggets of wisdom. The first fact I opened to was about trees. It said something like: If there is a tree that you walk by often, then the carbon you exhale is absorbed by the tree and becomes part of the wood, fixed into the rings of its trunk. At the time I read that, we had just planted a young orchard, and I was learning how to help trees grow and thrive organically. Whoa, I thought – those trees are part of me! I spent lots of time with the little fruit trees watering them while playing music and serenading them, staking them when needed. I protected them from insects and pulled young fruit off so the trees would put their energy into growing strong, instead of growing fruit. I was so busy in the spring, summer, and fall that I never thought about the tree in the winter. I knew deciduous trees were dormant in the winter but did that mean they totally shut down after their leaves fell?
That next winter, my friend gave me the book, Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard. After reading it, I gained a whole new respect for trees. I won’t go into all of the book’s teachings, as there is so much wisdom to impart, but I will tell you that I had never been more excited that my exhaled carbon dioxide was embedded in the wood of my little fruit trees. I discovered that trees are learners and protectors; they even act altruistically. Trees are connected underground through a vast fungal network, called the mycorrhizal network. The mother trees are the oldest and biggest trees in the forest. They are the glue that holds the forest together. Mother trees share carbon and nitrogen with understory seedlings through the mycorrhizal network. They favor the young of their own species but give vital nutrients to other seedlings who need them. They warn other trees of danger from invasive insects and remember droughts from long ago.
As for my question about what happens to trees in the winter, I discovered that trees’ fungal network works through the winter months. The trees’ roots store the water and minerals and are shared as needed with others. The roots of the trees know where and where not to grow. Roots don’t grow towards anything like pipes or houses, but instead, grow where the minerals and water are located. Although mother trees seem to be resting, they are not. They need to seek and store nutrients for the greater good of the forest.
Mother trees have to network, protect the young, and simultaneously find and provide viable life sources. As I’m writing this, I’m feeling that undeniable connection with those mother trees. I’m sitting in my car using my phone as a mobile hotspot for my laptop, eating a bag of cashews, while waiting for my son’s limited school day to finish. I’m also texting my daughter’s teacher and emailing doctors about an insurance appeal. I am nourishing myself (well, sort of) and helping my kids get what they need to be healthy. I am multitasking. I am a mother. I’m not at all saying that many fathers out there aren’t the default parent. Many are, and this will no doubt resonate with them as well. But, since I read about the mother trees, I’m focusing on mothers.
I love networking and connecting with the other moms who come to visit Helping Friendly Farm. We often have shared experiences even though our circumstances differ. Trying gluten-free? Looking for a new treatment possibility? Didn’t have time to shower? Check, check, check. We are tired, but we don’t get to truly rest. Still, like the mother trees, our networks run deep even when we feel alone. I am here for each mom who walks through the sensory barn’s door. I see you and I hear you. I will gladly share my life source with you as I know you will with me. We recognize that some things are out of our control, but we help each other through the things we can. We relate and give advice when possible, and listen when it’s not.
Just as the mother trees can’t stop the houses and pipes from being placed, we moms can’t stop our kids from struggling. Instead, we grow in another direction, learn new strategies, and share our network of strength. While I don’t have rings of wood to serve as my memory, Helping Friendly Farm is thriving as a hub to create new memories, rooted in nature, for all who wish to visit.
November, 2022
This Is Your Farm, Too
“Wow - it’s like this place was made for our kid!” This is a refrain I often hear when a new visitor comes to the farm. My response, “It was.” That’s not an exaggeration. It was made for every person who processes the world differently and deserves to have a space to just BE. It was made for every parent who wants to have a family excursion, but gets overwhelmed thinking about the stress of the unknown. Parents, who have to work through various scenarios before leaving home - What if the destination is too loud, too bright, too crowded? What accommodations will be needed, what are the contingency plans for a meltdown… an outburst… a change of clothes? It becomes exhausting when you aren’t even sure of the payout. Who wants to rally a family and then have to leave 10 minutes after arrival, defeated and frustrated?
I remember when my daughter was very young and struggling with sensory integration so intensely that I had to go through a long routine every day in order to get her dressed. I started the routine by brushing her with a Wilbarger brush, then moved on to perform multiple joint compressions. Next, I’d have her walk in dry rice through one bin and in dry macaroni through another. Finally, I’d squeeze her hands and forearms in rhythm as she jumped ten times before she would put on seamless socks. You read that correctly - seamless. I’d build thirty plus minutes into every morning to put socks on my daughter. (Shout out to our old dog who gladly ate the rice and noodles that found their way to every room in the house.) Forget about Halloween tricks and haunting – dressing was scary. Weekends were easy-going and fun until it was time to put on shoes or a jacket. Once out of the house, it was anyone’s guess. Even though I could usually identify possible triggers, there was always the unexpected. I will never forget the occasional looks thrown my way when I would take my kids to the grocery store in the dead of winter, my son bundled up like a burrito, while my daughter wore short sleeves, leggings, no shoes, and sometimes no socks, let alone mittens or a hat. Whatever… We needed food.
From the sensory sensitive child’s point of view - getting dressed can be torture. A sensory diet of jumping, swinging, pushing, rolling becomes a way to assuage that torture. Leaving the house can be hard. Going on a family adventure can be harder. Arriving at said adventure, the whole family heightened after a trying car ride can be downright miserable. However, when that destination is Helping Friendly Farm? It’s a little easier. We get it. We want you to be happy. This is your farm, too.
The idea of combining sensory exploration with animals and gardens was made for your family. The sequence and flow of the farm works by allowing the Sensory Barn to work its magic before heading outside to nature and animals. The barn’s rooms were built specifically for engaging in vestibular, proprioceptive, tactile, auditory, and visual stimulation first, so that when visitors go out into the elements, they are better equipped to handle the sensations they experience. They can accept a gust of wind, the smells in the garden, or the light touch of a plant brushing against them. By the time visitors make their way to the goats and chickens, a piece of hay poking into a sock is better tolerated. Maybe even the tickle of a goat kiss is welcomed. And the best part - if there is a meltdown, no one cares! There is always a place at Helping Friendly Farm to find peace or seek movement. We understand what we can and accept what we can’t without judgment. We don’t choose our path in life, but it is ours to navigate. We all deserve access to places where we can be ourselves, and so do our kids.
A few weeks ago, a mom visited HFF with her son. She shied away from the sensory gym and stood in the doorway while her son played, ran, climbed, and jumped. The mom presented almost the opposite of her outgoing, whirlwind son. Where her son was seeking stimulation, the mother appeared to avoid all the noise and activity in the sensory gym, reluctant to even step inside. Her son was supervised by volunteers and seemed content, so I told her that she was welcome to explore the other rooms if she wanted to do so. When she found the light & sound room, her whole demeanor changed. She smiled softly, sank into a bean bag and quietly stared at the bubble tube in the darkened room. After a few minutes, she turned to me and said, “This is what I like.” Fifteen minutes went by before she emerged from the room, noticeably more relaxed. As she went to collect her son to head outside to the gardens, she turned to me and said, “You know, I have autism, too.” Huh. No, I didn’t.
I am always inspired when I see family members each relating to something different at Helping Friendly Farm. Celebrating unique perspectives only serves to strengthen the family unit. I believe the key lies within sharing the experience together. This Thanksgiving I’m grateful to be along for the ride with the families I’ve met, who share themselves with the farm and create memories of joy with each other.
Late September, 2022
We Struggle Together
This past weekend, we officially opened Helping Friendly Farm to six families with autistic children. It was magical! The smiles, laughter, and wonderment were contagious. The weather was beautiful, the goats were well behaved sweethearts, and the feedback was amazing enough to give me chills.
Later that day when my husband and I sat down to recap the day’s events, I asked him if he remembered the first time I told him that I wanted to open a therapeutic farm. His memory was hazy, so I reminded him that it was in the airport on the way home to California in 2018. We were waiting at the gate, discussing whether or not we should move back East, when I told him about my plan for a farm with goats, gardens, and a sensory barn. He was skeptical, as I had zero experience running a business. He told me that if I was really serious, I should write a sample press release to bring the idea to life. I spent a good portion of the six hour plane ride hashing out what I would want a reporter to say about my fictional farm. In the three plus years that followed, I learned to write a business plan, create a budget, make a pitch deck, form an executive summary, incorporate, become a 501(c)(3), and fundraise. But, it all started with that press release on the plane ride.
As we reminisced about HFF origins, we wondered about what that old press release said. How on-point was I four years later, now that we had opened? When I ran a search on my phone under “press release,” I didn’t find anything in my notes; instead, I found it in my sent emails. The subject read: My fake press release for the business I want to start. The recipient wasn’t my husband. When I saw to whom I had sent the email, my heart both soared and dropped. I had sent it to our dear friend, Mike. Mike, or Hippie, as we called him, was my husband’s friend from boarding school. The moment I met him twenty-five years ago, we became instant buddies. He was one of my favorite people. I loved going to concerts with him and we saw upwards of 100 shows together. He loved our kids, our dogs, our family dinners. He’d laugh and call us “the Todd and Jess Show” whenever he’d notice my husband and me getting on each other’s nerves (I feel it’s important to note that he always took my side…) He had the biggest smile, a caring heart, and dirty fingernails. Mike was the only person we knew who lived on an actual commune. When we visited him there, we ran with wild boar, ate under the stars, swam in ponds, and made fires to heat bath water. He was pragmatic and knew a lot about a lot, especially agriculture and construction. Of course I had written to Mike.
From the very beginning, Mike was involved with Helping Friendly Farm. It was he who helped me with the first iteration of the budget, he who conspired with me to convince my husband that the property on Creamery Road was perfect for us. Mike flew to New Hope for our home inspection and then wired some of our electric after we moved. He worked with our arborist to plan the orchard we planted. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders.
Six months after we moved to New Hope, the world shut down with COVID. A few months later, we received a call that Mike had died. Struggling with depression and alcohol during quarantine, he lost a battle we didn’t know he was fighting. He didn’t intentionally end his life, but that was of little solace to those of us who loved him. We were devastated. How could he be gone? How did we not know he was fighting demons?
That first six months of COVID was rough for everyone, some more than others. Online school was not easy and social connections suffered. A friend’s mother died from COVID. Others we knew were hospitalized. Our kids were infected at some point early on, battling brain inflammation and miserable treatments as a result. So why hadn’t I reached out to Mike knowing he lived alone? Why couldn’t we commiserate? I can beat myself up about this forever, but instead I choose to learn from it. Now, when I feel down, I try to think, “Who else feels badly at this moment? I am not the only one.” If I happen to think of someone, I call and/or text them. We are social creatures. We should struggle together.
Mike’s mom came to visit us the year after he died and gave us some of his ashes. A few weeks ago, we planted two apple trees and sprinkled his ashes deep in the holes we dug. They reside on the farm in “Mike’s Grove” and will nourish people with fruit long after we are gone. So, Hippie is with us. He lives on through trees, through songs, through long forgotten emails.
I was stricken when seeing Mike’s name on the receiving end of that email. It reminded me of how we never really know what someone is going through at any given time. All we can do is ask. The families who visited Helping Friendly Farm this past week were full of joy as they connected with the environment, the animals, and to each other. That doesn’t take away from any of their days and nights that are filled with worry or despair. It just makes the good times sweeter. It is awesome in the truest sense of the word to see HFF in action, connecting people and bringing happiness to families. Mike would be so proud.
Early September, 2022
Olfactory Hues
When I was young, the kitchen in my home was covered in yellow wallpaper. Buttery, soft yellow with a faded square pattern to be precise. I spent countless hours in that kitchen, baking with my mom, annoying my mom, and occasionally trying my own hand at baking - the latter sounds as bad as it was. I once followed a recipe which called for separating egg whites. After battling through my initial confusion, I hard boiled the eggs and removed the fully cooked yokes, whipping them into a bowl full of other ingredients. At that stage of my life, I couldn’t fathom another way to separate whites, so I adapted and made it work within the schema I had. Adapting is a useful skill in my line of work, so I guess in some way I was preparing for the future---well, that, and making extremely crumbly cookies :). Whenever I see a hue of soft yellow, it reminds me of my early childhood kitchen, and I smell cookies.
The same is true in the reverse scenario. In the spring when I am out with the goats, I’ll get a whiff of onion grass on their breath. Instantly, I am transported back to high school lacrosse practice and can see the long, green grass which, when freshly mowed, smelled like there were onions floating in the breeze.
At the end of each summer, I clean the goat shed by turning over and shoveling out old wood chips. When I do this, I am hit by an ammonia smell that brings me back to the monkey house at the Brandywine Zoo in Delaware. I can see the dank, dark hallway at the entrance and can hear the sounds of the monkeys calling to each other.
Marcel Proust said that, "The smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, ready to remind us... the immense edifice of memory.” In fact, even creating new behavior is better achieved when all five senses are activated in the learning process. This activation of the senses can help when generating new neural pathways. Often mediation and mindfulness practices begin with a body and senses scan. We may hear things like, “What sensations are you feeling? What can you hear? Taste? Smell?” By becoming aware of our sensory experience, we are better able to connect to the present moment.
As a teacher, I found that when my students were feeling anxious and in a state of fight or flight, focusing on the five senses seemed to slow down their racing brains. They moved away from their emotional minds and into their wise minds with more ease. Just focusing on their senses helped them self-regulate. One of my students would tell me she saw red arrows when she was in a heightened state. I would help her focus on the sound of her breathing until I could guide her to where the red arrows could meet blue circles and become purple waves. Purple, to her, was quiet.
Helping Friendly Farm (HFF) is intended to be a safe place where the senses are engaged and memories are made. The blue meditation room in the sensory barn invokes calm, while the colors visitors choose to project in the light/sound room can reflect their moods. The chimes outside on the pathways allow for gross-motor activated sound. The herbs in the hugelkultur gardens all have unique smells, textures, and tastes to explore. The squawks of the chickens demand attention, while the bleats of the goats call for human affection. Each sense that is stimulated becomes part of the HFF experience. I’m hopeful that the smells, colors, tastes, sounds, and textures of the farm will elicit positive memories of peace and joy for our visitors for years to come.
April, 2022
What’s on the Schedule? What’s on Your Plan?
A little over a week ago, I was contemplating the efficacy of using a heavy rock to outfox a fox in the chicken run, when my husband came over to see how the new stormwater management system worked after two days of torrential rains. Once satisfied that the drainage system was functioning as it should, we took a walk and stumbled upon huge divots in the ground. The divots were remnants of a soil test sight where the environmental engineers originally thought rock beds would be needed to hold excess water. It turned out the extra run off area wasn’t needed, so we were stuck with two, approximately 6ft x 2ft trenches composed of dirt, weeds, and rocks. In the middle of the grass, there was now hazardous terrain for people and farm vehicles alike. My husband looked at me with an incredulous smile and said, “What are you going to do about these?”
Hmmm, good question. What was I going to do with them? I looked around and took stock of natural resources nearby. Then, it hit me. When life gives you ditches - you make hugelkultur! Hugelkultur is a type of permaculture which allows us to work with the earth using logs cut from felled trees and positioning them to recreate a forest floor ripe for growing. Composted fruits and vegetables, goat and chicken manure, and discarded hay is then added to the wood piles. Any gaps left in the wood are filled with twigs, wood chips, dry leaves, and other organic matter. This “filling of gaps” is an important part of the hugelkultur process as the goal is to create an environment for roots to take hold and find a home – not gophers and groundhogs. (Although, that may be a blog for another time: me vs. gopher, Caddyshack style!) Finally, I add either upside down sod and/or just topsoil and mulch. In the case of these particular beds, just topsoil and mulch. The decomposing wood provides the nutrients needed to grow delicious vegetables and herbs.
Satisfied with my solution to fill the ditches left by the engineers, I planned on getting to work in a few days time to build two hugelkultur mounds- one for various types of mint and another for perennial flowers to give some color to the landscape.
Or… so I thought. The thing about making plans when you have kids with unpredictable illnesses is that plans get altered abruptly. Schedules change. New appointments have to be made, doctors and psychiatrists consulted, and treatment paths must be weighed and implemented. My plans were no longer in my control. I was needed. The few days of building the hugelkultur beds turned into a slow moving week plus with fits and starts of heavy lifting and Tetris style maneuvering. When I got to the point where I was stuffing crevices with twigs and compost I started to get into a meditative rhythm, filling holes I couldn’t see. I could feel the beds starting to solidify beneath my hands.
And then, just when I was sure I was close to creating the perfect foundation, a large hole I hadn’t anticipated opened up. A big section of my handiwork caved in, revealing a porous cavity underneath the wood. Throwing my hands up, I put on a half smile, another playlist, and went back to work.
I am frequently awed by how our lives reflect nature and the wisdom that can be imparted through this reflection. Digging that day was one of those times when I was struck by how invisible illnesses and invisible holes will continue to disrupt plans, and I, like all parents who share this path in life, will pivot and adapt. Sometimes begrudgingly, sometimes with grace. In a state of constant unpredictability, I continue searching to fill the tiny crevices and find solutions for hazardous ditches. I try. I fail. I make progress. I plant gardens and keep hope that the roots will hold.
Helping Friendly Farm is intended to be a place for families to learn their own lessons from nature without judgment or expectations. How it plays out remains to be seen, but I am excited for the possibilities.
February, 2022
Moments in a Box
“Why Helping Friendly Farm? How did you come up with the idea to combine animals, gardening, and sensory play in one place?” This is a question I’m often asked. My typical response is usually along the lines of, “l love animals and growing my own food… There aren’t enough non-facilitated sensory gyms around … I love working with people with special needs…” This is all true. However, as many times as I’ve said it, I never really pieced together the nuances behind the why. Why goats? Why gardens? Why open-play sensory spaces? I’ve discovered that the answer lies in moments. Believing as I do in the power of extraordinarily ordinary moments, I realize looking back that there were three sets of such moments which led me to eventually conceive of the three components to Helping Friendly Farm.
My daughter was in occupational therapy for years while we lived in New Jersey. This meant that for years, her younger brother would sit in the waiting room with me, thumbing through half filled coloring books, eating stale snacks from the bottom of my bag, and playing with the old toys, as well as the various miniature cars and trucks I used to schelp everywhere. He knew every nook and cranny of that waiting room and would happily show other visiting siblings where the broken pieces of the toys were kept or where to find blank printer paper. Most importantly, he knew that when the big clock hand was on the five, it meant that he would have his chance to play in the “fun time” room with his sister. The moment that the clock struck 5:25, he would grab my hand and pull me toward the therapy gym where my daughter was completing her session, a huge smile on his face. It took him no time to kick off his shoes and run to the swing, the trampoline, the climbing wall, the belly scooters - whatever her occupational therapist had put out that day. I cherished those brief moments of watching my daughter show her little brother what new skill she had mastered while he tried to imitate her. They would put aside the bickering, tattle-tailing, and competition for my attention, and instead shouted words of encouragement to each other... For four minutes. At 5:29, shoes were gathered and we were rushed out so the next client could get started. Twice a week, those eight minutes were golden. I wondered why there wasn’t a place for siblings to play together in a sensory gym just for fun? There were so many kids we saw week in and week out while in that waiting room. Surely their parents were wondering the same thing.
Fast forward five or so years. We were living in California and I was volunteering at the local elementary school to help with their garden science curriculum. I was assigned to a dedicated inclusion classroom and because I am a special education teacher, I always had the students with special needs in my garden group. Often, when I’d arrive, there would be one boy with ADHD in the back of the classroom, spinning and bouncing in a chair, while another boy with developmental delays sat at his desk, staring quietly at a blank paper. These two boys could not have presented more differently from each other. Yet, the moment the bell rang signaling that it was time for gardening, both of them would snap to attention and follow directions perfectly, allowing them to get to the gardens as quickly as possible. Once there, I took note of how each boy interacted with the environment. The boy with ADHD usually wanted to dig in the dirt, pull weeds, and use the pitchfork to turn compost, while the boy with delays was content to plant seeds, track beetles, and harvest the vegetables. Our garden classes brought moments of joy to both of them. With dirty hands and dimpled smiles, they would return to their classroom and attend to the next lesson without the difficulty they were exhibiting when I arrived. The gardens were a reset for their autonomic nervous systems.
A few years later, my son was diagnosed with PANS, an autoimmune disease that changed his life. Almost overnight, my neurotypical, active son was being ravaged by his own immune system, making every day tasks almost unbearable. We were crushed. How could I help? What could make him better? Many nights, I stayed up googling for answers until my eyes were blurry. One night when my husband and I were down the internet rabbit hole, we found references to the importance of a healthy microbiome for people with autoimmune diseases. While I was researching ways to improve my childrens’ microbiome diversity, I found an article that cited eating dirt. Not just eating diverse organic foods, but actually consuming dirt could be beneficial for the immune system. It turns out those dirty hands of my gardening boys could have had a biological impact! I had a distinct moment of clarity that our family needed to get back to nature. By the following week, we decided that in the interest of mental and physical wellbeing, we should consider moving to a farm.
Later that year, we were visiting an orchard near my parents’ home in Delaware when the woman behind the counter asked if we wanted to pay extra to feed the goats. It was all of twenty-five degrees outside in December in the Northeast. Of course we wanted to feed the goats!! Like in most petting zoos, the goats were very interested in us when we had treat pellets in our palms, but not so much when we were empty handed. They were so fun to watch play. There was an elevated labyrinth of planks which the goats traversed with such surefooted goofiness that it made all of us want to stay out in the freezing cold to watch them. Every once and a while, one or two would come back to us to see if we had treats for them. Their horizontal and rectangular pupils were mesmerizing. and the way they jumped made us laugh. For a few moments, the jet-lagged, complaining kids (okay… and mom) were completely entertained. The goats were that cool. But, we agreed, it was too bad they were so programmed to only come to us humans when baited with treats. When my husband arrived a few days later, we brought him to see the goats and he, too, loved them. Upon returning to California, I bought my first book on how to raise and train goats.
So there you have it - a series of ordinary moments in three different states involving occupational therapy, gardens, and goats. Moments that lay dormant in my mind, compartmentalized in different brain boxes, until one day driving through New Hope, PA, those moments began to amalgamate into something no longer ordinary on their own. They became extraordinary - an idea of a place where families could play together in nature, with goats, and in a barn full of sensory equipment. Four years later, Helping Friendly Farm is finally becoming a reality.