The Knoll
Listening to Jay Leshinsky talk about Middlebury College’s Organic Garden, “The Knoll,” is like listening to a philosopher contemplating mortality. The garden is a sacred space, providing quasi-religious experiences. Preparing to interview Leshinsky—former manager and co-founder of the Knoll—I expected to talk science: facts, numbers, data. Instead, I found myself in Middlebury’s Café nearly moved to tears by Leshinsky’s poetic ponderings.
“Its birth into life into death, and the death feeds the life,” Leshinsky muses. “That’s the way it goes.”
Previously, I had only thought about gardens in summer time: luscious, bright, and bursting with color. But for the workers at the Knoll, fall, winter, and spring are integral to the life-cycle. Winter is the resting period. Spring is the birth, and, as Leshinsky puts it, a “huge expansion of energy and growth.” Then, fall and winter arrive; the days grow shorter, and the plants propagate “because they know they’re going to die.”
I was struck by the idea of confronting death fearlessly. Coming to terms with mortality is, of course, part of being human. In my philosophy classes at Middlebury, we read texts in which long-gone philosophers grapple with the idea of death; the 16th century French philosopher Montaigne even writes that “to study philosophy is to learn to die.” We, as humans, are often paralyzed by the fear of death.
In contrast, these plants seem resolute as they prepare—by procreating—for their inevitable death. While we are handicapped by narcissism, unable to imagine a world without us at the center, plants recognize the bigger picture.
My chat with Leshinsky led to a meeting with the current farm manager, Megan Brakeley, who helped me understand more about the critical role which winter plays. As the icy January wind whipped by the windows, I asked Brakeley what was happening at the Knoll this very minute.
“Blessedly little is happening,” Brakeley grinned. “Voles are burrowing…mice are nesting in every available crevice, [and] snakes are hidden under the tarps.”
Throughout the cold winter months, the animals take refuge. Brakeley sees a power in this time of year; the only thing to do is to “think about the garden and all the life that will blossom for five sweet, sweet months.” She picks out seeds, and dreams of the kale, the flowers, and the grapes to come.
She also takes a break; the wintertime provides “physical constraints” which, Brakeley believes, “help us frame and understand our ways of being.”
Bringing a welcome respite from activity, winter often marks the end of a plant’s life at the Knoll. However, the prospect of new life stirs underground, and Brakeley plans for and dreams of brighter days.
Monument Farms Dairy
I wanted to learn how individuals dealing with birth and death frequently might inform my own reaction to death. Do I fear it? Forget about it? So, I drove two miles down Weybridge Street to see if I could find out how other farmers deal with birth and death.
While vegetables have rigid seasonal restraints, milk flows all year long. However, even without an explicit rest cycle, the dairy farmers at Monument Farms Dairy know birth and death just like Leshinsky and Brakeley. Calves are born, they grow up, they die, and the cycle repeats itself.
When I met the co-owner of Monument Farms, Bob James, we talked business. He proudly told me that his family has delivered milk to Middlebury for four generations. They have maintained a good relationship with the College because of their customer service. If Middlebury Dining has a milk emergency right before a meal, Monument happily runs last-minute deliveries to the College; “that doesn’t happen everywhere.”
When asked why someone should choose his milk, James said, chuckling, that he would just “let them have a taste test.”
I had heard that James is a good neighbor, and it is clear that kindness, effort, and dedication to his community surround his life. James walked me around his farm; we saw wide-eyed newborns, cud-crunching adults, and an expansive view of the Adirondacks.
When I entered the farm’s office, a group was seated for a meeting. Paperwork was scattered across the table, and everyone nursed a cup of chocolate milk as they worked. Having just come from the barn, seeing the finished product made me think about the reason why the farm existed and operated as it did. It was about taste, tradition, and livelihood.
While Monument’s main purpose may be creating a sellable product, they are not fully-fledged consequentialists. By-products of the farm’s operation include happy taste buds, community pride, and neighborliness.
Birth and death are integral to Monument Farm. Winter provides no rest, because dairy farming is all-consuming. Dealing with death is part of life—not something which paralyzes or frightens.
So, why the fear of death?
I don’t often philosophize over kale or milk. But food affects real people dealing with birth and death on farms just a few miles away. The Knoll and Monument Farms are two different operations, yet regular encounters with birth and death connect them. Death at the farm is normalized.
But to people like me, death is still scary. Foreboding and unthinkable, the climate crisis provokes a fear of death, particularly as we witness its devastating effects. I often feel helpless and paralyzed when faced with the task of ‘solving climate change.’ But by taking a lesson from the farmers handling birth and death without fear, we might respond to the climate crisis differently.
Our mortality is inevitable—even the plants know it. Yet, they do not fear it.
Jay Leshinsky’s words rang through my head; the plants “propagate because they know they’re going to die.” So long as we are paralyzed by fear, there will be no action.
By listening to the plants, we learn to face our mortality bravely, and we are freed. Confronting mortality through action is the only way forward.