I had a farm, an organic farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Friends who loved it called it Magic Valley-curving into another world of bright-water trout streams, rich bottom land, flower meadows and woodland, their fragrance rising to meet you. How would it be, I'd wondered, to circle the arc of solstice and equinox living as an earth-whisperer, not a brutalizer? How to steward land, and leave it richer and more beautiful? Was I young and foolish, starting up an organic farm, and trying to do it alone? That would be a strong maybe. But was I a fool, to try? I don't think so. The farm brought a lot of people joy, including me. And there's a sense of it having been a larger thought, than mine, gradually taking global form. Although prototype was not my plan of action, I had a very good run