Hey Folks, Shawn Fulbright writing - I've not had a suitable camera with which to photograph the continued efforts at seed production that have been occurring out on the farm this summer and I'll admit that the rarity of posts on this page is the direct result of being less inspired to share without said visuals.
That dry spell ends today, the day that I spotted for the first time since I planted this stand last year, three decent-sized Monarch caterpillars feeding deep within my California Milkweed plants. For the first time in months, I feel too much joy to remain silent.
Over the summer, I delighted when I observed that these native plants I purchased in little 4" pots from the Theodore Payne Foundation were blooming and clearly leaving behind seed pods, and then bewildered when the first hundred or so proved limp and sterile upon closer inspection.
A month or so passed and bigger seed pods formed. Lots of them. I didn't think much of it. Then one day I glanced over at the plants and they seemed to have some kind of white fluffy growth occurring - I assumed some kind of parasite had begun attacking them, but in actuality, the fattened pods had begun exploding forth with feathery masses of lovely, parachuted seeds.
Every other day for many weeks now I have been gently grasping at these clouds of seed as they present themselves, always amused by their built-in ability to completely disregard gravity if released into a breeze. But preliminary inspections for signs of Monarch larvae - the reason native milkweed is such a coveted plant for California gardeners - always came up empty handed. Until today.
On the drive home, it occurred to me that despite the fact that this was all happening on my farm, my joy wasn't actually rooted in a sense of pride for "making" this all happen. Rather, it's joy and wonder delivered by curiosity in its most primitive sense; the privilege of bearing witness to nature just doin' her thing. It sums up a lot of the feelings I have out here.
Throughout all of the discoveries I've made as a farmer just barely scratching the surface of the seed saving world, it feels like the time I spend out here caring for the plants, coaxing them to seed; it affords me a "ticket to ride", so to speak. It's me paying entry into the amusement park that is nature, that is all around us all the time but operating on different levels of subtlety, some so faint that you could blink and you'll miss it. You don't always have to know what you're looking for. Keep your eyes open and be patient, and it may just come knocking on your door.
