Humble Beginnings
Musings from our founder, Arran Stephens
The past forms the basis of our present life and the intricate relationships we have with everything and everyone. If we consider our evolution from a higher perspective, we may perceive a slow but inexorable progress from the darkness of ignorance towards the fully conscious Light of our real essence. Each is placed in circumstances uniquely critical to awakening, but, like Sleeping Beauty, our soul awaits her Prince—or in other words, the spark—as I would ultimately discover.
My parents were farmers and artists; our berry and vegetable fields were caringly wrested from the unspoiled forests of Vancouver Island, with mountains rising on three sides. On the 6th of January, 1944, while unloading 100 lb. sacks of potatoes off the back of the pick-up truck, Mum went into labor, and I was born, joining my older brother Godfrey, stepbrother John and Happy, our family collie dog.
In 1949, Mum and Dad sold their original Mountain Valley Farm in Glenora, and purchased 80 acres of farmland and wilderness further south on Vancouver Island which they developed into a sustainable farm that bordered the picturesque Goldstream Provincial Park. It was called Goldstream Berry Paradise. Because our berries were renowned for taste, variety and size, it was not unusual to have lineups of up to 50 cars waiting to be served at the berry stand.
For a while we lived in a hand-hewn log-house overlooking the Gold-stream Valley, most fortunate to live in proximity with forests, streams, ocean, lakes, fresh air and mountains. Nature was everywhere. Few places on the planet can rival the remaining magic, yet-unlogged spaces of Vancouver Island.
Recollections of My Indian Career, the gilded leather-bound autobiography of great-grandfather J.M. Cripps (at left), fired my vivid child’s imagination, its musty pages detailing life in colonial India from 1839-1878. Only thirteen copies of Recollections were ever printed; each illustrated with exquisite original watercolors by Agnes, the General’s daughter—my Dad’s mother. She painted tombs, temples, bullock carts, rivers, fortresses, ports-of-call and mountain passes in India during the British Raj. Grandmother Agnes, who passed away before my birth, was born in Peshawar—India’s wild North-western Frontier (now part of modern Pakistan). The other twelve copies of the book are now untraceable.
Mum loved the feel of the earth; a connoisseur of unnoticed beauties—the subtle patterns in a stone, the color of a leaf, a tiny wildflower springing from emerald moss, water dancing in sunlight, maidenhair ferns waving on a wet canyon wall; she had the gift of enabling others to see as she saw. Following deer paths through the forest was always an education as she pointed out the wildflowers and plants of the region, giving us both their common and Latin names. As well, she would bake and take cookies to the abandoned elderly, allowing me to tag along on her merciful errands. Her strength of character and artistry inspired many, although she rarely suffered fools gladly. I had frequently felt the strength of her disciplining hand!
Dad raised unique varieties of vegetables, berries, and fruits. Renouncing modern chemicals and mechanization, he discovered simple, economical methods to strengthen soil fertility and the health of plants. The message of his life could be distilled into a single, simple teaching—certainly one to guide my future path: ‘Always leave the soil better than you found it.’
Extolling the virtues of the lowly earthworm and organic mulch, he wrote in Sawdust Is My Slave (1951):
Earthworms, in the Utopia I had created for them, worked day and night to improve my soil by burrowing through it, digesting and spreading humus… I couldn’t lose, for when they died, I still had their remains to provide my plants with rich plant food… I had never had a slave before, except my wife, but this didn’t put me far ahead for I was her devoted slave also…
When not toiling the land, his spirit soared through music and verse. Lyrics for hundreds of songs, poems and articles flowed from his pen, despite an inability to read music (he would hum his melodies to a pianist who would translate them to musical notes). Here’s one:
This Earth is Mine
This Earth is mine to have and hold, this dust beneath my feet. God gave me hands to cherish it, to help the hungry eat; And if I treat it as my friend, ten times it will repay; The sweat, the toil, my good red soil, this Earth is mine today. This earth is mine to have and hold, it lies beneath my feet; I know that on the summer dust, the steam of rain is sweet; And when I’m weary, old and worn, I know that I can say, ‘I’ll pass it on to other hands, more fertile than today.’ It waits for me with loving arms; this Earth is mine that day. ©
In A Guy Like Me, he gives thanks for the blessings of the land:
A Guy Like Me
Across the plain, my yellow grain / lies restless as the sea; How could this all be given to a guy like me? To fill my need I sowed the seed, and now repaid I’ll be; How could this all be given to a guy like me? The seasons change with splendor, my ceiling is the sky; The earth my master, cruel and tender, happy man am I! The sun, the rain, the wind, the snow, the rapture to be free, How could this all be given to a guy like me? Two arms that gladly share my toil, or hold me tenderly; And this has all been given to a guy like me. ©
Perhaps to initiate his twelve-year-old son into one of the more questionable rites of manhood, Dad took me hunting one night on a backfield of the farm. ‘Pit-lamping’ involves blinding a deer in the high beams of a vehicle’s headlights, thus allowing the ‘brave’ hunter to shoot the defenseless creature. On this particular night we startled a family of four deer dining in the strawberry field, their eyes glowing eerily in the glare of our lights. Dad put his 12-gauge shotgun through the window and blasted the nearest animal, filling the cab with a deafening roar and the smell of gunpowder. The wounded deer leaped away into the darkness. The next morning, a few hundred yards from the shooting, laid the stilled doe. When her belly was slit open, a remarkably human-looking fetus slid out. It was pretty shocking, and the smell of evisceration was awful. Overcome with remorse, Dad never again touched his extensive gun collection (he was a captain in the Scottish Infantry in WW1), nor did he eat venison again. In fact, nine years later, his tenderheartedness led him to avoid eating the flesh of any animal until he suddenly died in robust health at eighty.
Goldstream Berry Paradise—our farm—was sold the following year. Along with an idyllic childhood, I was parted from my beloved cat. From the time he was a fuzzy little kitten, I had trained him to turn like a whirling dervish whenever I circled my finger in front of his face, thus earning him the name ‘Dizzy.’ We were closer than words could convey, and he followed me everywhere. I had never known real grief before, but the enormity of the loss of the farm, the blue-green mountains and my beloved Dizzy, hit me like a ton of bricks. On parting, I wept uncontrollably, while Dizzy yowled in the field, vainly trying to follow our car as it rolled down the tree-lined Humpback Road for the last time. Dizzy was left to fend alone on the abandoned farm, as I too would have to learn to survive far away in the concrete jungles of L.A., San Francisco, and New York City.
From our pristine island, we traveled by ferry across the Strait, then, by train, far south to smoggy Hollywood where Dad pursued his musical dreams. At thirteen I learned to my dismay that violent gangs controlled the schools and streets, where the wary and the strong survived. No fan of gangs and not particularly large or strong, I learned a little Okinawan jujitsu for self-defense, which taught that even someone small or weak could use the momentum of someone much larger and stronger against them. In grade eight, I had only taken a few lessons before becoming the unprovoked object of attack by the toughest gang leader in Le Conte Jr. High, a very tough school on the edge of East L.A. When the bully ended up unconscious on the ground without my having to strike a blow, I sensed a hidden life-force, called chi, or prana. After this unusual experience, the superstitious gang left me alone, to my great relief.
We settled into our rented palm-shaded hacienda in the Hollywood Hills. One hot afternoon as I was watering the plants, a lean, orange-white tomcat walked up the front steps toward me. Beneath the grime was a remarkable resemblance to my long-lost friend. ‘Dizzy, is that you?’ I whispered, circling my finger in front of his face. To my utter amazement, that scraggly cat started to turn around in circles. Next, he was purring and blissfully rubbing my leg. Sweeping him into my arms, I ran to the house, yelling, ‘Look, look, it’s Dizzy!’ Somehow, he had crossed the Juan de Fuca Strait, and traveled 1,500 miles overland to find his boy in the middle of a city of millions. What a story Dizzy could have told! Who says animals don’t have souls?
The following song, The Lord Looks After His Own, was selected as the theme-piece for Perry, a feature Disney film, on the condition that all ‘Lord’ references be deleted, but Dad refused to change what he felt was a true inspiration—and thus the big time passed him by.
The Lord Looks After His Own
The chipmunk is lucky, he doesn’t know it, Chews on a nut, but didn’t grow it… The goose flies south, his mate beside him, He has no map nor course to guide him… Though winter creeps down and down the mountains, Turns the waterfalls to crystal fountains, the Lord looks after his own… Gone is the glory of the sun, gone is the summer rain, Though only blue notes fill the air, lovely spring will come again. Though life will bring you tears and sorrow, All men will share that great tomorrow, The Lord looks after his own. ©
Rupert Stephens
A Word About Organics
Nowadays, Organic gardens and farms are springing up everywhere. What is organically grown food, why the popularity, and why is organic food better for people and planet? Having studied and practiced organic gardening and farming for most of my life—even before there was an organic movement per se, I’ve been struck by how much better organic produce tastes and makes me and my family feel. Not only are organically grown grains, vegetables, legumes, fruit, nuts, seeds and dairy products produced without toxic fertilizers, pesticides, herbicides, hormones or genetically modified organisms, but the organic system helps preserve biodiversity, more closely mimics natural cycles, supports family farmers on livable incomes, reduces fossil fuel, sequesters carbon and promotes soil fertility.
We can think of soil fertility as one of our greatest legacies for future generations, for without good topsoil and sustainable farming practices, our precious planet cannot sustain life. The not-for-profit Rodale Institute and the Organic Center provide decades of experimental research and the science to back the claim that organically grown foods contain significantly higher nutrient density and antioxidants than their conventional counterparts (ref: TOC’s chief scientist Dr. Charles Benbrook). It just makes a lot of good common sense that if you have healthy soil, you’ll have healthy plants. The nutrients the plants uptake from the soil nurture those who eat them. One can practice a compassionate diet and gradually incorporate organic foods into it for maximum benefit. I encourage everyone to grow a small garden, even if it only be a few pots on a sunny balcony to start with. We can then better appreciate the cycle of life and where our food comes from. And, it becomes even better when we share it with others! ‘Let us give thanks to the food.’
— Navaho prayer
