Farming on Ganghwa Island (강화도)

I am now a farmer.  Not really, but farming--real farming--was one of those things I'd never realized I hadn't done.  Food is just something I have learned to expect, and to take for granted.  And, being a New Yorker, the word "organic" is just an expected title to bestow on slightly more expensive apples. Not a heavy, expensive, time-consuming burden.

I by no means farmed this weekend--I was on a farm, and I spent all but two hours doing manual labor.  With thirty other people, however, that really gets a lot done.  We had no one idea what we'd be doing--the group I had gone with was not the most organized--and we thought we were on our way to farm potatoes.  Turns out my friends I and were to split up: Rachel went to weed a garden and Gretchen was off to the tomato field.  I got assigned to the lotus plants.  Thinking I was going to be picking beautiful flowers all day, I only remembered that lotuses grow best in mud after coming upon an actual mud pit.  The owner of the farm was explaining how to do the work in Korean, and kicking off his shoes waded into the mud without hesitation.            

               

This was not potato farming.  We looked at eachother for just a second and began our tentative steps in the unknown.  One of the biggest guys, scared of the spiders, went into "oh hell no" mode and shrieked a lot.  One girl, trying her best to keep positive, said that the mud was like a massage for her feet, got literally joyful because of the squishing sounds between her toes, and couldn't stop telling everyone how lucky we were to have this opportunity.
 
Another person kept trying to start cheers to keep the group motivated.  A couple of us, me included, just got lost in the work, like when you're a kid and the only thing in the entire universe on your mind is the sand castle in front of you.  If my hands or back got tired I looked up into the sky, down past the mountains, into the river surrounding us, took a refreshing breath, and continued.  Eventually we formed a line, with the pickers in front passing the weeds to the volunteers to place back on solid ground.  It was so calming, so wholesome, and--despite the mud--clean.  In that moment, the universe made sense.  The people who owned the farm needed help, we were capable.  Something didn't belong and I got rid of it.  There was a problem, and it was solved.

Later, having washed down with a hose, we sat down to dinner.  The lettuce leaves had just been picked, the radishes were harvested a couple of feet away, and the potatoes finally showed up, having been picked the entire time.  A group of Koreans in traditional dance came out and performed with colorful hats, long sleeves, fans, and drums. They were an older group, performing with pure joy on their face for having been helped, having been saved a couple of days of manual labor.   Maybe they were happy to share their culture with others, or maybe they are just happiest performing in traditional Korean dance.  It was all so...clean.  Refreshing.  Pure.  Easy.

After Asia, I think I'll try to go to Europe.  I don't know when, or for how long, or with who, but that's about as specific as I can get.  For now, I'm happy to entertain the idea of exploring the simple life...even of spending a day in the mud picking weeds.  There's a program, WWOOF, where you can live on a farm in a country in exchange for room and board.  If nothing else, I know I would learn how much more I'm capable of not just physically, but in my mental strength as well being outside of a city for once, getting lost in the chore ahead of you, with nothing to distract you from learning about yourself, the only sounds being the ambient sounds of bugs buzzing, the water rushing by, and the keys of my keyboard as I struggle to compile these whistful thoughts into something that can exist on paper.