america

After 10 days on the farm, Swim’s bodyadjusted to the schedule that had herup before dawn, unconscious in theafternoon, and picking or partying untilsundown. The proprietors of TableMountain Garden aim to create anecologically sustainable local foodsystem using farming practices that focuson healthy soil life, crop biodiversity,and land stewardship. Learn more atwww.tablemountaingarden.com.flaunting their bright yellow petals. Beaming,I looked over at my mother, who sharedin my disbelief. Never in her regular visits tothe farm had she been invited to join Christineon this meditative quest for beauty.We picked up our tools and followed heralong rows of green tomatoes to the beaconsof yellow. Christine taught us to find headswith long stems that would fit into a vaseand mix well with other flowers. We marchedon to the perimeter of the farm, next to theroad, where we found crimson and blacksunflowers standing guard over beds of newpotatoes and heirloom melons.We hovered below the dark mandalas,carefully choosing those with the straightestand longest stems that looked most likely towithstand the hour-long drive up HighwayFour. Our last stop was a zinnia patch thatplayed host to a few stray tomato plants. Wepicked dusty pink, orange, and crimson blossomswith crooked petals stiff as constructionpaper springing from wiry, pipe-cleanerstems.Other workers wrapped fragrant bouquetsof basil and loaded wooden crates of vegetablesinto trucks while we three focused ourattention on a rainbow of blossoms. Wescrambled to tie our treasures into sellablebunches before it was too late to load theminto the van, where they would find shadenext to tubs of young lettuce and baskets ofelephant garlic.After 3 hours of weighing vegetables andCHRISTINE TAYLORselling our sumptuous flowers, I suddenlyrealized that this colorful life was about toend. Soon, I would no longer be the humblestudent of a thousand tomatoes. I wouldreturn to New York to tap on a keyboardbehind a glass wall on the 13th floor ofHunter College in midtown Manhattan. Iwould buy genetically modified pears inblack plastic bags from my favorite fruit vendoron 68th Street and wonder how manyweeks had passed since their harvest.Before climbing into the truck that morning,I had thrown the only tangible evidenceof my labor, my grandmother’s old linen shirtand the once–sky-blue drawstring pants,onto the compost heap with a prayerful wishto leave behind the demons of self-doubt Iovercame in the garden. Working with theearth had connected me to the core of myown being. I had learned to leave the shelterof continuous thought to become present inmy physical body and more mindful of myintuition.The garden had changed me. What I didnot know was that my fantasies of selling allof my belongings and hitching a ride outWest would come true in a matter ofweeks—sort of. Back in New York, I was ableto embrace my daily commute and officetasks with freshness of mind. Still, somethingdidn’t feel quite right. Part of me wasstill in the garden, waiting for the melons toripen.Missing home was nothing new after 10years on the East Coast, but this discontentfelt like a directive. I was tired of living in abig, competitive city far away from my family,working in a job that had little relevance tomusic—what I really wanted to do. I had adecision to make: Stay in New York with thebest opera coaches and high-stakes performanceopportunities, barely making a living; orhead West, not knowing how long I wouldhave to live in my mother’s spare room.Six months later, I am once again behinda computer keyboard. This one belongs tothe San Francisco Opera, where I am workingas a part-time editor and writer. I havetime for singing, teaching, and for my family.I’ll have to wait until the fall to put on mypicking boots again; in the meantime, I feedbody and soul with regular trips to the Berkeleyfarmers market on my roller skates. TElizabeth Swim welcomes your comments atcommandayswim@gmail.com.september 2006 : 71