FIELD NOTES No. 01 — Feeding the Invisible
- Elia Fant
- Jul 26
- 3 min read
"Some weeks teach you more than others. This was one of those weeks."
There are two new baby goats at Fant Farm who have decided that the safest place in the world is directly between my legs.
I don't know if it's comfort, curiosity, or simply their version of a hug, but everywhere I walk, they're there—tiny bells jingling, talking constantly, convinced that whatever I'm doing must somehow involve them.
The cows, for the record, are deeply offended by this arrangement.
This week was brutally hot.
The kind of Florida heat that sits on your shoulders before breakfast and refuses to leave long after sunset.
Every afternoon the storms rolled through or threatened to.
Every morning the grass seemed taller than it had been the day before.
Tree limbs came down.
The to-do list rolled into the next day's to-do list.
And somewhere in between all of it, we were expanding our worm herd, loading semi-trucks with compost, checking animals, fixing fences, and trying to stay one step ahead of summer.
Sometimes farming feels less like finishing work...
...and more like faithfully beginning it again tomorrow.
Then there was the grief.
It has been two months since my mother passed away.
Several times this week, right in the middle of chores, my mind did what it has done for forty-something years.
"I need to tell Moma about this."
Then, almost instantly...
I remember.
Grief has a strange way of arriving without warning.
But every evening something beautiful happens.
As I come around the corner toward the pasture, they all see me.
The goats.
The cows.
Even the horse lifts her head and gives me a short little talking to.
One by one they begin making their way toward the fence until they're all standing there waiting—not always because I have feed—but because I'm part of their rhythm.
There is something deeply healing about being welcomed home by creatures that don't know your burdens.
They simply know you came.
This week we spent hours prepping, sorting and tending the worm bins.
Most people look into a worm bin and see worms.
I look into one and see billions of invisible workers.
The bacteria.
The fungi.
The protozoa.
The microscopic life quietly rebuilding something no one ever notices until it's gone.
We're not just feeding worms.
We're feeding an entire underground civilization.
That's what made me realize something.
In the deep end of summer —the unrelenting heat has a way of exhausting everything.
Our gardens.
Our bodies.
Sometimes our hearts.
The temptation is always the same:
Push harder.
Add more fertilizer.
Water more often.
Keep forcing growth.
But healthy things rarely recover because they're pushed.
They recover because what's underneath them is restored.
That's why we believe so deeply in worm castings.
Not because they're fertilizer.
Because they're biology.
Because when you feed the invisible...
...the visible begins to heal.
Next week the weeds will keep growing.
The baby goats will almost certainly trip me.
The worms will continue multiplying faster than we planned.
There will be another list waiting Monday morning.
And we'll keep showing up.
Because that's what farms do.
And maybe that's what people do, too.
This week's field note:
Feed the invisible.
Whether it's your soil...
your relationships...
or your own weary heart...
The healthiest things are almost always growing where no one can see them.
— Ellie
Fant Farm Organics · Levy County, Florida
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