I can’t help but visualize that great big stack of chicken feed sacks in the corner of my shed.Ĭan you picture a flock of chickens on the land that are supported by no purchased chicken feed or other outside inputs? How about a family of hogs? Sheep? Rhubarb? Serviceberry? Walnut trees? Human beings? If not, then what does live on and with and from the land? What might systems look like that involve, support, produce any of these organisms within your neighborhood, or your region, even if you don’t own land or it can’t manage it on its own? This is local beyond the farmer’s market, because it’s about coexistence in a place a mutual thriving. If it’s your farm you have in mind and if it’s anything like our family’s home place, you might be feeling about like I am, which is guilty. Is it thriving? What resources does it use in order to thrive? Where do those resources come from? Now picture an individual from a wild species of plant or animal that is present there. Picture one individual from one species of domesticated animal or plant that lives there.
If not yours, then the land you are most familiar with.
In a song on one of their Christmas albums they reference “The scary, scary beauty of what’s right here.” Another good definition comes from a song lyric by one of my favorite music groups, Over the Rhine. Here’s one more, courtesy of yours truly: Bioregionalism is the attempt to derive one’s way of life from one’s own ecological neighborhood. Bioregionalism has several working definitions floating around. When an assortment of contiguous places is identified that can reasonably be lumped together based on these factors matching up, the resulting area can be thought of as a “bioregion.” Some folks who think this has and should have implications for our lives subscribe to a theory known as Bioregionalism. If we know the way, if we will do the work…Įach of our farms and homes is located in a specific place made up of its own unique blend of geology, climate, and biological ecosystem. Over the graves of its wasters, as it comes Excerpt from Wendell Berry’s 1982 Sabbath poem #6, “To Den”:
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