I proposed to Sarah while we were planting ginger at twilight.
She turned to grab another tray. When she turned back, I was on one knee, ring in hand. It wasn’t dramatic. It felt inevitable. Asking her to marry me felt like a continuation of what we were building in that soil.
Ours is, by most standards, an unlikely partnership. But from the beginning we were pulled by the same things: soil, good food, a life that runs on seasons instead of convenience.
We spend our days shoulder to shoulder, seeding trays in February light, walking rows in July heat, arguing about crop spacing, laughing ten minutes later while washing greens.
There are muddy mornings and frozen fingers. There are also long afternoons in the sunshine when the work moves easily, and you look up and realize there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
Farming is a relationship. You pay attention. You respond. You give time and energy without immediate reward. And if you do it well, the land responds.
Working this closely with another person is its own kind of tending. There’s no hiding in this life. We see each other tired, frustrated, proud.
There are seasons when the numbers don’t add up and I lie awake with my heart pounding, wondering if conviction is the same thing as foolishness. Seasons when pride has to be swallowed. Seasons when embarrassment hovers at the edges.
We keep going.
I’ve come to think love is consistency. It’s showing up when the spreadsheets say “maybe not.” It’s planting anyway. It’s choosing, over and over, to tend what you’ve committed to.
This week is Valentine’s Day, and people talk about the heart. I mean the steady, unglamorous work of tending land, a partnership, a community.
Most of you aren’t farming, but you’re tending something: a marriage, a family, a business, a body that needs care, a life that feels fragile some days and strong on others.
Whatever it is, tend it.
Whatever is on your list this month, the farm store has something warm for it. More from the farm is in Field Notes.
