There's a long list of nevers in my life. I’ve never:
smoked a cigarette
got drunk
wagged school
or been arrested
but you’d be mistaken if you thought I was completely straightlaced. An unconventional seam runs through the substrate of my life, one that led me to Nimbin a few years ago, the hippiest place in Australia. I went there for a hands-on experience of permaculture.
Over the course of 2½ weeks I, along with a diverse group of overall-wearing folk, learned how to make compost tea and bioactive charcoal, build a swale, design a seasonal garden, and prepare the property for an actual bushfire that was approaching us in real-time. We also learned how to save seeds which may sound like the least exciting of our activities, but it’s actually a key part of the course. Permaculture is about working with nature’s processes, especially the life-cycle of plants. As it happens, it’s also in keeping with No Buy principles. Saving seeds is completely free, and a clever way of circumventing Big Grain.
When I returned home, I was keen to try out my new skills. I waited impatiently for my broccoli to finish flowering so it could sprout narrow green pods up and down its sharp-as-switches stalks. When the pods eventually dried out, I stripped them off and crumbled them into a shallow dish, creating a mixture of dried husks and black seeds that resembled miniature ball bearings.
The next step was the real test. My head level with the rim, I blew horizontally across the dish. This thin stream of air gently lifted the husks up and over the seeds, carrying them over to the edge while leaving the seeds behind. I tipped the little black dots into a packet, labelled it, and sealed it up. Come late summer, I would transfer these specks into my veggie plot, and with luck, some of them would grow into broccoli plants. As I placed the packet in a dark cupboard, I gave myself a pat on the back. I had just engaged in the ancient art of winnowing.
15 years ago, I began the practice of discerning a word at the beginning of each year; a word to focus on and shape the months to come. In previous years, words such as allowing, receiving, heed, home and mercy have acted as waymarkers on my journey from January to December. As 2024 draws to a close, I find myself wondering what word will accompany me through 2025.
‘Winnowing’ comes to mind.
2024 has been a full year, in many respects, too full. The tendons in both my wrists have become inflamed, so much so, opening doors and typing without voice software has proven difficult, if not impossible. I even broke my No Buy rule and purchased a battery-operated gadget for opening jars. I’ve filed this spending indiscretion under “medically necessary purchases” as I truly cannot do without it. Running next door to my neighbours every time I need to open a jar is unsustainable.
And it’s not the only thing that’s unsustainable. As my wrists have pointed out, I’ve been doing too much, leaving me to ponder what activities I should keep and what I should dispense with. Could the concept of winnowing offer some wisdom?
Interestingly, it’s the husks rather than the seeds that catch my attention. The husks begin their life as useful pods. While green, they protect the seeds from birds, insects and the elements. But once the seeds are ready to be released, the pods dry up and fall to the ground. If they didn’t do this, the seeds would never land on the soil and sprout.
And here’s another thing about husks: During my permaculture course, we were taught to make sure no husk debris made its way into our seed packets. Otherwise, it would attract bugs and destroy the seeds. Consequently, discarding husks – aka the chaff – is vital to the process.
This makes me wonder about the times I’ve hung onto the chaff in my life. Why did I do it, and what chaff am I hanging onto right now?
As my No Buy Year extends into 2025 (the challenge officially ends on 31 August), the process of winnowing seems even more relevant. At the risk of milking this metaphor, by winnowing my needs and wants, I can release the things that no longer serve me, be they purchases, activities, attitudes, behaviours or unprocessed emotions, and in so doing, plant seeds for the life I hope to reap in the future. This needn’t be a stressful process either. The art of winnowing requires a gentle, steady breath. Blow too hard and you lose the seeds along with the chaff – a good reminder that inner work can be gentle too.
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