Years ago, when I lived in Montreal, ice storms always took me by surprise. I didn't listen to the weather. Mostly, I ignored what Mother Nature was up to. Although I walked the dirt path across the forested mountain to get home, most of daily life consisted of negotiating asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks.

After a holiday spent in the west, among people who spent most of their lives outdoors, I realized that I missed having dirt under my fingernails. I missed seeing stars.

Through my teenage years, I spent all summer at camp working as a counsellor. Water and sky, open fields and forest filled my days and nights. Watching the moon mark a path on the water, listening to rain on the cabin roof filled my summer. Yes, the rest of the year was a suburban house and yard, school, with a bit of snow and skiing--not a lot as I lived in Waterloo--but summer formed me.

I learned things living in Montreal, important things about building a just community and working for change, but I needed to understand where ice storms came from and what birds were up to.

I moved to a farm. Within a short time, I was learning to work the land and fix fences. Sheep taught me about the birthing process. Hay and grain fields taught me how frustrating it is to try and grow things. Nature and I developed a complicated relationship, more like a fight than co-operation.  

In part, this was because all the family had other occupations as well. The kids were in school. My husband taught university. I worked as a minister. Daily chores in the barn were top of the agenda, though sometimes that meant going to the barn before dawn. Baling hay and picking rocks, combining and clipping pasture had to fit in amongst other commitments.  

But that is only part of the story. As I look at fields of beans covered in snow, I know that farming has been a battle this year. First, there was drought. People cut what hay there was knowing they were not getting enough. Finally, when rain came, there was a fall growth. This was not easy to get dry, but people fought the short humid days to get more hay however they could. I think this is the only year I saw people trying to hay in mid-October.

Every sunny day, people have been in the field combining. A lot of the beans and some of the corn has been harvested. But there have not been enough sunny days. Fields of beans are still waiting.

Farming is connected to the land. What crops will grow in an area is determined by soil quality and heat units. We can't grow rice in Grey County. We don't grow potatoes as well as they can in Simcoe County. But no crop grows without work and a pile of luck.

When I finished baling in June--not to feed sheep but to leave a layer of hay in the barn to give it weight and protect the floor--I wondered how I had managed in the past. Other years, I would be in the field every day for a month--that's what holidays from my paying job were for. Two days felt like enough this year.

We've left the field work for other people. Now, living by the water, I am back to watching. Mostly, I've been watching wild waves. Only one night has been clear enough to see the moon lay it's track on the bay. White caps and rolling surf have dominated this past month.

I am engaging Mother Nature to some extent. I've piled the fallen leaves on the gardens, planted some perennials from the farm, started weeding and pruning a neglected yard. I filled the bird feeders to the delight of chickadees and blue jay, juncos, a nuthatch, cardinal and squirrels. There is snow I will shovel.

Mostly, nature is on its own here on the shore. The loons and ducks are beyond my reach. An eagle has swooped past twice now, resting in a bare ash tree for a moment. From where I sit to write, I watch storms move across the bay.

I learned a lot from farming, but for the moment, I leave the fight to others. For me, this is a time to let nature be.

Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay.