Anticipating the taste of THIS place

Sleep dissipated before the night. It is a common problem when sleeping in a different time zone. The body can't decide whether to believe itself or the hands on the clock. After thrashing the sheets for awhile in physical debate I finally opted to split the difference -- too early to get up in Portland but past time in Des Moines. It's just as well. A little quiet time at the beginning of this day is a pleasant derivative of an aborted night.

We all arrived on schedule -- perhaps 15 minutes apart -- and found each other in the airport baggage claim for this our fourth and final Terroir retreat. It has been quite a ride these past 2 years -- and at least for me, quite life changing. This grant-funded experience that the four of us agreed to make a play on with no expectation that our application would be favorably received has taken us to upstate New York, eastern Vermont, downtown Chicago, and now Portland, Oregon. Along the way we have met some fascinating ministers, artful and thoughtful chefs, and passionate and sensitive farmers, all with an ear for hearing what they had to teach us about the uniqueness of locale -- the taste of place. And in the course of things, we four -- one from Oklahoma living in Texas, one from Texas living in Iowa, and two Iowans, a blend of United Methodist and Disciples -- have had a lot of fun in each other's presence and care.

It's hard to imagine the experience coming to an end. For the past two years it has been one of the "big rocks" in my pile -- first writing the grant proposal, then waiting to hear from the grant selection committee; designing and booking each excursion; reading the preparatory books in advance; and then savoring the trips.

And as I hinted, along the way my center of gravity has shifted. In a way that I can't help but assume is part of the purpose and hope of the grant program, I am a fundamentally different person as a result of all we have passed through together. I see differently. I think differently. I eat differently. The way I practice what I do is different, but moreover, I am in the process of dramatically changing the very "it" of what it is that I do.

All of which is to say that this study in Terroir will hardly be over at the end of this weekend only now commencing. There is much to contemplate, much to pray about and consider, much to write and much to share.

But all of that will have to wait. The sun has finally come up, and the experience -- this final experience -- is set to begin, offering some lesson on the taste of THIS place.

Where...and With Whom

On this first full day of our second farm expedition, our group followed an early breakfast with a visit to a small artisanal cheese maker here in eastern Vermont.  Our timing was fortuitous because their consultant from the French Alps was on site, supervising the operation.  We watched the two copper cauldrons filled with curds and whey stir; we saw the mixture shift to the draining and pressing equipment, and followed the progression of cutting and transferring the blocks of compressed curds into the forms that over the next 12 months will become their unique style of cow's milk cheese.  Afterward, sampling some of the finished product with Jeremy, the chief cheesemaker, and Eric, the consultant, we heard about the variant flavors of cheese made from spring milk verses summer or fall milk; we learned about the importance of which hillside the cows are grazing -- and when -- and the vicissitudes of the weather and the various other factors influencing the taste and the quality of the cheese.  Some of the conversation had alluded to "industrial" cheese and "artisanal" cheese, and I asked for their description of the difference.

After only a moment's consideration, Eric responded that "industrial cheese conforms the milk to the process, while artisanal cheese conforms the process to the cheese."  Because, we learned, the milk is different everyday; and these guys are far more interested in the milk and the cheese to which it leads than they are their procedural routines.

Mid-day, Willis Wood described their family's experience over the past 150 years making apple cider every October and maple syrup every spring.  You have to keep measuring and monitoring because every year the moisture content is different -- as is the sugar content -- and so you have to vary the process to accommodate the fruit and the sap.

When, at the end of the afternoon, we supervised the milking of 20 Jersey cows and talked at length with Lisa, the proprietess of this small dairy farm, we were hardly surprised when she independently stated essentially the same process.  "Everyday I remind myself that if I disappeared, they would still be dairy cows, but if they disappeared, I would no longer be a dairy farmer."  The cows -- their health, their happiness, their comfort and sense of security -- are the biggest part of the dairy equation.  "That helps me keep my perspective," she mused.  And her cows did, indeed, look delightfully happy.  The truth is that, apart from that whole milking problem, we would have been ready to volunteer to be her cows.

And so we heard afresh how it is that where a thing is of critical importance, plus the passionate care of those who are there alongside you stirring, pressing, condensing, tapping and milking.  They are critically important too.

Whether Farming or Faithing, the Field is Local

In a recent essay, poet-farmer Wendell Berry reflects on the influence of place not only on his farming but on his writing.  He could just as well have added "on his being."  In so reflecting he manages, unintentionally to be sure, to offer perhaps one of the best explanations of the spirituality of terroir I could hope to find.  Noting what he calls the "difficulty and the discipline of locality," he goes on to ruminate about the particularities of farming an "actual place."  Recalling an earlier essayist who had influenced him, he quoted him observing..."the problem on any two hundred acres is never the same:  the richness of the soil, its qualities, the neighborhood, the distance from the market, the climate, the water, and a thousand such things make the life on every farm distinctly individual." 

For Berry, that recognition "sets forth the challenge, not only to all forms of industrial land use, but to all other approaches to land use, including agrarianism, that are abstract.  The most insistent and formidable concern of agriculture, wherever it is taken seriously, is the distinct individuality of every farm, every field on every farm, every farm family, and every creature on every farm.  Farming becomes a high art when farmers know and respect in their work the distinct individuality of their place and the neighborhood of creatures that lives there.  This has nothing to do with the set of personal excuses we call 'individualism' but is akin to the holy charity of the Gospels and the political courtesy of the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of rights.  Such practical respect is the true discipline of farming, and the farmer must maintain it through the muddles, mistakes, disappointments, and the frustrations, as well as the satisfactions and exultations, of every actual year on an actual farm" (Imagination in Place, 2010).

Exchange the word "church" for "farm" and you pretty much get the point.

Preaching to the Window

It was Dave who called attention to the irony.  We had been visiting with the pastor about the shape and character of their ministry, and he had unambiguously narrowed the focus to worship.  Deep worship and good preaching.  When I asked about other programming he mentioned a Wednesday night Bible study, but "we don't expect people to live here" he retorted.  As to activities or involvements with the community, he dismissed the notion.  "I don't much care for other preachers, and we're not here to be a community center."  They don't, he went to amplify, make the building available for birthday parties or the like.  "Let them mess up their own houses," he chortled.  

Recently, as church savings had begun to accrue, someone had suggested they help fund a Habitat for Humanity project in the area, but the pastor had quashed the idea.  They were concentrating on getting their own house in order, he explained, which involved endowing the pastoral position.

Finishing our conversation, he handed us off to one of the docents to interpret for us the famous Matisse and Chagall stained-glass windows.  The Matisse is a rose window behind the altar.  Facing it from the back wall -- facing the preacher as he or she proclaims the Word -- is an immense design by Marc Chagall depicting the parable of the Good Samaritan.  That was the irony that Dave had discerned:  in this edifice made famous by its depiction of the one who went out of his way to help, apparently worships a congregation who routinely passes by on the other side of the road.