Terra Preta
June 15, 2019
We were the first to arrive at Lanipo Farms, our brakes announcing our arrival as we squeaked down the rocky dirt road. We were there to learn about something called terra preta. Its definition is better told with a story.
This story was told to me by Brynna, the heart and soul of Lanipo Farms, and was told to her by her elders. She explained this as we munched on the banana bread she had baked; the story we were being invited to participate in began thousands of years ago, indigenous tribes in the Amazon Basin its original authors. Whether they began using fire specifically for its ability to burn out insect pests, its power to create a stop-gap for fungal pathogens much in the same way that harsh winters in the northern hemisphere do, its efficiency at clearing leftover crops, or a combination of the three, one thing is certain: fire, one of the four elements, played — and still plays — a vital role in Amazonian life. Not just for human agriculture, but all of life. Pockets of terra preta (literally “black earth” in English, or biochar as it has been renamed in western research and markets) can still be found around the basin’s floor today and continue to serve as fertile grounds for the region’s rich diversity.
Her words lingered in the humidity, slowly percolating into each of our minds. As they continued to digest with the banana bread, we each grabbed a shovel. In no time we had dug a pit wide enough and deep enough to transform the mound of sticks and branches she had chopped from the invasive trees growing on her property line. The pit could have been larger, it could have been smaller, or it even could have been a metal trash can, she explained as she crouched down to light the kindling. The important thing is that you not waste your energy by digging a bigger pit than you need, or by digging a smaller pit than will fit all the wood you just spent energy chopping. Maybe a trash can is more convenient, or perhaps you want to invite your family and friends over for a nice, big bonfire (and maybe enlist their help in exchange for a fire-cooked dinner or beer).
Like little ants carrying crumbs to-and-fro, we gradually stacked larger and larger pieces of wood on the growing fire as Brynna directed. Too much fuel and kindling, she said, and we’d just end up with a pile of ash. Too big too soon, and it wouldn’t catch. Make it lopsided and it will spread until the fire department puts the whole thing out. Balance and structure are key in creating a system that doesn’t just burn the wood, but transforms it into something else.
And that’s what we did. Once the fire’s heat had grown enough to push us and our burning eyebrows all back, we picked up the shovels yet again to return the previously dug up soil to the pit. One shovel-full by one shovel-full we carefully smoldered the fire, effectively burning out everything but the carbon structure. The remaining structure, a charcoal-like material referred to as black gold by many, is responsible for the regenerative properties of terra preta as it locks in minerals and nutrients while preventing soil erosion and runoff. It can be left in the pit to do its work, or dug up and relocated to other areas of the property in need of healing.
When all is said and done, this practice has the potential to do three things simultaneously: It can take power from something doing harm to its neighbors and surroundings, redistribute that power to a structure that heals them, and, in the process, provide warmth over which a nourishing dinner can be cooked and shared along with beers and laughs. To relentlessly chop down the invasive trees, which are invasive precisely because of their astonishing ability to grow without limits, is one option. But it is much slower, and taxing on the mind and body as you chop day after day only to feel like they’re growing faster than you can keep up. To use that wood as kindling and add a spark, however, can catalyze that energy into a movement.
August 15, 2019
It was midday and I was sitting on my couch. This was a weird reprieve from the summer’s agenda of tending to the agroforest, of attending workshops and bringing the knowledge back to it as seeds to be sowed. The doing seemed done, and now it was time to reflect. Until the news reached me.
The Amazon rainforest was on fire. Thousands of square miles had already been incinerated by the time most news and media outlets caught wind of it, and by that time grief, fear, anger, and helplessness seemed to be the only feelings left for us to feel. Grief for what we had already unknowingly lost, fear of what was to come, anger at the legislative bodies and media sources we trusted to prevent — or at least communicate — what was happening, and helplessness as no amount of the loudest yelling or deepest praying seemed able to quench the fires. These feelings combined to form a palpable rage, one to match the devastation stretching across the Amazon.
Within days we had shouted ourselves hoarse. We had ran through this year’s photos as well as photos of past fire seasons in order to shine light on what was happening. Fingers were pointed. At Brazil’s leaders for lifting restrictions on deforestation for development and agriculture. At the region’s cattlemen for using fire at all. At each other for supporting the industries that caused this, because we all play a role even if from thousands of miles away. I watched. I felt it. And I couldn’t help but wonder as to where that rage was going. We were burning through fuel and throwing in kindling from wherever we could get it for a flame that was bright but short lived.
I thought back to that day at Lanipo Farms. It felt like a lifetime ago and yet it was only two months prior. Between scrolls, I could see in my mind’s eye a shovel spreading soil over a smoldering pit. Brynna had likened that moment to putting icing on a cake. It seemed so simple then.
Because extrapolated out to society, in which there seem to be a thousand structures worth taking down and a thousand more things in need of improving, how do we collectively organize and channel our energy through a process that ends up healing rather than leaving us worn out and depleted? Like fire, feelings of fear, grief, anger, and helplessness are valuable in that they can provide the initial spark necessary for transformation. This is evidenced by the numerous and successful movements, local as well as global, first sparked by a sense of injustice or loss. But, also like fire, rage left unguided can leave us void of energy. It has the power to incinerate an entire rainforest — or an entire movement’s energy — faster than the media can report on it.
May 30, 2020
As we make our way through yet another fire season, another period in which extreme injustices are being brought to light, another unrelenting stretch of days that seem to start and end with fear and grief and anger and helplessness, I’m thinking. I’m thinking about how rage can leave us worn out and depleted, or how we can harness its power to spark deep and transformative healing. I’m thinking about how hard it will be, and that that’s why it’s important now more than ever that we take care of ourselves, our loved ones, and our communities. I’m thinking about how fire can incinerate millions of acres of rainforest faster than the media can report on it, or how, when tended to and guided, it can burn out pests and pathogens whilst creating terra preta — some of the richest, most fertile soil on the planet.
