Leisha The Purple Carrot Club did not begin as a plan. It began as a pull I could not ignore, something that felt both clear and uncertain at the same time.
At first, it almost felt childlike. The name, the idea, the way it came together. There was no structure, no strategy, no business model behind it. Just a simple need to gather something that felt alive and not let it disappear. I remember questioning it, wondering if it was too small, too naive, too loosely held to become anything real.
But looking back, that is exactly what gave it strength.
It was not forced. It was not overthought. It was a seed in the truest sense, something placed into the ground without needing to know exactly how it would grow.
Before any of that makes sense, you need to understand who Jim was.
He was the kind of man who could fix anything. Not just with his hands, although he could build, repair, and figure out almost any system placed in front of him, but with his way of thinking. He saw patterns where others saw problems. He stayed with things until they made sense. He had a steady confidence, not loud, not forceful, just present. And he carried a beautiful, easy smile that made people feel like things would work out, even when they were not sure how.
There was something else in him too: a deeper drive. He was always looking for his match, not just in a person, but in purpose. He wanted to meet something that could stand with him, push back, grow with him, and become something meaningful in the world.
In late 2020, Jim went into surgery to remove the cancer that had been growing inside him. It was a long and intense procedure. When he came out, he was awake, but clearly still under the effects of everything his body had just been through. He was high from the surgery, no question.
But even through that, there was something striking. He was lit up, almost weightless, speaking with a level of detail and certainty that caught me off guard. It was unusual, but not empty or scattered. There was structure to what he was saying, a kind of focus that made me stop and listen, even knowing the state he was in.
He looked at me and told me he was not going anywhere. We had failed before, he said, but not this time.
Then he began to explain something that, at the time, I could not fully understand, but I could not ignore either.
In late 2020, Jim went into surgery to remove the cancer that had been growing inside him. It was a long and intense procedure. When he came out, he was awake, but clearly still under the effects of everything his body had just been through. He was high from the surgery, no question.
But even through that, there was something striking. He was lit up, almost weightless, speaking with a level of detail and certainty that caught me off guard. It was unusual, but not empty or scattered. There was structure to what he was saying, a kind of focus that made me stop and listen, even knowing the state he was in.
He looked at me like he had just come back with something. Like he had seen something clearly and was trying to explain it before it slipped away. He said he had figured it out. Not just an idea, but something deeper, something that felt like a missing piece. An x factor. He kept repeating that we could do it now, that we finally knew.
He spoke as if the path had already been walked. As if the work had already been done somewhere else, and now it was just a matter of bringing it into form. I did not fully understand what he meant, but I could feel the conviction behind it. It was not hesitation or guessing. It was certainty.
And even knowing the state he was in, that feeling stayed with me.
I understood, even in that moment, that he had just come out of an intense surgery. I could see that his state was altered. But what stayed with me was not the condition he was in. It was the depth of what he shared, the detail, and the feeling that something had been handed to us, whether I understood it or not.
Two months later, Jim passed away.
In the space that followed, in the quiet that comes with grief, I created the Purple Carrot Club.
It was not structured. It was not planned. It was simply a way to hold onto something that felt alive. Family and friends gathered into it. It became a place where the memory of him, and the energy of that moment, could continue to exist in some form. It was small, but it mattered.
It gave me something to move toward when everything else felt like it had stopped. It kept a thread going, something that connected that moment in the hospital to the days that followed, so it did not just disappear into loss. There was no expectation around it. There was no pressure to make it into anything more. It was enough that it existed.
Looking back, I can see that it carried more than I realized at the time. It held an idea that had not yet taken form. It held a direction, even if I could not name it. It allowed something to stay in motion when I was not.
And it stayed with me.
Not loudly, not as something I was actively building, but as something that never fully went away, waiting quietly as everything else around it began to take shape.
Over time, what began as something personal has grown into something tangible. Living Ground, Suelo Vivo, is now a physical place. It is a café, a store, a hostel, and an education center. It is built on the understanding that everything begins in the soil. That the health of the soil shapes the plants, the food, and ultimately the human body.
But it did not arrive fully formed.
The land itself came into my life at a time when I was still finding my footing. It was not perfect. It needed work, attention, and vision. There were moments where it felt like too much, moments where I questioned whether I had taken on something beyond my capacity. But there was also something undeniable about it. A sense that this place could hold what I was trying to build, even if I did not yet know how to build it.
The early days were simple and uncertain. Clearing space. Planting what I could. Learning the land by walking it, touching the soil, watching how water moved, noticing what grew easily and what struggled. There was no clear roadmap. Just a series of decisions made one step at a time.
The café came later, almost as a natural extension. If the soil mattered, then the food mattered. If the food mattered, then there needed to be a place to share it. The store followed, then the rooms, creating space for people to stay, to experience the land, not just pass through it. The education side grew alongside it, because it became clear that this was not just about producing something, but about helping people understand what they were experiencing.
Each piece added slowly, sometimes with intention, sometimes out of necessity.
And through all of it, grief was not separate from the process. It was woven into it.
Many of the steps, decisions, failures, and even the successes came from that place. There were times when I pushed forward because stopping felt harder. Times when I followed an instinct without overthinking because thinking too much would have held me back. Times when things did not work, and I had to sit with that, adjust, and continue.
Grief has a way of stripping things down. It removes what is not essential and leaves you with what matters. In that space, the project took shape.
My own path has deepened into this work. Through my training in soil microbiology with the Soil Food Web, I now work as a consultant, helping to restore living systems from the ground up. This is not separate from Living Ground. It is the foundation of it.
What is being built here is not just a place. It is a reflection of a process. One that began in loss, moved through uncertainty, and continues to grow through attention, persistence, and a commitment to working with living systems rather than against them.
And now, the Purple Carrot Club returns, not as something rooted in grief, but as something grounded in purpose.
We are building within systems that are designed to keep people dependent. Food systems that disconnect us from the land. Health systems that separate us from understanding our own bodies. Economic systems that reward distance from what is real and living.
In that context, the idea of a club is not casual. It is intentional.
A private club creates a different kind of space. It allows for shared values, direct connection, and a way of operating that stays aligned with living systems rather than external pressures. It allows us to grow food, prepare it, share it, and teach from it in a way that reflects what we know to be true about soil, microbes, and health.
For those who are part of it, the benefit is not just access. It is participation. It is the ability to step into a place where the relationship between soil, plants, food, and the human body is not just explained, but lived. It is learning through experience, through taste, through observation, and through connection to the land.
For Living Ground, the Club provides a way to sustain and protect the integrity of what is being built. It allows the project to continue growing without being shaped by systems that would dilute its purpose.
The structure will be simple and intentional.
Membership will be based on alignment. Those who feel connected to this work will be able to join, support, and participate. This may include access to the space, to workshops, to food, and to the ongoing development of the project. It creates a circle of people who are not just visiting, but contributing to something that is alive and evolving.
The Purple Carrot Club returns to what it has always been.
A seed.
Something spoken into existence in a moment that did not follow normal rules. Something that took time to settle, to root, to find its form. Something now ready to grow in a way that is grounded, real, and shared.
The carrots themselves may or may not be the center of it. That part no longer carries the weight.
What remains is what was always underneath.
There is a way to grow what we need. There is a way to work with living systems rather than against them. There is a way to build something that restores rather than depletes, something that gives back more than it takes.
And sometimes, what begins in a single moment, in a hospital room, in a conversation that cannot be fully explained, becomes the quiet foundation for something that continues to grow long after that moment has passed. I wonder where this will go?
