The Shape of Home
On leaving one farm, finding another, and learning that land can love you back anywhere.
“The scent of rosemary, the smoke of sage, the whisper of bay — the old language of the earth still speaks if we pause long enough to listen.”
— Beth Schreibman Gehring, from Forage & Gather
There are seasons when life asks you to let go of the land you love. Not because you want to, but because love takes another shape—one that looks like care, and duty, and showing up where you’re needed most.
Leaving the old farm was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. It came at the same time I closed the family business and moved closer to care for my aging parents, both in their late eighties. Nothing about that season was easy.
Before we found a place in Cleveland Heights, we lived in a handful of apartments. I did my best to keep farming wherever we landed. On every balcony, I built small gardens—containers filled with herbs and flowers, tomatoes, and tiny trees. That’s where I learned how to container garden, and honestly, those might still be some of my favorite gardens. I wasn’t supposed to have them, but by the time I was finished, the apartment managers were proudly driving new tenants past my porch to show what could actually be done with a few pots and stubborn hope.
Then one morning, Jim woke up and said, “I think we should buy a duplex in Cleveland Heights.” It was such an odd thought, and I couldn’t stop laughing. But that same day, we found what is now our home. Before we even walked inside, we noticed the large side lot—big enough to hold our entire former house—and learned that it came with the property. “You could sell it,” they said, “if you don’t want the extra land.” But there was no way that was happening.
It already had a pair of old heirloom apple trees and a few antique roses. The rest was ordinary—some tired shrubs, a bit of grass—but I could see it clearly in my mind: what it could become, what it wanted to be.
And so I made it mine. Now there are thirteen fruit trees here—fourteen, if I count the quince I nearly forgot—two grape arbors, tons of blackberries and raspberries, lilacs, and a small flock of wild-hearted chickens. It’s not a tidy yard, not by anyone’s standards. This year it even got a little out of control, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it that way. The bees certainly do. So do the dogs, the cats, and my grandson, who’s learning what nature really looks like when it’s allowed to breathe a little.
Some of you have asked why I still call this place a farm when I’m tucked away here in a corner of Cleveland Heights. The answer is both legal and a little sentimental. About a year and a half ago, after taking a USDA course on small-scale agriculture, I officially registered our little third of an acre as a farm—which, in Cleveland Heights, is quite a bit of land. It turns out that if you intend to use your property for agriculture—whether it’s acres of pasture or a backyard full of vegetables, herbs, and hens—you can indeed be one. So we are. The only real perk is the steady stream of USDA newsletters filled with curious bits of rural wisdom, but that’s more than enough. When I gather eggs from the hens, harvest herbs to leave on a neighbor’s doorstep, or stir up a batch of jam, I feel connected to the old spirit of farming—to the care, generosity, and stewardship that define it. It’s a quiet lineage, but I’m proud to keep it alive here.
It’s been a wonderful journey, one I haven’t walked alone. Jim grew up on big farms, wide stretches of land that rolled out toward the horizon, and he understood my longing before I ever had to explain it. He knew what it meant to miss that rhythm—the quiet mornings, the work that never really ends but always rewards. When we found this place, he saw it as I did, not for what it was but for what it could become. He’s helped me build every inch of it—the gardens, the coops, the little systems that make a third of an acre feel like a whole landscape. I’m endlessly grateful for that.
Some days, I still think about Windesphere, the big skies, the deep fields—but what I’ve learned here is that farming isn’t about size. It’s about relationship. It’s about knowing your patch of ground, however small, and loving it enough to care for it in all its moods. It’s about feeding what feeds you back, soil, community, memory. This little piece of Cleveland Heights has taught me that abundance doesn’t come from acreage; it comes from attention.
Here, I’m still farming. I raise food and flowers, chickens and hope. I tend a family, a few neighbors, and anyone who wanders close enough to share an apple or a story. The land has changed, but the work has not. It’s still about keeping something alive.
I’m grateful for many things, but mostly for Jim—who was wise enough to know what we needed before either of us could name it. What we’ve built here is more than a home; it’s a place where our family can return to when they need to. Our children live next door now, and we have our separate lives and our together lives, just as duplexes were meant to be when they were first imagined—for families who wanted to stay close, to care for one another.
I’m grateful for this land, for the small miracles that happen on it every day, and for everything it’s taught me. When I began to take the ground back to its natural state, the creatures came home too—the bees, the toads, the songbirds. Everything returned. It feels like a blessing to stand here and witness it, to be part of the old rhythm again, in a new place.
This little patch of Cleveland Heights may not look like the farms of my past, but it carries the same heart. It’s proof that you don’t need wide fields to live a farming life—just intention, care, and love enough to let things grow.
A Note from the Hearth
If this story finds its way to someone standing at their own crossroads—between what was and what’s next—I hope it reminds you that small can still be mighty, and that tending anything with love makes it grow beyond measure.
I’d love to hear about the pieces of land, balconies, or window boxes that have rooted you—the spaces you’ve cared for, no matter their size. You can reply to this letter and tell me what you’re growing, what’s returning, or what you’ve learned from your own patch of earth. I read every note, and they always feel like letters from home.
From this magical little patch of earth to yours,
Beth
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