Imposter's syndrome

A modest proposal

I’m not a farmer. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not trained in this. I’m in way over my head. I’ve bitted off more than I can chew. I’m a fraud. I’ve masked my ignorance with clever-sounding words. The more that I think I learn, the more that I realise I don’t know.

The whole thing is so complex. There are so many moving parts. These are complex biological systems. I’m here because of sloganeering and ideological simplification. Nature is good, nature knows best, follow natural principles. I wouldn’t know what a natural principle looked like if it smacked me in the face. Natural principles don’t exist in nature. It’s all just clever salesmanship, marketing, sloganeering, tag-lining.

There is a climate crisis, and we can mobilise agro-ecological/regenerative/organic practices to be a force for good. All true, very interesting, but not so useful for knowing what I should be looking for as I walk around the field. Not so useful for telling me why the field is flooding in certain parts, or what’s the difference between slug and caterpillar damage, or what I’m supposed to do with all this rain. A dawning realisation that I may be out of my depth. Maybe Dad was right, maybe I should get another job. I don’t know anything. This whole thing is so bloody complicated. All of life, in all its proliferating madness, and I’ve set myself the task of trying to persuade that proliferating madness to work with me, rather than work against me. What a lark!

I’ve planted a cover crop of oats, vetch, and stubble turnips. Shown above. The sheep will graze it in a few months. This will help soil biology. This will help with weed control. This will help confirm me in the illusion that I know what I am doing, because I have a PLAN. But what if I have no idea? What if I’m a great big fraud, convinced that a few books and a few YouTube videos amounts to actual knowledge?

Or maybe I’m being unkind. Maybe I’m not a fraud. Maybe I’m just doing the best of what I can with the knowledge that I do have. But what if that’s not enough? Plans (and plants) will happily fail, in blissful ignorance of the state of my own ignorance.

And I’ve set myself up as a dissident, as a contrarian! A Dissident’s Guide to Agricultural Economics. How grand, how grandiose! Some part of me must be convinced that I know something. An imposter of the highest order. I’m not a farmer: I’m a hopeless idealist, married to the ideals of natural principles. An old boys’ club, to which I do not belong. Who on earth gave me 50acres to manage. How on earth did I get here?

And as a self-styled dissident, I make statements about what’s wrong and how to do it better. And so I must show that these ideas do work, and so I go to learn more, and so I realise that I know nothing.

Recently, someone introduced me as “an amazing wheat grower”. (You know who you are if you’re reading this, thank you for the kind words and support!!) It’s a lie! Of the highest order! I’ve never grown wheat in my life! Not like this! All I've done is complain about how other people grow it.

And I write as though I know what I’m talking about — a wonderful proclivity for talking the talk, but how good is the walk? Hidden behind the comfort of words, behind substack’s digital gloss. I’m a part-time farmer, part-time teacher. The solidity that these words pretend to offer, the Faustian bargain anew. Hidden behind the certainty of the world that they promise to create.

But, yet, however, contrarily, I must admit, when all’s said and done: the cover crop does look well. It’s all very green and luscious. The stubble turnip is thick and lovely, and the oats are starting to tiller nicely. There is rye grass no doubt, but I’m not worried. The sheep will be here soon, and it is getting smothered. It could do with a break from the rain, we all could, but there’s nothing new there. And in spring, if the rain does stop, I’ll put some wheat in. And then I can call myself a wheat grower, amazing or otherwise.

Perhaps I’ll just have to get used to not knowing. I will never understand how this works. No one does. I can learn more, certainly. But maybe I don’t need to know how it all works, all at once. Maybe I just need to know enough to begin, and I’ll figure the rest out along the way. At least I’m trying. I’ll let the rest work itself out in my ignorance. Plans (and plants) can happily grow, in blissful ignorance of the state of my own ignorance.

Does everyone feel like an imposter, or is it just me? Perhaps it’s all just part of the fun.

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A scan of this essay in progress. (Perhaps “essay” is too generous.)