Farmer Luke

is creating The Voice of an Intentional Farmer.

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I don’t remember a time before the farm. Even as a child, I loved nothing else quite like I loved the land, the sun, the feeling of unity and vision imbued in the work. The taste of a fresh tomato, warm from the vine; the grit of soil under my fingers; the way the evening stretched long shadows over the hayfields and shrouded the crops in mystery. Everything on the farm seemed more immediate, more vital, than what lay beyond. I couldn’t imagine, in those sunny years of youth, ever leaving that feeling behind. 

Feeling a calling to something does not make that work easy, though. The generation before me, and then my generation, suffered hardship and loss, a highway split our land, and our surroundings sprouted more concrete than green. I questioned my place - our farm’s place - in this changing world. What is it to be a farmer surrounded by a suburb, whose fields are lit not only by the sun, but also by the harried passing of headlights on a freeway? What is it to cultivate local connections in the 21st century, when we can connect just as easily to the most remote corners of the earth?

And I realized, pondering these questions over the years, that the farm is not just a place. It’s an idea, an act of faith, a strict but merciful teacher. It’s the call of roosters in the morning, the cool dark earth beneath the surface, the fragile green tendril pushing its way out of the ground. It’s work and trust and togetherness. In its gentle, inexorable way, it binds us to one another and to a shared reverence for the miracle that is life.
Each day, the sun rises. And each day, so do we. The land waits for us, its morning dew a lifeline that connects us back to who we are and where we came from. We walk into the midst of a growing world and begin again the intentional work of ushering forth that life. We cultivate not only food but an oasis, a place where our community can gather, breathe and tune in to the deeper pulse of our remarkable world. On those mornings, I am returned once again to my first memories, and to that indelible sense that belonging twines among the roots of each verdant, growing thing.

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