Sitting down to write this newsletter and reach into the depths of internal winter reality, it's hard to come up with words beyond a few basics. "Tired," "fire," "tea," "food." The feeling of exhaustion, so completely crystalized by the pressure of the last few growing seasons, is a potent feeling I am sinking into full-scale intimacy with. Little bits of cozy energy are spent crafting and reading with the kids and gathering with friends. Allowing in inertia, and choosing to do a lot less, is one way I can keep the flame of my spirit alive. The choice to yield to the stormy, cold days is how I can save up the surge of energy needed for when birds start chirping on a 35 degree sunny day. This is the kind of warm day (when the body senses anything over 32 F as "warm") which sends me right into imagining the joy of March approaching. Without these days of languishing on the couch, I fear that I wont be able to feel the joy of riding that upwell when it inevitably comes. I'm looking forward to March particularly this season because in line with this slow winter the spring will be a quiet start. I used to feel annoyed at March because it felt like the riot of spring should be beginning. In the Northwest, where I used to live and still love, there are giant pink blossoms dropping from the trees in March... but here in the Northeast it's still mud and cold (although, also, the treasure of tree sap!). These days I feel March as a nice lulling time; the dreaming space of NY spring without the pressure. Little dobs of shocking green colors in the greenhouse (cilantro, dill, lettuces, onions) in the otherwise cozy, soft brown field of view that is late winter Upstate. This is the first year in awhile that we will have no co-workers on our farm besides Ironwood owners until April. This means Aliyah and I will be going through the steady motions of cleaning up the farm and finalizing the reset for the return of warmth and sun. We will slowly turn fieldhouse beds and plant first successions of seeds. By mid-March the ginger seed will be arriving, tomatoes will be sprouting, and the greenhouse will be beginning to fill up alongside young peashoots which will be making their appearance again. I can already smell the tomato plants as I run my hands through their stems to bend the plants and check that their roots are maintaining enough water while they wait to go in the ground. I can remember how, so strangely and beautifully, a Sungold plant smells just as fruity as the fruit itself. It is my secret wish that our 2022 crew will continue to stop by at times like this for a cup of tea in the greenhouse on a slow day, because we will be missing them dearly. By the time the greenhouse is full at the end of March, we will be ready for the arrival of more lovely humans to share the tasks and high fives around a bit wider. You've probably gathered by now that Ironwood Farm will be in existence in 2023! I know s everal of you were worried after my last slightly heart- wrenching newsletter. We've made significant cuts to our crop plan and our CSA distribution spread (this was/is hard) in order to bring our energy closer to home. Even with the challenges of farming ever-increasing, we want to maintain care and relationship to the North Creek land that hosts our farm community and families for many more years. The challenge will be to navigate a path of scaling down that feels authentic, and maintains connection and the vibrant energy that we've built here with your help over the last 9 years. To support this transition, you can join our small and abundant Farm CSA . More information to come in a future post about CSA details, which can also be found now on our website . Enjoy this snow day! Lauren reparations now, land back, and no more cops