A Rainy Morning at Gwenyn Hill Farm
Waking up to unexpected rain on a day with an outdoor photoshoot at first seems like a dealbreaker. I didn’t want to give up today, so I packed up and headed out anyway.
Turning onto the road that Gwenyn Hill Farm is on is always like an entrance into a movie scene for me. There are sweeping views, rolling hills, cattle in the fields with the farm off in the distance. I genuinely get excited and can feel the anticipation building. I stopped first and rolled down my window to greet the Red Devon cattle who were eating. The raindrops could be heard at the same time, and it was poetic.
As I arrived at the farm area, I entered the greenhouse to see it filled with red and yellow onions drying on racks with large fans moving the air. It really is stunning to see such a large group of food that has been harvested by hand and taken care of with such deliberation.
The feeling was of abundance—of gratitude to be surrounded by this place that is so intentional. The fans were blowing the autumn air, and it was such a relief after such a humid summer.
First, you may ask, what is there to do on an outdoor farm on a rainy day? The truth is, the same things that happen on any other day. Workers are still out in the fields harvesting, tending, and moving about, keeping the farm alive and active.
It felt like a window into the past—a glimpse of a time when people didn’t rearrange their lives to avoid the elements, when rain wasn’t an inconvenience but simply part of the rhythm of life. There was something deeply comforting, even grounding, about being present in that moment. To stand there with the rain falling, to watch others working with quiet determination, reminded me that this connection to the land and to the weather is what makes us feel fully alive.
A camera has a few enemies, and water is certainly one of them—a big no-no. I had just recently sent mine in to be repaired and cleaned, so I was feeling especially protective of it. I looped it carefully around my neck, slipped a plastic bag over it, and carried it close in my hands like something fragile and irreplaceable.
Most of my photos that day were taken under cover—in greenhouses, hoop houses, and the harvest work building. It was the perfect opportunity to witness the farm-to-table movement in action, to see the care and intention that happens behind the scenes long before food ever reaches a table.
I found myself genuinely excited, almost like a kid seeing something magical for the first time. Workers moved steadily, carrying crates brimming with freshly harvested produce into the building. There, the food was soaked, rinsed, and carefully tended to before being stored—a process that felt almost ceremonial in its rhythm and care.
Once again, I was struck by the warmth of the people around me. Their smiles were easy and unforced, their interactions genuine. There was a sense of pride in their work, a quiet joy that radiated from simply being part of something so real and nourishing.
With each layer uncovered—one at a time, over and over—I marveled at the beauty hidden beneath. Crates were opened, baskets tipped, and what had been tucked quietly away in the earth was revealed in a cascade of color and texture.
I really must tell you, I find garden food just as beautiful as any flower or ornamental plant. There’s something breathtaking about it—the deep, rich colors, the varied shapes, the very life pulsing through each leaf and root. It’s beauty with a purpose, beauty that nourishes.
Over and over, I peeked into crates, tucking myself into corners and out-of-the-way spaces to capture what I could without disturbing the flow of work. There’s a quiet thrill in those moments, like being let in on a secret that only your lens can tell.
When I’m photographing in a place for the first time, there’s always this rush of overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude for the space itself, for the light streaming through windows or filtering through greenhouse panels, for the mingled smells of soil and fresh produce, for the soft hum of voices and movement, for the people who welcome me in. Gratitude simply for the experience of being there, seeing it all unfold, and having the honor of capturing it.
One smell in particular stood out to me—parsley. A large container sat filled with water, sprigs of parsley swirling as they were soaked, sprayed, and gently shaken clean. The scent was overwhelming, sharp and green, filling the space with a brightness that seemed to cut right through the dampness of the rainy day.
It was another sensory hit of nature, of the earth itself. That smell carried with it a feeling of potential—of meals yet to be made, of nourishment waiting to happen, of the simple magic that comes when something grown from the soil becomes part of someone’s life.
My other favorite moment of the morning was stepping into one of the vegetable hoop houses. It felt like walking into another world—a kind of jungle overflowing with life. This particular house held the most abundant display of tomatoes I’ve ever seen.
Towering six feet tall, row after row of lush, healthy plants stretched out before me, their vines heavy with fruit. The air was warm and fragrant, thick with that unmistakable tomato scent. I couldn’t help myself—I stood there, surrounded by all that abundance, and spoke out loud, “Oh my goodness… so beautiful.” I kept saying it over and over, like a prayer or a promise, because there simply weren’t other words for what I felt in that moment.
As the morning came to a close, the rain was still falling softly, a steady backdrop to the hum of activity inside the buildings and greenhouses. My camera was full, my heart even fuller.
There’s something about being in a place like this—watching people work with care and intention, seeing food in its earliest stages before it ever graces a table—that stays with you. It’s a reminder of how deeply connected we are to the earth and to one another, even in the simplest, most everyday tasks.
Driving away, I felt a quiet kind of joy. The smell of parsley still lingered in my memory, the sight of those towering tomatoes fresh in my mind. It was proof that beauty isn’t just found in the obvious places, like wildflower fields or glowing sunsets. Sometimes, it’s right there in a rainy morning, in the crates of just-harvested food, in the hands that work tirelessly to bring life from the soil to the table.
Until next time,
Warmly,
Michelle
Organic CSA Near Milwaukee | Gwenyn Hill Farm in Waukesha WI