Scattering My Scarecrows

by Civil Winters

SCATTERING MY SCARECROWS

Second chances can start with a single piece of straw.

“Among the young people who come to these mountain huts, there are those, poor in body and spirit, who have given up all hope. I am only an old farmer who grieves that he cannot even provide them with a pair of sandals—but there is still one thing that I can give them. One straw. I picked up some straw from in front of the hut and said, ‘From just this one straw a revolution could begin.’”

I was seated, and struck, in the Carolyn Sifton Library of the Department of Agricultural and Food Sciences when I read this passage for the first time. Assignments for a third-year agroecology student often assumed the persona of a dry lab. They were neither useful nor resonant. I remember the unanimous eyebrow raise our five-person class gave the professor when he said, “You must understand the food industry. This book will help you appreciate your future responsibilities.” He then assigned 200 pages of reading and a 100-word summary due the following lecture period. I assumed the workload, but I did not expect to leave my heart on the pages with a tender Japanese steward who taught me that farming is truly about the cultivation of human beings. The impact of this passage, however, would be lost without understanding the adversity that preceded it.

I was seated, and struck, in that same library just six months prior trying to keep my composure through an urgently flagged email. It was marked with an unsavoury and unforgettable subject line: Plagiarism. “This is an official notice from the Faculty of Agricultural and Food Sciences, informing you of an investigation...” The body of the message blurred together with salty tears. I contemplated the fastest route to the nearest restroom. From the safety of the locked stall, I slid to the floor bewildered. The paper under examination was a literature review required to complete an undergraduate thesis. This was the core of my degree. Incomplete grades were grounds for removal. Where did I go wrong? I had submitted countless items without issue, completed with honesty. Now I had to ask for both clarification and clemency.

Without an available ombudsman, family and mentors aided by writing letters of recommendation. This kindness added fireflies to the night, setting the threads between my passion projects and volunteer hours aglow. In a season where my character was called into question, this was the defining line between the click of a drop-out button and staying enrolled. For the three accidentally uncited words I was responsible for, the verdict was reduced to unintentional with an automatic failing grade.

The official discussion became the smallest hurdle of this misadventure. Classes continued despite my being noticeably suspended. My undergraduate thesis also required a do-over with a new advisor. I was ashamed of my unintended mistake, mortified by potential gossip, and terrified of trying again. The hours invested in an area of research I enjoyed felt worthless and unredeemable. The final discouragement landed when I passed a screening to study abroad but was individually declined by the Dean. My body eventually succumbed to these stresses with repeated infections.

In The One-Straw Revolution, grower and philosopher, Masanobu Fukuoka, discusses how farmers have become a mere variable in modern agriculture’s equation for speed and efficiency. “Originally, people would look into a starry night sky and feel awe at the vastness of the universe. Now the questions of time and space are left entirely to the consideration of scientists.” Although school promised to teach practical skills and offer opportunities to practice them, it often left me feeling aimless and unknown. Intellect should not come at the expense of presence. Although the future felt uncertain, I recognized an inner desire to be firmly rooted and perpetually astonished. Could I be curious? Could I ask questions? Could I appreciate the so-called weeds in the wheat field? In that moment, I chose not to no longer be a victim of circumstance.

The following term was challenging, but it led to immeasurable joy. The mentor I had been assigned was a gentle-spoken, inspiring scientist with a heart for improving the sustainability of food systems in underdeveloped communities—increasing the access to, education of and yield from them while respecting culture and landscape conditions. Through his studies on underutilized native Nigerian vegetables, I was able to develop a unique, new focus. He encouraged me to expand my sphere of influence, meeting fellow scientists, students, and technicians tethered to his lab. Under his guidance, my comprehension and technical writing improved. My self-esteem and grades soared. The recovery attracted attention from the study-abroad program I had applied to and resulted in a personal request for my participation. It was sent directly to the Dean who, in turn, helped me secure a generous scholarship as funding.

I spent a whirlwind summer studying agricultural practices across France, did a rapid-fire round of laundry, then traveled to Nigeria for firsthand experience. It was the type of work I had dreamed of, with lasting and positive impact. It was also a chance unheard of for undergraduate students. The ventures and relationships formed were nothing short of miraculous. My African “brothers” and I continue to consider one another family. I learned more than I can accurately reflect on and was entirely fulfilled.

There were countless evenings spent on my knees that year, quietly asking for direction when I didn’t know how to show up or why I should. I can’t help but laugh in hindsight over Joel 2:25-26 which describes how God will “restore to us the years that locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, and the caterpillar, and the palmerworm.” You don’t need a science background to see His promise to eat in plenty and not be ashamed, but I cannot fathom a cleverer proof-of-concept for an Aggie. This was restoration agriculture at its finest.

“When I was a child,” Fukuoka writes, “There was a man who lived near Inyuose Pass.” It appeared that the man did nothing but walk between the top of the mountain and the Gunchu Port. On every return trip, he collected manure and discarded straw horseshoes and placed them on his fields. His crops grew healthily, and he became a wealthy man. “Treat one strand of straw as important and never take a useless step.”

When the chaos and destruction of mankind speaks loudly, will holding tightly to a straw help us wait with expectation? For the past decade, I’ve been designing regenerative planting spaces. Although I jest annually that straw spreading is a chore from h-e-double-hockey sticks, it is one of the most protective and productive amendments for the garden. It supresses weeds, safeguards beneficial insects and increases the organic matter profile of the soil. Between the golden weaves, new life is given breath and it flourishes. It always appears small and light, as Masanobu also observes. Many people pass over it without knowing how substantial it is. “Hardly anyone would believe it could start a revolution. But I have come to realize the weight and power of this straw. For me, this revolution is very real.”

Straw-revolutions are surprisingly similar to restorations. Each is built piece by piece, every fiber layered as a tiny, treasured anticipation. When the future feels unclear, I’m particularly adept at visualizing my choices as mistakes rather than places to grow from. That is a falsehood. Every moment we pass through holds the potential to help us build stronger foundations.

Whether it’s measured in dedicated mulch around new plantings or the small, seemingly insignificant steps we’re taking forward, there’s no knowing when the “last straw” could become the catalyst for breakthrough. If we can follow a wise Japanese farmer’s example and treat every strand as important, perhaps we would also lean a little further into grace: learning to trade in the stuffing of our scarecrows for solid ground cover, trusting that our steps, our hopes, and our need for second chances are always ordered.

CIVIL WINTERS

Civil Winters lives in the heart of the Canadian prairies. She studied Agroecology at the University of Manitoba, and now designs gardens and landscapes with a regenerative focus. When her hands aren't filled with earth or earl grey tea, she runs, reads, paints, and writes. Her reflections touch on travel misadventures, nature, stories and songs, and life lived with a big family and an ark-sized hoard of four-legged and feathered friends. She has “played” with lake sturgeon and polar bears, has an impressive rubber boot collection, and is still learning how to be the cool aunt.