“Small islands of coherence in a sea of chaos have the capacity to shift the entire system to a higher order.” – Nobel Laureate Ilya Prigogene
Nestled in a valley among the Aspens, Cottonwoods, and
Ponderosa Pines in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of northern New Mexico, rests a 500 acre
ranch that is home to Hummingbird Community.
Hummingbird Community calls to those who desire to serve humanity's collective awakening while realizing their own true nature. We view all of our daily activities exchanges with nature, relationships, and inward focus as a spiritual practice.
As social pioneers, our Community is dedicated to the practices and principles of co-creation in service to the evolution of consciousness. We honor diverse spiritual traditions, and are committed to personal and planetary transformation.
We invite you to take a tour of our website and explore our vision, people, programs, and facilities.
We are excited to announce we will be adding a page to our site in the near future featuring the gardening and animal husbandry being done here at Hummingbird. We practice Bio-Dynamic and Organic gardening here and hope that these new pages which are coming soon will support you in your own joyful gardening.
We are blessed to have two new members who come to us with over 50 years of gardening and natural building experience. Sequoia (some might know her as Dixie Neumann or "The Nitty Gritty Gardener") has published articles on high altitude gardening in the past. We will be reviving these articles in our new pages. We are hoping to compile them into a booklet as well. Sunny has been a founder of several communities and has incredible skills in building sustainable and natural living structures.
It is April 9th and we are expecting 2 days of beautiful moisture which is so very welcome. In the picture to the left you can see the garlic planted last October coming up. We have been experiencing the warmer days of spring and as the snow began to fall this morning Sequoia remembered an article she had written which seems to be perfect for the day. We hope you enjoy this sample of what is to come.
Our Beloved Season of Sprinter!
It started out as just another beautiful late winter day in Colorado. During a routine trip to the compost pile to add a week’s worth of kitchen scraps, I took a few moments to visit the garden. It’s been awhile since I looked very closely at it. In fact, the last time may well have been in November when I was planting my garlic cloves with painfully numb fingers while mourning the passage of summer into fall.
Was it really that long ago that I was dreading the long, dark months ahead and preparing my psyche for another season of barren, frozen earth and the absence of all that is green and growing?
Throughout the winter, it is only the plans for my next garden and colorful seed catalogues that keep me from singing the gone-garden blues too forlornly. Thank heaven for those gifts from seed companies in my mailbox from which I clip bright, sunny pictures of flowers, lettuces and tomatoes to adorn my refrigerator in an attempt to contrast the drabness of the brown and white reality outside my window. Winter Solstice is always celebrated with great fanfare and gratitude as I count the few new minutes of light added to each day as evidence that spring is just around the corner.
All winter it seems that I have been anticipating the far-off time when I would once again be able to immerse myself into my soul’s greatest love and now, quite suddenly, that which I have longed for all these many months is upon me! For as I kneel in the remnants of last year’s garden on this March day I see that the spring’s growth has already begun. Pulling back the rubble of dead flower stalks, there they are, a mass of little miracles reaching for the sun; self-sown batchelor buttons, tarragon, comfrey and mint all returning from the dead. Under a layer of mulch, I discover ten neat rows of day-old garlic sprouts emerging from the ground and of course, the weeds are already flourishing!
My smooth, uncalloused winter fingers dig hungrily into the loose soil. Wasn’t it frozen solid just a week ago? How could I have been caught so unawares? Did spring literally appear overnight?
Panic floods my veins when it dawns on me that the peaceful, uncomplicated pace of winter has, this very moment, come to an abrupt close. My mind races with thoughts of seeds I have yet to order, truckloads of straw and manure needing to be hauled, last year’s broken tools and hoses to be fixed and the compost piles to be turned….
Whew! In the blink of an eye, winter has turned to spring and the slow-moving gears of this hibernating gardener are flung into high speed. Reluctantly, I bid adieu to my precious season of inward contemplation and dormancy that is about to be transformed into the whirlwind that is spring. I can feel the sap rising and my green thumb returning to life! Another great garden adventure is about to begin.
I sprint back to the house and dig out a musty pair of summer shorts. Where is that digging fork? My fist holding tightly a packet of cold-hardy spinach seeds, I head back outside. There is no time like the present and I am not going to let the first few minutes of spring pass me by.
It is a bit chilly on my pale, bare legs but the exertion of loosening up the soil in the first bed soon warms me up. The tines of the fork slice easily through the soil and I am thankful for the loads of leaves and manure that I added last fall to break up the clay. I run the dark “gold” admiringly through my fingers, counting the busy earthworms, inhaling the earthy fragrance and exclaiming to no one in particular about how delicious it is to be a gardener in the springtime.
Silently, a lone snowflake floats gently through my field of vision, interrupting my gleeful exuberance. I manage to tear my focus from this love rekindled to see an army of snowflakes marching steadfastly towards me from the surrounding mountains.
Minutes later, I am feeling them melt on my bare skin as my tools, my seeds and I retreat to the warmth of the house. From the kitchen window, I watch my sun-warmed dream of the earliest spinach crop ever disappear beneath a blanket of white. Time to build a fire in the woodstove and sit with a cup of tea and my seed catalogues to wait out the fickle season of “sprinter”.