This week I wanted to share with you some important information that often gets overlooked in the age old argument between Organic vs Non-Organic. I often tell people that Organic is so much more than just being chemical free, that part is really just the tip of the iceberg. Science is unveiling incredible findings for our health when they start to compare food grown in healthy rich soil vs food grown mostly with fertilisers. When people hear “organic,” they often think of food that’s cleaner—grown without pesticides, antibiotics, or synthetic fertilisers. And that’s true. But there’s another layer that doesn’t always get talked about: the actual nutrient and compound profile inside the food itself.

Blueberries and raspberries have become everyday favourites in Aussie kitchens. They look so fresh and healthy, but new testing has revealed something concerning. A scientist in NSW bought a few supermarket punnets and had them tested. The results showed traces of a pesticide that’s been banned here for years, along with high levels of another one called dimethoate. Now, dimethoate is still legal in Australia, but it’s banned in Europe because of its potential impact on the nervous system. The tests even suggested that a small handful of berries could push kids close to their daily safety limit.

Have you been out in your backyard over the weekend? Have you wandered through your own little veggie patch? If you have, you may have noticed the same thing I did this week—fresh shoots signaling spring’s arrival. The buzz and hum of insects is already beginning to build. You can feel it in the air, that subtle change. Yes, spring is letting us know she is near. The sunshine that soaked our farm these past few days lifted our spirits. It was badly needed after what has been one of the wettest autumns and winters on record. They say we could be in for a wet spring as well, so we’ll make sure to let the sun’s rays soak through to our bones and our spirit—and enjoy it while we can. In other news, we had a wonderful weekend with family. So the phone was put down and my writing stopped, so I could enjoy and cherish those memorable moments with the people I love most. It’s now Tuesday morning and I’m sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee as the stars fade from the sky and the sun begins to illuminate the eastern horizon with vivid hues of saffron and crimson. The birds all around me are singing—perhaps to wake their neighbors, or maybe just rejoicing in the fact that we have another sunny day ahead. The bush turkeys have formed a congo line as they leave the safety of the thick forest and begin their morning ritual (I counted 23 this morning).

What sort of life would it be without hopes and dreams? Can we survive without them? And where do they come from? I decided to take a walk through a part of the farm I seldom visit—a bamboo forest so dense towards the center it becomes dark and magical. The towering green columns lace together, forming a cathedral-like ceiling. They bend towards each other from parallel rows, making the shape of a grand archway. I can only imagine what it would feel like to be a small child wandering through this forest. As I approach its deepest regions, I see a pile of logs, cut bamboo poles, sheets of corrugated iron, piles of rocks from the nearby stream, and shallow trenches filled with leaf litter that seem to mark out some sort of floor plan. It looks like an abandoned shelter from some wandering homeless person. A couple of years ago, I remember hearing the faint sounds of a child shouting as I slowly passed along the edge of this bamboo maze. I reached for the handbrake, raised my hand to block the sun from my eyes, and focused my gaze to try and make out the small figures deep in this forest’s center. It was more the sounds than the sights that gave clues to who and what it was that caught my attention. I turned the tractor around and motored up between the two rows of bamboo that led me to this rabble.

My eldest daughter is crying her eyes out. She sat in front of the fireplace, quietly rubbing the tears from her cheeks, and sobbed, “Why do I have to be like this? I hate being like this.” I didn’t know what to say. So I wrapped my arms around her, held her tight, and told her how deeply I loved her. As I squeezed her tight, I searched my imagination: I wanted her to understand how special she was. “The ink pad, Ava—get me the ink pad and a piece of paper,” I said. She looked at me with a puzzled frown and asked why. “Just go to the office and bring back the ink pad and a sheet of paper, and you will see,” I said with excitement. When she returned and sat back down, her sisters were already circling, drawn in by Dad’s weird request. They gathered close, suspicious and curious, as if some magic trick was about to be performed.

I hope you fared well in all that crazy weather over the weekend. This week, if you receive a weird-looking vegetable that resembles coral from the reef—well, it’s actually from a traditional Asian garden., Song Cauliflower is a unique, loose-curd variety with long, tender green stems and a naturally sweet, mild flavor. Unlike the dense white heads you’re used to, Song grows in elegant florets, perfect for quick cooking and beautiful plating. It’s delicious raw, lightly steamed, roasted, or tossed into stir-fries—no peeling, no fuss. Think cauliflower with a snap and sweetness that kids and foodies both love. I’d like to thank everyone who has emailed me in response to the recent chapters. I’ve greatly enjoyed reading them and responding. The reason I finally decided to write a book was to help process my inner journey. This farming journey has stirred up so many things I thought I had settled. I believe writing will help me render what is most faithful. 

And here I am, six years later—feeling that ancient impulse again. The same one. The one that says: Explore. Because service is more comforting than exploration. I’ve read many books that claim a life of service is the path to true inner peace. Maybe that’s true for some. But for me, that runway was too short. Or maybe I just didn’t stick the landing. I speak only from personal experience—because I know that for many, service brings fulfillment. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt the warm embrace from acts of service. I tried to embody that ethos: growing food, tending the land, caring for something beyond myself. And it does feel good. But if I’m honest—it didn’t satisfy me. Not completely.

As soon as your self-worth is tied to how others see you, you’ve built a cage, and locked it from the inside.

One of the most memorable times on the farm started with a phone call. A guy named Lochie rang me out of the blue. He’d just returned from a trip around Italy and told me he didn’t quite know what he was meant to do with his life. He said he loved food, though, and figured farming might be a good place to start—to explore that love and maybe find something that would not only pay the bills, but also bring some purpose. At first, I was reluctant. I’d already trained a few people and, honestly, I was just looking for someone who already knew what they were doing. So I told him to come for a week—just to get some experience—and that I could put him in touch with other farmers afterward. But by the end of that week, we hit it off.

I was doing veg deliveries last week. I stopped at a house and delivered their box. As I made my way back to the van, a lady ran out of the adjacent house. She had been reading these newsletters and said it was about time I wrote a book. Over the years I’ve been encouraged by some of you to write a book. I’m not quite sure I know how, but I have been writing down my thoughts and experiences. Maybe one day they will make it into a book. And if they do, it will be thanks to all of you that have encouraged me along the way. As of now, I’m going to start sharing what might be called ‘chapters’ of this book with you. Given it is you who have encouraged me to write, why not try and somehow write this book with all your help. I’m sure the encouragement won’t go astray when I’m feeling unmotivated or stuck.

Emily got back from deliveries this week and told me “Susan said she wouldn’t buy our veggies if you don’t write your weekly newsletter”. What a great compliment, it certainly put a lot of wind in my sails. This farming journey has made me realise I enjoy writing, and I’m thrilled that others enjoy reading it! This week I passed our vegetable fields as I motored past on the tractor. All I can see now is a field of weeds. Nature has taken back what was once neat, productive rows of mixed vegetables. Something I thought was so permanent—something I believed would last forever—has all but disappeared.

Sorry for the lack of newsletters the past two weeks. I have lacked inspiration and cannot write just for the sake of it. All is well here on the farm, but naturally, when the mind and the heart pull you in a different direction, they often turn your world upside down. And with this comes an emotional ride consisting of fast and exciting rapids, mixed with slow meandering bends which naturally lead to time for introspection. The highs, the excitement — well, they are the easy parts. They are the times when you feel confident and surefooted that the decision you’re making is the right one. In those moments, you feel as if the strongest gale-force wind could not knock you off course. And yet, as irony would have it, it is when the sea is calm and still, like a sheet of glass, when doubt bubbles up from the depths, and we are left sitting in our canoe with nothing but the negative thoughts that try and convince us we are mad or just plain silly.

Somehow—miraculously—we managed to get all but 15 veg boxes delivered to you all. The messages of support, the offers to donate veggie boxes to people who’ve lost everything, and the general outpouring of kindness reminded us of why we keep doing this. Thank you. Truly. We feel incredibly lucky to be part of a community like this. Our hearts go out to those who’ve lost homes, animals, and loved ones. The floods were devastating. And the road to rebuilding—physically, emotionally, spiritually—will demand resilience most of us can barely imagine.