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This morning, the air over northwestern New Jersey carried the unmistakable smell of wildfire. The Air Quality Index climbed to around 154, high enough that I wore a mask just to do my morning chores. The smoke from Canadian wildfires traveled hundreds of miles, reminding me that events far beyond my property line can still impact the air I breathe.

As I worked, I thought about how much of life feels like that right now. Our political climate often resembles today’s atmosphere. The toxicity isn’t always local. It drifts in from afar, carried by headlines, algorithms, outrage, and endless commentary until it becomes difficult to remember what clean air (even metaphorically) feels like.

Yet the farm had a different story to tell. Near the edge of the pasture, St. John’s wort had begun to bloom. I gathered a small handful of flowers and leaves to infuse into oil, hoping that in a few weeks they would become a soothing balm.

I found my deep green comfrey standing tall and vibrantly green underneath the walnut tree (only a few plants can grow around black walnut trees, mind you). Well, at least parts of the plants the deer had graciously left behind. I harvested several broad leaves, knowing they would eventually become a healing salve.

Neither St. John’s wort nor comfrey removes smoke from the air. Neither do they solve the problems outside my farmstead. But both quietly remind me that healing often begins with paying attention to what is still growing.

Then I wandered into a pig paddock that has been resting since April. What I found was not an abandoned enclosure but an accidental garden. Towering sunflowers stretched well above my head. Pumpkin vines wandered beneath them with young fruit tucked under enormous leaves. And the squash blossoms teasing me. Cherry tomato plants appear in every direction—all still green but full of promise. I hadn’t planted any of it.

The pigs had. Or perhaps the birds. Maybe both. Nature had simply accepted what had been scattered and patiently turned it into abundance.

On my way back to the barn, I noticed a single red wineberry hiding among branches that the birds and deer had otherwise stripped clean. One berry. I picked it anyway. Sweet at first, then pleasantly tart. It was hardly a harvest, but it was enough to remind me that gratitude doesn’t wait for abundance. Sometimes it begins with one unexpected gift.

The world beyond my farm remains smoky, in more ways than one. Every day brings another controversy, another crisis, another reason to feel discouraged. Like wildfire smoke, much of it arrives from places far beyond our control, and after enough exposure, we scarcely notice how heavy the air has become. Until our throats begin to burn.

Media literacy requires the same wisdom we use outdoors on days like today. We acknowledge the unhealthy air. We take reasonable precautions. But we don’t stop living. We don’t spend the whole day staring at the smoke. Or blowing smoke. Instead, we keep tending the garden.

We gather what heals. We celebrate what grows without our permission. We notice the first berry, even when the harvest isn’t here yet.

Because hope, like any good crop, is cultivated long before it is collected.

“The Accidental Garden” (Image credit: Kune Berkshires, Red Winged Blackbirds, Blue Jays)