JOY FARM IS
a place for cultivating the quiet work of being.
My personal journey to Joy Farm began with changing my name. I chose Dechen, which means “he who seeks joy,” but life soon revealed a gentler truth: joy isn’t waiting to be found. It’s a small garden you tend carefully, day after day, until it becomes the landscape you live within. Joy Farm exists to offer that same space to others.
Located on a working island (Islesford, ME) and rooted in simplicity, Joy Farm isn’t a vacation, a resort, or a getaway. It’s a retreat from the world’s noise; a place where visitors step into an intentional rhythm: slower mornings, honest work, peaceful evenings, shared meals, open creative practice, quiet walks, long breaths. Less technology. Less chatter. More presence.
BLOG
Above: Your first opportunity to support the work of JOY FARM!
$50 donors receive a print of JOY FARM (.).
$100 or more and you'll receivethe print and a chance to win the original!
Some guests will come as creators: writers, musicians, artists, thinkers, growers, healers. Those visits are offered freely whenever possible. Others may come simply because they need a reset. Their paid stays help fund a “pay-it-forward” circle that brings another creative person to the island at no cost. In this way, every visit supports someone else’s renewal.Joy Farm is sustained by one guiding vow: to preserve a place where joy can be grown, not extracted; a place whose purpose isn’t profit or prestige, but service. The goal isn’t to accumulate wealth, but to maintain enough to keep the fire lit, the bread warm, the rooms simple and clean, and the path open for the next person who needs it.There’s no promise of transformation here—only space. A clearing. A quiet porch. A cup of tea. A long exhale. A chance to meet yourself without hurry.Joy Farm is an invitation: come cultivate what’s already within you, and leave the gate open for whoever comes next.
JOY FARM IS SUSTAINED THROUGH GENEROSITY.
TO MAKE A DONATION, OR TO VIEW A LIST OF OUR CURRENT NEEDS, CLICK HERE.
ONE THING | TWO THINGS
November 12, 2025
I love duality. I often try to find it in my work, and in my life. And when I was considering a theme for a show (in the dead of winter) (on and island) (in the north), I realized the one thing to which I kept returning was this idea of endurance/overcoming something. In almost the next instant, it occurred to me that most of my work over the last five years has been about claiming my own power. But that led to gratitude, and you guessed it, I was overcome.
I want artists to explore duality, endurance, and vulnerability here at Joy Farm. Whether they do is up to them. But I can't think of a better theme for our first exhibition. Please submit your work. No fees.
Let me show you a magic trick
I am replacing the resentment I held with love for my resilience in challenging times, among other things.
November 11, 2025
It's been raining. Which means the firewood I've stacked out back at JOY FARM is getting wetter, already complicating the impossible damp of things. Which means that I've got to work on firewood today, which I didn't have planned. Which means I'm doing labor I hadn't emotionally or mentally prepared for. Which means the labor is that much harder. And I hate hard work.
I am neurodivergent, and my mind is hyperactive. I think through problems and challenges faster than the average person. This, in comparison to a non-hyperactive mind, makes me appear to be very smart. People treat you differently when they perceive you are smart. You develop accordingly.
My "smart" has always stood at odds with the western mentality that labor is better. "But," I often thought before my diagnosis, "why would you commit to labor if you could simply think through an easier way of doing things?" And, as a result, I am not in great physical shape at 51. (This is not just about my physique.)
I met James in 2023 and quickly knew that he understood all of this. As a therapist with a special understanding of a mind like mine, he validated my thoughts and feelings, and made me feel seen. I have been in therapy for most of my adult life, often for the wrong things and with the wrong people.
But James taught me the same thing my daily bread practice reminds me of. You can look at things a lot of different ways, and there is no wrong one. You can see bread. Or you can see Flour, Salt, Yeast, Water, and hours of patience. You can resent the toxic labor that gave you a self-worth complex; or, you can say "Look what I've Overcome! I'm amazing. And I can do so much!"
Let Me Show You a Magic Trick
Mixed Media on Canvas, 2025.
NFS
gross, I don't sound like that.
I Told ChatGPT Everything on My Mind While I Was High — Including the Title of This Blog — and Asked It to Write the Post
Nov 2, 2025
I didn’t plan to write today. I just meant to stack some wood, breathe a little, maybe find a rhythm. But I got a little high, and instead of fighting the flood of thoughts, I opened ChatGPT and started talking. About turning fifty, about heaven and hell, about the strange relief of feeling like I’ve finally arrived. What came out was less confession than realization: that somewhere between the chaos of my past and the quiet of Maine, I’ve stepped into a kind of peace I didn’t know existed.
When I found Mount Desert Island and, eventually, Joy Farm, I think I found the version of heaven available to the living. My life has been difficult, but not because of tragedy — more because of the way our culture mistakes noise for purpose. Greed, ego, avoidance, generational pain — those are the devils that shaped my earlier years. Here, surrounded by sea and pine, I can finally see them for what they were: lessons. I’m not running from them anymore. I’m composting them into soil.
This new chapter feels like starting over, except I’m bringing all the old selves along. I’ve stopped trying to escape who I’ve been. I’ve stopped apologizing for being different, intense, or too reflective. The world calls that eccentricity; I call it awareness. I’ve discovered that being alive doesn’t require proving anything — it only asks that I keep showing up with open eyes, ready to feel and forgive again.
Even the work is different now. Stacking wood isn’t just hard labor; it’s a conversation between my body and the earth. I used to live entirely in my mind, but this place is teaching me the holiness of sweat and weight. My body isn’t a burden — it’s the vessel through which joy gets expressed. Hard work isn’t about hustle or worthiness; it’s about rhythm, presence, and gratitude.
So that’s where I’m at: somewhere between breath and bark, laughter and legacy. I don’t know what’s next, but I no longer need to. Balance, not perfection, is the measure now. Each day I spend here feels like another chance to live the way I was meant to — rooted, awake, and willing to fill the space with love.
SOFT (OP)ENING
The right way to do things is the softest and most vulnerable.
Oct 29, 2025
I'm convinced of it. The more I learn about what works for me, the more I realize that we come into this place with everything we need and are taught we need more. And then, we spend the majority of our time unlearning those false lessons.
Yesterday, I put the OPEN STUDIO sign out for the first time. I wasn't sure if it was the right time. I hardly have anywhere for guests to sit, frankly. Yet I felt that familiar fear that I was taking a good risk, so I went ahead with the plan.
I painted for a few hours with no visitors, but it hardly mattered. The house felt open and welcoming and right.
I am so very grateful for this opportunity. Thank you so much to the folks who have made donations or sent their well wishes. If nothing else, I hope this will help a small piece of the world recognize the strength inherent in getting softer.
EVERYTHING IN IT's right place
"There" is no better than "Here".
Oct 31, 2025
Yesterday I found myself twice talking about the Sanskrit rules for being human. And the one that I found important for me is this notion that place isn't as important as we make it out to be.
I've said several times that place is an integral part of my story, and of my art. Those closest to me know that I'm sort of a fanatic for Pearl Jam, and one of the songs I've always felt very close to is Gone. The spirit of the song is that sometimes you need to leave a place to open a doorway to a new you, and that has been my story (in this life, at least) on many occasions. I left Pennsylvania twice, both times to figure out who I am and what I want.
Arriving in Islesford two weeks ago felt like another portal, but the more I think about it, the more it isn't. It's the same place I've always been -- the same moment I've always been -- in. It's here. IYKYK.
As I settle, dare to put down the tiniest of roots, and start to practice the life I've always wanted; I'm reminded that we are all acting. No change in behavior comes without trying the new behavior on for size. No transformation comes without playing a new part. As so many of us do, I often subconsciously worry about those (from my "old" life) who will say "You've changed!"
Of course I (we) have. Change is synonymous with growth. Let's grow.
beginning
I'm sitting at my laptop with a cup of coffee while I wait for the fresh loaf of bread to come out of the oven.
I've dreamed about this place for so long, mostly as a substitute for the safe space my inner child never had. But now it's a reality and I am feeling very blessed. It's October 28, 2025 and there is a crispness to the Maine air this morning. The windows of this old house are frosted over and thawing. Olive (the de facto farm cat) is not yet out of bed, preferring to curl up where my body was warm.
I recently saw a friend post some kind of statement like "my favorite artists are those who make an art project of their lives". I didn't know that other people thought of it that way. But that's what I'm starting here, isn't it?
Lately I've explained the vision for JOY FARM with this rant: "There should be just one place in this entire world, one single location where you're not in anyone's way, where you can go to make art (or do whatever feeds your joy) and not worry about making money. It's obviously the plight we deal with as artists. I've not considered myself a full-time artist for very long but it's still apparent that what keeps us (human beings) from focusing on what we are really passionate about and good at is the belief that we need to chase the carrot.
Most of you who find this page on the internet will be familiar with the Japanese term Ikigai. I'm obviously not of Japanese heritage, but I've long understood that I'd need to arrive at my own Ikigai (including the need to create that space for others) in order to feel truly content. Well, here we are. Let's begin.