I have a strong memory of Trevor, who dug our first wellpoint. At the time, we’d been hand-pumping rainwater stored in our reservoir for about three years, were always short of water (and electricity), and it showed in our plants’ health.

Trevor knew water, and his forty years of knowledge and experience ran deep. He knew all the properties in our area: the depth and quality of groundwater. He knew we couldn’t survive on hand pumped seasonal rainwater. Still, he was very gentle and let us come to this realisation on our own.

I had ideals and had read some permaculture books that made me critical of conventional irrigation as wasteful and fragile, whereas he had deep experiential knowledge of what plants actually need to thrive.

It made me think of how we integrate knowledge from our elders, from tradition and institutions, and from our own experiences and exploration. A concept coined by Paul Ricoeur describes a first and second naivete. First naivete is literal and fundamentalist: we believe something because we are told it is so. This is inherited belief. Going to agricultural school may have some dimensions of this: this is how things work. This is what you need to do. This is the formula.

Many of us on small farms, or in organic or permaculture traditions of growing, come from a place of critique of conventional agriculture, and even conventional society more broadly.

We see the shortcomings and enter a stage of questioning. Many really good alternatives emerge from this stage of questioning. Regenerative ag! Agroecology! Permaculture! Biodynamic! and so on. Yet we also sometimes resemble rebellious teens who see the errors and hypocrisy of their parents, and so believe we know much more than them.

A second naivete is a helpful concept here. The second naivete is the stage where we realise that tradition or the knowledge of our elders has value, despite its weaknesses. The second naivete incorporates the unknown. It does not ignore the problems, but it assumes a stance that is less against and more hopeful and open.

There’s a risk if we remain too long in a place of critique, that we waste time defending our knowledge of what we think others are doing wrong, rather than investing in observing and building within ourselves and our space.

From the water example, I spent too long focused on water in the abstract. Permaculture teaches some aspects of water systems superbly, in particular thinking through contours and the water-holding capacity of organic matter. On the other hand, in Cape Town summers are hot and dry, and require irrigation plans that provide for the actual needs of annual and fruit trees. I needed to build water systems that incorporated the knowledge of how commercial farms supply good water, and research on the actual needs of plants and trees, and when and how to substitute more drought resistant plants.

If we ignore what our plants and trees are telling us, the system created as a critique (permaculture, agroecology) becomes its own dogma. So here’s to being open, to learning from our environment and the wise people around us, and to having an abundant wet-weather growing season.

Jo

P.S. Ask me if I trellised those peas… I need ALL the pressure…

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