Driving back from our camping trip this weekend, I watched people with backpacks spraying the blueberries under the plastic tunnels as we approached Coffs Harbour. I pulled over on the side of the road to check out how these berries were now being grown on the same hills that used to be covered in banana trees as far as the eye could see. Each blueberry bush was growing in a pot, much like those woven plastic tree bags you can buy from Bunnings. Along each row of blueberries, there were plastic pipes, which must be used not only to irrigate each plant but also to feed it the chemical nutrients it needs to survive. Between the rows, it was clear that some form of herbicide was used to keep the weeds from growing over the top of the bushes.

I would like to start this week's newsletter by thanking everyone who has given me the grace to explore my writing and share with you much more of my inner world. I feel extremely lucky to be a part of a community that has supported our family through the ups and downs of farming, but also in other aspects such as my amateur writing. I think it is now time to move my inner journey to a separate platform, so those of you who enjoy my searching can still access my writing and those who prefer to be kept up to date on all things farming, food and health can get their fix from the weekly newsletter we send out with your fruit and veggies. I have now started a Substack Publication https://substack.com/@farmersearchesformeaning to continue writing about my inner searching for truth on a more suitable and easy to use platform. 

Now, I think it's about time I give you an update on the farming front. The farm has finally been listed for sale after a long wet period slowed our progress in getting it ready. Years of pure focus on vegetable growing, turned the rest of the farm into a jungle with all the rainfall we've experienced over these years.

There are days when I love knowing that I am the author of my own life—when I can conjure any meaning I choose. In those moments, I feel like a miniature god, free to create, to explore, to play not only in the physical world but in the boundless landscapes of my imagination. But then there are the other days—the ones when imagination turns against me, when it becomes overwhelmed by fear. And knowing that the fear is irrational doesn’t help in the slightest. It sinks, it spreads, and if left unchecked, it drags me toward despair. The only thing that saves me in those moments is when I turn my gaze toward what I can only call the Lighthouse of Love. I see my wife, Emily, and our three children. The closer I drift toward the darkness—when those treacherous thoughts begin to pull me under—they become the light that cuts through the storm.

I can think of no man or woman who has achieved something truly extraordinary without, somewhere deep inside, wanting to be seen as extraordinary themselves. After all, what greater satisfaction could there be than to have lived a life worthy of retelling—a story that others read in books, watch on morning television, or see immortalised in film? To be remembered. To be admired. To feel that one’s name echoes long after the noise of ordinary life has faded. But beneath that noble dream lies something universal. From the moment we’re children, sat before glowing screens or tucked in with bedtime stories, we are fed the same ideal: be the hero. Be the knight in shining armor. Be the one who slays the dragon. What does that mean—and why are we so enchanted by it? Why do we pass this dream to our children as if it were sacred truth?

Every once in a while, I like to look back at how certain things came to shape the world we live in—especially the quiet, invisible ones. Few are as silent and powerful as glyphosate, the most widely used herbicide on Earth. But before it was soaking into our soils and rivers, before it became a household name whispered with worry, it was just another chemical sitting on a lab shelf. By now you know its retail name well ‘Round-Up’, in 2018 it was reported this wonderful product earned Bayer (the company who sells it) over $4billion in a single year.

Then one day, at age 28, a man comes along. He’d be considered overweight if his towering height didn’t hide most of it, covered in tattoos, his head shaved, grey stubble on his face, and deep lines that each have their own story. We strike up a conversation over dinner at a mine camp. He starts to explain who he is, his voice deeper but wiser than Vin Diesel. “I am the new HR manager,” he reveals without much expression. “How is your project going?” he asks without much interest. I'm not sure who he met that day or what I said in return, it seems so long ago, but it was the beginning of a friendship. He gave me a journal and told me to write in it. At first I laughed and told him only my sisters kept a diary. He didn't laugh or respond in any way, he just sat there completely unamused and stared straight through me. After a humiliated silence, I asked him what to write about and he replied, “Sorry, can’t give you any directions on that, it's your book, your life.” “But what if nothing comes to me?” I impatiently retorted. “Eventually something will come,” he said, with eyebrows lifting, showing the first sign of emotion. For weeks I looked at blank pages...

Since leaving the city for farming, I’ve mostly shared the outer journey — the visible changes, the easy stories fit for newsletters and social media. Only fragments of the inner journey have slipped through. The truth is, the outer journey is only the tip of the iceberg piercing the ocean’s skin. Beneath lies the real odyssey: a wilderness, a labyrinth, where world-swallowing fear and boundless love wait side by side. It begins like this: a boy grows up without asking much. Life is a stream of small pleasures, never looking back, following appetite and impulse. One day he looks up and finds himself a man in his mid-twenties, finally in a position that lets him breathe. He’s rubbing shoulders with someone who teaches him to journal. He reads books for the first time and, like Alice, falls down a rabbit hole. When he surfaces, the world he returns to has shifted. He no longer belongs to it. He peers down on his conversations as though they belonged to someone else, a play performed below his balcony. For the first time, he catches sight of himself and voices that timeless question.

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.