Permaculture Usually Makes a Mess

Permaculture is an ongoing experiment.

We get an idea on how to make things work better, more simply, more in tune with natural flows, with less force from us. We set it in motion, and then watch to see how things turn out. It's a lot like the spiritual path in that way. Learn about something; gain an insight; try it out; see what happens.

And our experiments aren't always beautiful.

Our small farm is on a gentle slope overlooking Laurelwood Valley. It gets sun and rain, soft breezes and storms, visits from wild critters, and the wanderings of our domesticated friends. It's an ideal laboratory.

Autumn leaves are part of permaculture

We've built berms of all sizes and designs. Some are pond muck, clomped and ragged with crags and crannies; miniature Himalayan ranges. Some have chunks of tree trunks, carted in from the Ananda Portland Community, covered with pond muck or garden debris. Others are brush piles, some covered with rich garden soil, some uncovered, providing safe harbor to tiny birds, snakes, and scurrying creatures, the entwined branches slowly collapsing into a composted future.

And all of them are a mess.

Animals are part of permaculture

Our llamas are roamers. They migrate up and down our hillside several times a day. During the rainy winter, they churn up the sodden pasture, sinking up to their ankles with each regal step. We spread straw over the choppy thoroughfare, and wait while the llamas rototill the straw into the mud. We walk across the sloppy mess with our wide, muck boots, leveling the divots, restoring evenness here, then there. The straw breaks down, the worms get to work, we spread some seed, and our pasture thrives.

It's a messy process.

Composted kitchen scraps, fallen leaves, chicken straw, and landscape clippings cover the garden soil, their nutrients seeping down to bring worms by the score, each one a tiny rototiller, leaving castings in their wake. I see eggshells and browned leaves, clumped and slimy from the rain. Despite the mess, I imagine what's happening in the soil beneath, and my heart sings.

The critters' wake is not always beautiful

Our ducks dabble through divots brimming with rain, along the edges of our chortling, seasonal streams, across their spring-fed pond, bringing up mud and murk, staining the pristine flow wherever they wander. Our chickens scratch and forage, scattering compost onto walkways, straw onto gravel, unearthing defenseless ground covers.

They all make a mess.

And yet our hillside is coming alive. After decades of overgrazing and intensive harvesting, we moved onto our crippled hillside to love and nourish it. We tromp around in our wide boots, talking to critters and admiring hearty growth. We delight in the ducks dabbling, the chickens scratching, and the llamas' regal migrations.

Tiny birds that I cannot name dart and flit, colorful and busy with their day. Orchard trees awaken and spread their limbs. Pasture grasses flourish and spread. Chickens murmur and examine. Llamas wander and graze, stand firm to gaze out across our valley, heads high, watchful. Ducks waddle and call, dabble and float, a graceful armada.

I see past the mess, and all I feel is beauty and peace.