Everyone and everything I love is holy… I pause as the sentence pops to mind. It does occasionally, even though it came to me completely by accident at first, the consequence of a mistype and… More
It snowed today.
According to the weather, it may snow again tomorrow.
Spring in the Midwest can be like this, with flip flops and tank tops one day and winter gear the next, pulled from a closet where you all too optimistically stashed them away just a week earlier.
Last night, I spent the last hour and a half before sunset in a winter jacket preparing the barn, blanketing a few vulnerable animals, and covering plants that had the audacity to emerge before the final frost of the season.
I was back and forth from the house to the barn so much that my dog, Rose, laid down begrudgedly in the garden instead of keeping pace as I did my chores. She looked at me seemingly frustrated, perhaps wondering why I couldn’t just pick a spot already.
“I just have to make it to the end of the week…” I thought, dragging a old watering trough behind me from the back barn to the garden, a soon to be cover for my already blooming daffodils.
It’s been about a year since Covid changed things for all of us. Seasons have shifted one to the next like a playlist that brings us back to the beginning again. Masks now hang next to my keys, and I would no sooner go out without one than the other. Everything and nothing is the same.
I’ve been quiet this year, I suppose. (Shout out to the followers who are still reading this even though my last blog post was nearly four months ago.) The best of intentions to write didn’t get me very far in our pandemic world. Maybe I haven’t felt like I had much to write about. In some ways, that seems like the case; the day to day doesn’t change all that much at the moment.
Maybe a lot of what I could have written about is sad.
Maybe, and I suspect there’s some truth in this, it’s that a lot of us have developed some plague-induced level of attention deficit. It’s just been harder to focus for a while now, especially on the things that are still right in front of us.
Maybe, and I KNOW there’s truth in this, the pandemic has a lot of us pouring ourselves out and not taking much time to fill back up. A friend and fellow writer reminded me very gently several weeks back that no one can pour from an empty cup.
Probably my quiet is some combination of all of these things, and probably a whole host of other factors that haven’t occurred to me yet.
I think a lot of us are thinking about “just making it to…” the end of the week, the end of the semester, the end of the pandemic. More than usual, we’ve gotten used to living in a state of anticipation, of grinning and bearing it until something changes. We stay quiet. We hold…hopefully steady.
About two weeks ago, John and I brought home a foster dog who was not quite as advertised. She was supposed to be cat and dog friendly, and she just is not. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a good dog, but she has to be kept on a leash– when not in her kennel–at all times. She’s sweet as pie with people, but the girl is unpredictably animal aggressive. It complicated our lives a fair bit.
She’s going home with her adopter to be an only pet on Thursday, but, somehow, in the meantime, she made me acutely aware of all of my waiting.
Last night, trudging through Monday to get to Thursday, when the household would settle and the weather would go back to something closer to normal, I wondered just how much of my life has been spent this way.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with anticipation or hope, but sometimes, especially maybe when a global pandemic has all of us holding our breath until things get back to normal, we forget to live the in between.
Last week, I found myself driving over the river to meet John for dinner. I was stressed out, thinking about our difficult foster dog, fences that needed mending, bills coming due. My shoulders were noticeably tensed and my jaw had clenched.
And I thought “Soon.”
Soon it will be different. Better. Easier. I focused on some ephemeral moment in the future when I would have a little more room to breath. I may have actually been holding my breath.
To my left, the sun glinted off the river, light playing on the water, practically splashing in the waves. I let out a sigh as I noticed it.
And a new thought.
Right now. Sunset on the Illinois River. Snow on the Daffodils. This is the life we have been waiting for. Whatever it is, pandemic and all.
Sometimes, I think, we don’t miss the forest for the trees.
We miss the trees for the forest.
We miss the way the sun glints off the water at sunset because we are worried about the difficult foster situation and are focusing on the next change. We miss the favorite song that comes on the radio as we drive to meet someone we love and are lucky enough to be able to still see because we have a bill looming and a date attached. We miss the evening bird song because we are frantically trying to cover the plants before the snow comes.
We miss the life we’re living for the worries we have over it.
Today I made a point to notice how unexpectedly beautiful spring flowers are when they’re covered in snow. I took a minute to breath. To give myself a break. Even to take a nap.
The worries, of course, are still there, but the time will never come when they aren’t. The weather in the Midwest will always be unpredictable. Animal rescue, for as long as I do it, will come with it’s complications. There will always be a new bill. There will always be something to stress about.
The key, I think, is not to live a life of “it will be better when,” but to recognize the both/and nature of the life and world. Especially now. Especially when the news and our lives are always there to remind us that this world is complicated and hard. When we are tired, and life has us quiet.
Frederick Buechner once wrote “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
Beautiful and terrible. Exciting and mundane. Here, my beloveds, is the world: the terrible, beautiful, anxiety-inducing world that we live in.
I hope we all remember to notice it. To notice the moments of our actual life, as it actually is.
April snow and all.
Merry Christmas Eve, my loves.
If you’re reading this, you made it to the final round of
Jumanji…I mean, 2020. Congratulations.
I hope this post/letter finds you well.
I’m listening to the Acoustic Christmas playlist on Spotify–I highly recommend it–sitting on my couch. One of the most perfect Fraser Firs in the history of Christmas stands to my right, covered in lights and ornaments that twinkle. My hay guy, who also happens to be my Christmas tree guy, told me that his trees sold out much faster this year; what usually sells in two weeks sold in something like eight days.
I think that means that everyone was a little more ready than usual for a dose of Christmas magic.
This has been such a weird year. I know that all of you know that, but man, I’m amazed by all that has come to pass since I wrote my last Christmas post. For a lot of us, that weird year is going to end with a weird holiday. For me, tonight is the first Christmas Eve that I won’t be spending with my father’s side of the family. We usually play Bunco and eat lots of food and sing carols. This year we’re having a Zoom meeting.
Last night, while waiting at the local Italian restaurant for (to-go) garlic bread, a family friend walked in. I used to babysit his kids, and I was actually in his daughter’s wedding, but he didn’t immediately recognize me in a mask. I said hi, but could tell that he was having trouble placing me. (Also, when I was regularly in his family’s proximity, my hair wasn’t pink, so there’s that too.)
He paused and almost said my sister’s name before I completed the word with my own.
“I’m sorry. It’s just hard to tell with these masks.”
I nodded. Agreed. Smiled. But again, hard to say if he could tell I smiled, because mask.
We politely chit chatted for a bit as we both waited on our carry out. We exchanged hellos for our families. (“Tell your parents I said hi.” That sort of thing) He asked how I was doing. I replied with a perfunctory, “Doing ok, getting ready for the holiday.” He replied by shaking his head no in a world weary sort of way.
“I think, this year, we’re all just trying to figure out how to get by.”
There was nothing new in that sentiment, but I was thinking about it as I drove home. The way this virus is a very collective experience.
We, all of us, trying to figure out how to get by.
Over the last few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about light.
Monday, the 21st, was the winter solstice. It’s the day in our year with the shortest period of daylight, and, consequently, the longest night.
The solstice is why we put lights on our Christmas trees. (Actually, Yule, the holiday of the solstice, is why we have Christmas trees at all.) The solstice is the time when we look for light inside, rather than outside. It’s when we carry the memory of light in an act of solidarity with the earth as she makes her way back towards it.
The solstice is our reminder that darkness always seems the most all-encompassing right before light starts to come back. And light always comes back.
I thought, too, about how so many cultures have celebrations of light, many of them this time of year. Christmas. Yule. Hanukah. Kwanza. All celebrate the light. All of them teach us to hold onto it.
This time of year, we celebrate the light that we cannot see.
This year is a really good time to celebrate light that we cannot see.
I listened to Christmas carols on the way home from the restaurant. O Come, O Come, Emmanuel came on, moving through my shuffle. It’s always been one of my favorite carols.
It’s a song of heartbreak and joy, and I’ve always loved art that allows, as in life, for those two emotions to co-exist.
It’s the song of the end of exile. A song of redemption that begins with God and ends in us, no matter what happens around us. The name, Emmanuel, means “God with Us.” The carol is a celebration of a world where God indwells. Even when things aren’t perfect.
Lauren and I did chores early tonight, filling up hay feeders and hay nets with an abundance of alfalfa, enough to get all the critters through a cold, dark night. We fed everyone, including our newest residents, two mini donkeys and three potbelly pigs who needed a soft place to land.
For me, chores are a measure of continuity. The way so many things stay the same even when the world is chaotic. The way that the world behaves according to its own rhythms. The way, every year, we do chores earlier in December as we wait upon longer days and more light.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about all of the light festivals. The way they prove that we have more in common than not. The way that we all cling to the knowledge that light follows the darkness, regardless of our creed.
I find myself thinking of all of you, and hoping that you all are holding onto the light. It’s coming. The light will be here soon. In the meantime, the answer is always more love.
I pray that you take this holiday season, whatever holiday you celebrate, to love your neighbor.
Your homeless neighbor. Your neighbor of color. Your LGBTQ neighbor. Your immigrant neighbor.
Remember that all of us are waiting, together, on the light. Remember that all of us, this year, are just trying to figure out how to get by.
Merry Christmas everyone.
I’m writing this from my front porch. I bought a new rocking chair set this year from the feed store; in a world of work-from-home and pandemics, it was money well spent.
It’s windy, but warm; I’m comfortable in a t-shirt and yoga pants, my official uniform of quarantine and Covid19. My dogs are outside with me, and the llamas and horses have chosen the pasture over the barn today. All of us, I think, know that cooler weather is closing in and are making the most of the last few breaths of warm before the chill.
For the first time, I am noticing that wind through the crisp, Midwestern, autumn leaves sounds a little like the sea. I can imagine standing at the edge of a pier right now, waves breaking upon the shore.
My wind chimes, a large set with deep, resonant notes, are moved along with the trees and provide notes that carry across the farm like an almost song.
It has been a weird year. But you know that. Six months ago, I didn’t imagine that we would still be tucking away in October. That we would still be wearing masks and trying to stay a llama’s distance from everyone else.
I also didn’t expect the pandemic to come so close. Touching people and places I love.
John and I are self-quarantining for the second time since the virus hit the states. Both times, it’s been due to possible exposure. We don’t have any symptoms, but today, I got my 5th Covid test since the beginning of the pandemic.
It’s amazing what is starting to feel normal.
I remember, as a child, wondering what it felt like to live through big moments in history. But that was before 9/11. Before the financial collapse of ’08.
Make no mistake, these are the days our grandchildren–if we have them–will ask us about. They will be writing papers about the pandemic and about the election. The climate.
I think, if I’m asked, I will say that Octobers began feeling warmer and that life was mostly the same as always until you came upon a moment that felt unreal, like when you saw the airliners parked en masse at major airports because almost no one was flying, or when you saw red and orange casted photos that your friends took while they evacuated ahead of the west coast wildfires.
I will tell them that when you got a cough or a fever you worried. Instantly. Even though it was probably just allergies or the flu or one of a thousand other illnesses that could cause those symptoms.
I will tell them that I went to some of the the protests and vigils for George Floyd, that we marched wearing masks to protect each other, and that, contrary to what some might try to tell you, there was a lot of love and grace in those places. That there was hope. I will tell them that we took to the streets during a national pandemic, as safely as we could, to try and make things better for the children coming up behind us.
And I think I will tell them that it was difficult to follow the news, because sometimes it seemed like everything was bad.
I think a lot of us are feeling like the world is closing in a little too tightly right now.
I’m working through a book about connecting to our innate creativity, called “The Artist’s Way,” with a friend of mine. (It’s been really helpful, to be honest, and I highly recommend it.) The author, Julia Cameron, writes, “Survival lies in sanity, and sanity lies in paying attention.”
Right now, as we live through certifiably insane times, I can’t help but think that paying attention is more important than ever. However, to quote another author whose work I love, we need to be mindful to “Pay attention to what you pay attention to.” (Austin Kleon, Keep Going)
Today, I caught myself scrolling Facebook for way too long. It’s easy to do. We’ve created our own little echo chambers. Safe and comfortable. A place where arm chair activism can be mistaken for actual activity and outrage at the proverbial other is found with every click.
“…sanity lies in paying attention.”
I worry about the election, and I spiral. My anxiety gets triggered. I make the mistake of reading the comments section of a political article, and 45 minutes later, I’ve lost 45 minutes of my life AND my faith in humanity. I worry about the pandemic, for myself and others. Lately it’s been hard for me to pay attention to the right things.
But, still, I am learning…
A few weeks ago, I found one of my favorite llamas, Rabbit, sitting on the ground just outside the barn, unable to get up. He was older, near 17 I think, and one of my favorites.
When one of my older animals goes down and is unable to stand back up, especially outside, I don’t expect them to improve. I’ve seen it too many times, and have come to the conclusion that fighting the inevitable in an actively failing critter is unfair and unkind. Life, it turns out, is a terminal condition, and sometimes the kindest thing we can do for our critter friends is to make their last journey as comfortable as possible.
I called the vet.
Since Rabbit wasn’t in active distress, the vet slotted his euthanasia in for later that day. I hung up the phone, sat on a haybale, and cried.
On top of the pandemic and every other damn thing, I had already lost two animals in the few weeks prior to finding Rabbit unable to stand. An older horse, Candi, and an older llama, Llewis, all three with unrelated issues. And it hit me in that moment, the weight of loss. I cried for all three of them and for myself. And a little bit, I think I cried for all of us.
When the tears slowed, I made my way to the feed room and mixed up some grain for Rabbit. The sweet stuff with lots of molasses. My boy would go out full. I brought him some water and hay, deposited a bucket of sweet grain in front of him, and covered him in blankets against the chill. Then I sat with him, because I loved him and didn’t want him to spend his last afternoon alone. An hour or so later, my friend Katie joined us, bringing me hot chocolate; after that, Lauren came up to the barn. Both of them sat with me and Rabbit while we waited for the vet to come because they love me and didn’t want me to be alone.
The vet was later than he first estimated, but that was ok. It gave the sun time to move higher in the sky. For the shadows to retreat so that Rabbit could spend a final hour laying in the sun. I wanted it that way.
Time and again, this place and these creatures remind me of what’s important in a culture that is always trying to redirect my (our) attention. Plans went out the window, because sometimes the most important thing is right in front of you. Not just Rabbit though. Not just saying goodbye to old friends, but the support that comes out to greet you when you need it. The friends who, time and time again, have proven to me that they have my back, whatever that looks like in that moment, even when it looks like sitting on the ground for hours on a chilly day waiting for the vet.
My friends, my creatures, and this place remind me of all the million ways that we belong to each other.
I posted a prayer from Nadia Bolz-Weber on my personal Facebook recently. The whole thing is beautiful, but one line struck especially deeply. She writes: “Remind us that for every tragedy that’s “newsworthy” there are a million kindnesses, and countless acts of love that go unreported.”
That’s what we need to pay attention to, not to the exclusion of the major events happening all around us, but as their complement. Neither tells the whole story of this crazy year.
Today, after work, I listened to the wind through the autumn trees and realized that they sound like waves crashing on a beach, and I imagined that beach. I sat outside with my dogs, and I enjoyed the sun. (We all should take time to enjoy the sun.) I collected zinnia seeds from my garden, and I paid attention to the wild colors of the still blooming zinnias to my left and right.
I planted some beautiful things this spring, despite all of the insanity. Next year, I will plant some more, and I will work hard to pay attention to all of the beautiful things happening all around me.
***Both of the books mentioned in the post are affiliate linked, which means that if you buy them through these links, I will make a small amount of money. Two notes on that: first, it does not change your purchase cost, and second, I will never affiliate link to a product I don’t believe in. I love both of these books!
The leaves on the sugar maple in my front pasture are turning crimson. For years, I’ve watched this process, noticing that this particular tree changes its leaves directly from green to red somehow, with no shades of gold or orange in the in-between. When a chill builds in the air, crimson builds from the crown of the tree down until all of it is bathed in red like roses. For most of the year, I barely notice her, but in the autumn, she rivals any summer flower.
There’s a chill in the mornings, the sort that has me in a sweatshirt or flannel until the afternoon sun warms us to almost, but not quite summer temperatures. The crickets are ramping up their songs. Some of the birds have already flown south, our barn swallows and, I think, our hummingbirds among them.
Autumn is settling in like the dusk.
Summer on the ranch has passed by in something of a blur. Two of my dearest people moved in: one of my best friends, Lauren, moving into my guest house in July, and my boyfriend of almost three years, John, moving in with me in August. And, just like that, my stint living mostly or completely alone out here, one that began well within the confines of my marriage, ended.
Just like that, the burden of this place was spread across several shoulders more than my own.
Last Saturday, the three of us spent our evening setting up winter hay in the hayloft: 100 bales, putting our total set up for the winter at around 350. Last year, I set up over 500, but I found myself with an abundance of hay at the end of the Spring, enough that I am still working through the last of it.
It’s tricky, figuring out what you need before you need it. If hay hadn’t already proven that to me, 2020 would have with its pandemic, quarantines, social justice, and raging climate issues.
It’s strange. We are suddenly so very aware that nothing is certain. I read somewhere that the exhaustion so many of us are feeling comes from the realization of that reality. It has always been true, but now we are forced to acknowledge it.
It’s been six months since the onset of Covid19. A friend of mine calls anything before that “the before times” and something about that phrase very much resonates.
Remember when we thought it would only last a few weeks? When we thought we could use the downtime to be super productive and accomplish ALL OF THE THINGS? Remember when everyone was baking all of the time?
I’ve gone from quarantine baking to quarantine Weight Watchers. From unemployment (due to the slowdown) to working at home. I’ve struggled with feelings of guilt and inadequacy–so not that different from usual–stemming from the fact that I still can’t quite accomplish everything on my to-do list, even with all of the extra time I sort of have as a result of no commute and, for a while, my decreasing work load.
Does anyone else feel like both everything and nothing have changed?
In some ways, life continues as usual out here. It’s still Autumn, with all of the truths and chores that suggests. We are still setting up hay, still harvesting the last of the garden. Still trying to predict the future, at least enough to figure out how much hay to set up for winter. But, in some ways, it’s all different. No autumn parties or bonfires. No plans to visit the nearby orchard. A hard pass on all but the smallest of gatherings. To me, all of this feels a lot like flying a holding pattern above an airport while you wait to be cleared to land.
I’m not exactly sure what my point is here. Why I’m writing this…except maybe to break through my writer’s block a little and to remind all of you that our new normal is so far from normal that normalcy should not be expected. In other words, give yourselves a little grace. Maybe even more than a little, if you can manage it.
Now is the time for grace, not only for ourselves, but for each other. Grace for those in pain. Grace for those feeling loss. Grace for everyone we come in contact with. (Sometimes grace for everyone else looks like wearing a mask to protect them. Full stop.)
This too shall pass. Like the summer. Like the autumn. Like all of the best laid plans of mice and me.
I think the season might have changed from spring to summer while I wasn’t looking. A quiet breath of change that happened maybe while I was grading. Or shearing. Or mourning.
Collectively, a lot of us are mourning right now. Lives lost to COVID. Lives lost to violence. Lost experiences. Lost sense of normalcy. The world, I think, is undergoing some changes, and it can be hard to keep up or know quite where you fit.
I’m feeling all of that.
I set out at the beginning of quarantine with grand intentions to write more, but I’ve struggled with it. The more you don’t write, the harder it is to get back in the habit; it’s a skill that must be practiced as much (maybe more) than it is a talent. Early on, it was the chaos of online teaching that made me feel stuck. I only had so much brain space, and it didn’t seem I could fit much else in beyond my classroom. Then it was loss and depression and anxiety. Personal and collective.
We’re all going through a collective experience of trauma right now. Several of them really. Some people are handling it better than others, I think. Some people are really struggling. Some people don’t quite know what to feel.
Suddenly, and collectively, we’ve come to the ever present but often ignored conclusion that our lives are very often out of our control.
Beyond our collective grief and mourning, my family has experienced personal loss. My grandpa passed away this spring, an illness or injury that it seemed like the doctors couldn’t quite pin down took him from us. Thanks to the virus, most of us didn’t really get to say goodbye. We texted and called. We posted memories and remembrances on social media. We even had a collective ice cream social on Zoom. (If you knew my grandpa, you know that he loved ice cream.)
We didn’t get to hug him or each other, though. We didn’t get to have a wake or a funeral.
I’m sure I’m not the only member of the family who felt depression hang over me like a shadow as he faded from us. The virus creates loss without context. An emptiness that just seems to appear in front of you like a fall into Wonderland through a rabbit hole.
(Hmmm…I think grandpa would like that analogy; he was a nationally known rabbit breeder, and it seems very likely to me that he would have been pretty comfortable with his gateway to the afterlife taking the shape of a rabbit hole or maybe a path through a rabbit coop full of his favorite Flemish Giants.)
My depression had been waiting in the wings since the start of the virus, and it poured onto center stage following on the heels of our loss. It does that. Comes and goes, but never really goes. It was my companion for a few weeks, a welling up inside me that occasionally rose to prominence and took over. I was thankful for my support system. For my friends who called or texted to check in. For family, who knew my loss by feel because it had spread across their skin and hearts as well. For my guy, who didn’t have the words (because, believe me, no one ever does) but who wrapped me up in his arms and told me he would be right there as long as I needed him, who let me cry on his shoulder and brought me pizza when food had lost a lot of its appeal.
I’ve read that grief is love that has no where to go, that that’s why we should let people have their grief, to ride through the rough terrain of loss rather than try to smooth it over for them with platitudes. You have to learn to ride through the rough road carrying the love with you; no one can navigate the holy pain of loss in your stead.
One of my aunts wrote a touching tribute to grandpa a few days before his death, when we all knew it was coming and felt ourselves waiting for the hand of the creator to deliver him from his intense pain. She wrote about all the things she would miss. All the ways she would miss him.
I somehow didn’t see her reflection until a few days after he passed. I had spent the in between thinking about all the things I would miss as well.
One line she wrote, “I will miss the way you measured time by season and weather, the way any farmer does,” bounced around in my chest, filling space in an empty spot that I hadn’t known was there.
I do that too…
My grandfather left an obvious legacy. He and my grandmother raised nine children on a farm along the rock river. Those children, in turn, raised their children in their own way–some on farms of their own; some, like mine, in town in a small house with a white picket fence–but all of us have a little plow dirt in our blood I think, some more obviously than others. Most of us have a dose of Midwestern common sense. Many of us know the magic of being rooted, connected to the growth of things in a very visceral way. He quietly taught us that, I think.
Not long after he passed, the month of May surprised Central Illinois with a late frost. Dad came over and helped me cover my garden. We spread plastic sheets over green beans and put buckets upside down over tomatillos and tomatoes. I used actual blankets to tuck in my broccoli and slung Max’s first coat over my lettuce to protect it, as I had with him, from the cold. I thought about Grandpa a lot that night, wondering how many times he worked to protect the crops from a late frost, thought about the way he taught dad how to drive a tractor and plant corn in rows and the way Dad taught me.
The frost claimed no casualties in my garden, despite rolling over the ridge line low and fierce; it was protected by the knowledge that a family passes from one to the next.
It strikes me sometimes that he isn’t here anymore; that I won’t see him on Christmas Eve. That we won’t talk about my horses again; I won’t see him nod approvingly and tell me “that’s a fine looking horse” with the knowledge of a seasoned horseman when I pull out a photo of my latest project. I won’t hear him comment on the price of milk or this year’s corn crop or the weather. He won’t wrap me up in a bear hug that smells just a little like a barn. (His hugs would lift us off the ground until he was well into his 70s.)
I will miss him.
But I will think of him when I see the sun set over corn fields. When I start up a tractor. When I breathe in the scent of freshly plowed garden dirt. When I eat ice cream, like he did, with a fork.
I suspect that I will measure “time by season and weather” for the rest of my days, the same way he did through all of his.
I think it’s true that grief is love with no where to go. I’ve learned that the process of grieving teaches you where to put that love, how to share it, how to pull it out when you need to remember the ways it made you who you are.
I hope your grieving, however it looks now, teaches you more about love and reminds you how to be full.
I have thirteen open tabs in Chrome.
One is a YouTube video on body language that I want my students to watch before they start job interviews upon graduation. We talk a lot about body language (or nonverbal communication) in the business communication course I teach at the local four year university. But this isn’t about how your body language affects how others see you; it’s about how your own body language influences how you see yourself. (It’s here if you’re interested.)
My class site is up, as are emails, and, of course, this page.
The other tabs are mostly tutorials. I’m trying to learn a new video classroom interface before teaching again on Thursday. The one I used today was glitchy and silenced some of my students. That is the cardinal sin of teaching in my opinion, and I don’t want it to happen again.
A month ago, if you had told me that by the end of March I would be teaching from home wearing a nice shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, that I would be officially laid off from my sales job until some uncertainty clarifies, that all of my social activities would be replaced by video conferencing, and that my relationship would suddenly be subject to travel restrictions and social distancing…well, I’m not quite sure what I would have thought.
Even writing it now, I’m not quite sure what to think.
John and I were in San Diego when everything with COVID-19 went a little off the rails. We were in California when they shut down the restaurants. We were at the San Diego Zoo just a few days before it closed its doors for the first time in decades. We walked through Balboa Park listening as every conversation we passed was about the virus. I listened as a homeless woman tried to calm a homeless man who understood that he couldn’t get away from it, that they both would likely be exposed.
We moved up our flight back home, and even so were rerouted in the air from Midway to St. Louis, Midway having been shut down to traffic after an air traffic controller was diagnosed with COVID-19, and they were forced to clear out the control room.
John and I quarantined for two weeks due to possible exposure. We thought we might be able to ride out the storm together; his job can be done on a remote desktop, but he was just called back into the office on Monday. His company, for better or for worse (but probably for worse), has a pretty firm “ass at the desk” policy.
Pandemic be damned.
This means that he will be following Illinois’ Shelter in Place requirement in Champaign, while I shelter in place here at the ranch with my critters. We’re figuring it will be at least 6 weeks, probably longer, until he gets to come back.
I’ve been running full-blast, trying to improve myself and the farm now that I have nearly all the time in the world to do so.
My head has been telling me to write and exercise and eat healthy, but yesterday I ate an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s before going to bed. I didn’t get the stalls cleaned, and that needs to be done, but I didn’t do them today either. I didn’t work on cleaning out the feed room or the mudroom. I didn’t work with the animals.
I didn’t hustle.
Right now, I’m seeing so much content, in everything from my Facebook feed to my email inbox, that is encouraging the hustle. “Learn Insert Exciting Skill Here“! Perfect Insert Necessary Experience There”!
Influencers (what does that even really mean) seem to be encouraging this as a period of self-growth. They are promoting classes and tutorials and kits and all of the things. We’re hearing accomplishment stories about all of the accomplishments that accomplishers accomplished during past quarantines. (Did you know God once created an entire universe during a quarantine? True story…)
Part of me thinks maybe I should learn Greek and pull out some watercolor paints and figure out how to play stairway to heaven on the guitar. Probably all at the same time.
Some of you think you’re failing if you aren’t accomplishing something right now.
I get it. Trust me, I get it.
Our culture determines value based on achievement. And some of us, especially those of us who maybe understood our self worth based on report cards or sports stats or extracurriculars as children, struggle when we aren’t achieving.
But our culture isn’t good at factoring in our humanity. It’s actually super shitty at it.
The truth is, this is hard. Staying home when you want to go out and see your people takes a toll. Physically distancing, even inside deeply meaningful relationships, takes a toll. Uncertainty takes a toll. Worrying that loved ones might get the virus…worrying that you might, it’s all hard.
If no one has given you permission to just settle in and weather this storm without finding the time to learn to speak fluent French, I hereby bestow it. (Also, you don’t need my permission, or anyone’s permission, but I know what it feels like to feel like you do.)
Here’s my advice, if you want it.
Take some time to just be still. Take some time to let yourself know.
I’ve been working really hard to let myself feel through all of this. For me, that starts with the heartbeat. I make a concerted effort to sit (or stand) still, sink into my chest, and hear and feel my heartbeat. I’m getting pretty good at it. It only takes me a moment or two now to sink and notice, as I catch that rhythm deep inside me, that I’m here, right now, living in this body. I do this in my bed or on my couch or when I’m checking on my horses. Just pause and sink. Notice my heart. It’s our hearts that will get us through this.
I’ve been trying to take walks whenever possible. It’s easier for me than for a lot of you, I know, with all the wild around me, but if you can, go outside. Breathe air that isn’t stale. Listen to the wind. Deepen your breath. Relax your shoulders. Unclench your jaw.
Just let yourself be.
I felt myself needing a reset the other day, so I wandered out in the field to my favorite pasture to watch the llamas and sit for a spell. I knew I wanted to stay a while, so I tried to find a quiet place. I settled in against a gorgeous, old pine tree.
(How is it that I’ve spent more than half of my life in this place and only just noticed that my back fits perfectly against this curve in this tree?)
I listened to the wind as it blew through the pines, moving through the top branches and turning them into dancers that perfumed the air like Christmas.
And I wondered how many of these moments I had lost to the hustle.
I sat longer, and eventually the llamas took notice. I watched them as they watched me. Then I sat as they investigated.
They are so good at being present. I have a lot to learn from them.
If we do “work on ourselves” maybe we can work to stretch ourselves, just a little. Sink into ourselves just a little. Gently and without pressure. Maybe that will make it easier to stand up on our tiptoes, so that we’re able to see over the wall of this thing, this virus, this time, and see that there’s something on the other side. Or, maybe, if we can’t look over the wall, we can sit against it and breathe because we’ve been taking the time to do that, and because we know that a wall has never been created that doesn’t have something on the other side.
There are so many things I would like to get done right now, and maybe I will accomplish some of them, but I’m not going to confabulate work with worth. And I hope you don’t either.
I was cleaning my third to last stall of the night, the one where my mamas and babies live, when a text came through. I paused to read it and took a moment to pause in my barn work as well.
Huh…Dementors…that’s about right.
My friend and I don’t always talk much. She’s busy. I’m busy. We have three hours of backroads and interstate between us, but we have horses and mental illness in common, plus a long history together, so we do our best to show up. Whatever that happens to mean on any given day.
Today, it meant talking about the dementors.
I checked my watch, glanced around the barn, and tried to guess how much longer chores would take me.
Cleaning stalls gives me a chance to think, and tonight was no exception. While I worked through the last three, I thought about my friend and her dementors. Then I thought about me and my dementors. (For those of you who don’t know, dementors are monsters from Harry Potter who get inside your head and suck all the joy and happiness out of your world. If that isn’t a metaphor for depression, I don’t know what is.)
Maybe it’s something in the air…or maybe depression cycles and our minds are prejudiced towards patterns (think the Baader-Meinhoff Phenomenon), so I see a connection where there is merely coincidence.
2020, so far, has been difficult for me. Making myself go to the barn this evening took some real effort. Getting up in the morning has been taking real effort, probably because my “early” sign of depression is almost always an effed up sleep cycle. (Monday night it took me five hours to fall asleep, even though I went to bed early, completely exhausted.) I’ve had a harder time focusing lately, been more easily irritated, and am reacting more strongly to things outside of my control. (Also, my god, I’ve been trying to limit my access to the news, because what in the actual hell?)
These symptoms are my early warning system. They tell me to start intervening in my own life. For me, that means yoga, dietary changes, more time outside, more intentionality about my sleep schedule, and, if necessary, therapy and medication. I guess, in short, it means self-care, of the hard work variety. After the last week of working to be more intentional about all of that, I started feeling better today, but, as usual, it’s a climb.
I gave my friend a call once I was back in from the barn.
She started off by telling me that nothing was wrong, persay—and depression can come on without an obvious trigger to be sure–but the longer we talked, the more I realized that she had a lot going on, everything from family issues to work issues to exhaustion, and that she wasn’t cutting herself any slack at all.
I told her about my own depression, and then chugged into my “it’s no big deal, but…” list. You know, the one that almost always contains one or more items that are actually a big deal? (Like, in my case, losing one of my very favorite llamas to a choke about a week ago…)
Looking back, I’ve had probably a half a dozen of these conversations in the last month or two, where someone talks to me about feeling overwhelmed or depressed “for no reason.” Then, with a bit a time and talking, it usually turns out that there are a lot of reasons; we just don’t give everyday life enough credit for being hard.
Let me just put it out there: Life is hard. Adulthood is hard. (Also, so is childhood and adolescence and all of the other things, but I digress…)
It’s also good. But sometimes it feels like the “good” dosing is all off, and we don’t get enough of the good when we need it, or we don’t see it consistently, or we get it in our head that we’re supposed to be happier, or more productive, or less tired, or whatever, and our brains spiral, and we feel off and don’t quite know why.
*Deep breath in…*
I don’t think these depressive episodes happen because something is wrong with my friend or with me. (Though I do think both of us are prone to this and are deeply sensitive individuals.)
I think they happen because we forget that life, by it’s very nature, is hard.
Instead, we believe the lie that if it’s hard, we must be doing something wrong. That there are things we aren’t taking “good enough” care of. That there is fault to find, and it’s with us.
Culture tends to tell us that we should never feel this sort of discomfort, and that, if we do, we need to respond to our discomfort with something or other that can be purchased or consumed. We spend instead of reaching out. We suplant connection with consumerism. We buy a new essential oil or pillow, or we numb with tv, or addiction, or whatever, when in reality we just need to make peace with the fact that things are hard because that’s how life is.
Just in case you need to hear it: Life is hard, not because something is wrong with you, but because life is hard.
Take a beat if you need it.
Reach out, whether you’re sure you need to or not.
Be kind to yourself.
You’re not overreacting.
You’re not alone.
As I reminded my friend tonight, and as she reminded me: Life is hard, but we can do hard things.
I didn’t want to go to the barn this evening.
Not even a little bit.
Not even at all.
It’s below freezing out here on the ranch. I woke up to snowflakes meandering to the ground in that slow, spiraling, iconic, movie-snow kind of way. The sort that wafted through the air, as though exploring a relationship with gravity rather than falling for it outright.
Chores this morning reflected the cold. I snapped two of my llamas into jackets, despite their protests. I bundled myself more than usual and still felt the sting of the cold, damp air through my jeans. When I went to fill the horse trough, I found that the hose had been not-quite-correctly drained and had frozen overnight. I found this out when I turned on the spigot, and the water that couldn’t make it to the trough sprayed out all over my jeans. I was reminded of this for the next 45 minutes as the water that had saturated my jeans chilled to almost freezing while I cleaned the stalls.
All of this was followed by something of a hectic day at work, the sort where I find myself correcting my own mistakes with no one to blame but me.
By the time I got home, I didn’t even want to think about the barn. I wanted to be one of those normal people with a condo and a television, maybe a dog to walk, but, like, a smallish dog, or just one cat who didn’t need to be walked at all. I wanted to veg out. Eat my own dinner. Worry only about my own comfort. Go to bed without having to venture back into the cold. Without having to deal with a hopefully unfrozen hose and a 100 gallon trough.
Not to sound ungrateful, because I am well aware that I am literally living my childhood dream, but sometimes, I just want my life to be a little more normal.
I did not want to go to the barn this evening, so when I did it was begrudgedly. I pulled an hoodie over my hoodie and a down jacket over that. I pulled on boots over the nicer pair of pants I had worn to the office, and I grabbed the good gloves.
I marched up the lane mentally calculating the best way to get everything done as quickly as possible. Feed the ponies. Feed Sky. Mix grain for tomorrow. Close in the moms and babies…and CeCe…and make sure the babies aren’t cold. Close in and feed the cats. Check the haynets. And, of course, deal with the damn hose and trough.
The ponies nickered when I walked in. I tossed hay for them over the stall. They were preoccupied with it as I walked out, a heavy rubber hose slung over my shoulder and dragging on the ground behind me. I stopped to throw an extra flake to the littlest one who was standing outside looking sad while his friends chomped away at the hay I had thrown into the stall minutes before. I walked down the lane, connected the hose, and hoped that I would be done with everything else and back to disconnect it before the trough overflowed.
I bustled through the list, completing tasks by rote that I had committed to memory years ago. Animals were fed. Doors shut. Grain mixed. Check. Check. Check.
Nothing new. Nothing different. The same set of chores I do every night. All the while, I wished I was done. Wished it were going faster. Wished I didn’t have to do this tonight.
The trough had filled slowly. For a moment, I was afraid that it hadn’t been filling at all, that, like this morning, it had simply sat in the trough with back pressure in the line while I had been working, but small ripples in the water assured me that the water level was indeed rising.
I stood watching the water for a moment before realizing that you could hear the ripples as well, that the night was so quiet I could hear the water moving through water. Maybe that’s when I first looked up.
The full moon shone through a break in the treeline in front of me, as though it had been placed there for the express purpose of illuminating the lane.
All of my outdoor lighting seemed dim against it’s shining. The ground, dusted with those lazy, almost lyrical, snowflakes from this morning shone out in chorus, pinpricks of light radiating up in response to it’s great glow against the night sky. The sky itself seemed to transition across it’s own expanse, showing off and shifting in color from azure to velvet black.
My breath caught in my throat for a moment, and I had to remind myself to exhale.
My trough still filling, I decided to walk out into the dark.
Except that the dark wasn’t all that dark.
I wandered down the lane, stopping every few moments to take in another slice of the world around me. The otherworldly glow from the snow where no tracks had been made. The silhouette of the pine trees against the sky. One of my horses, Phoenix, followed me along the other side of the fence, reminding me in his own way that he considers me to be part of his herd. His gray dappled coat glowed in the moonlight; I could make out his every feature.
I felt utterly and completely connected to the world around me.
I wondered, briefly, how long I could stay out there. How long would it take for the snow to soak through my jeans if I just sat down in it and watched the night be night? How long before the cold overcame the peace and silence and exchanged it for discomfort? I wasn’t sure, but right then, in the barn lane, in the snow, I wish I could stay in the moment of connection and peace. In the herd.
I can’t do justice to these moments of connection out here. The moments when time seems to stop for a while and nature reminds me that I am part of a much bigger whole.
My camera can’t capture the light of the moon, and 1000 words won’t quite paint this picture.
It was the water trough that pulled me back. It would be full soon. Water would spill over and make a slushy mess of things.
I walked back, turned off the spigot, and drained the hose. It seemed like far less of a chore than it had an hour ago when I had to talk myself into heading outside.
I turned around for a moment after that and watched the snow sparkle the light of the moon back up to it, illuminating a path through the woods that is usually invisible during the night.
I didn’t want to go to the barn this evening.
But I went, because it was what I had to do.
Sometimes, doing what you have to do turns out to be exactly what you need.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…
The tune lilts through my head as I look around the house, but while there is probably a tree in the grand hotel, and while friends have been sending me pictures of their trees and decorations, my house…well, so far it’s slightly less than festive.
I know. I know. My last post outlined my determination to really be ready for the holiday this year. I was to have all my shopping and gift wrapping done by now…and all the decorating…and even have cookie dough mixed up and waiting in the freezer for cookie making, ready for my now highly efficient self to commence with the baking. Instead, I have a tree up in the living room with no decorations (yet), about two-thirds of my gifts purchased and none of them wrapped, and a couple of packages of sugar cookie dough in the cupboard ready to mix up in the next few weeks because really the fun part is the decorating anyway…
And I’m sitting on my couch sipping coffee just now, with barn chores in my near future, realizing that today is the first day all week without anything specific on the calendar. No work. No grading. No event that I signed up for while feeling extroverted that I begin to regret as soon as my introverted brain kicks in again. I just know this, tonight, John and I will finally decorate the tree…very gingerly with our most durable ornaments that the kitten hopefully won’t be able to break.
This life is chaos. Sometimes it’s controlled, and often it isn’t, but, right now, it feels a little bit like Paradise.
November was more chaotic than usual.
If you follow almostfarmgirl on Facebook or Instagram, you already know about our latest rescue and source of chaos, Miracle Max.
Max had the dual misfortune of being orphaned at birth and being owned by idiots. At two weeks old, having bottle fed him in the house since his birth, his breeders decided to put him up for sale… for $500.
Let me be clear: a two-week old, bottle-fed llama cria is not worth a dollar, especially a two-week old, bottle-fed cria with questionable breeding and no papers, but I digress.
Anyway, the owners put him up for sale on Facebook, commenting that he “loves attention and hanging out with us. He will follow us anywhere doesn’t matter if we are inside or outside,” and the post was immediately very popular and littered with two sorts of comments. There were the less experienced people who thought raising a bottled cria (baby llama) would be all sorts of fun. “Oh look how cute he is!!!” over and over. Then there were the experienced llama handlers who were generally horrified. My friend, Elizabeth, was among the later group.
Most people don’t realize this, but bottle fed crias are notoriously difficult to raise: far more difficult than a goat or a calf or even a horse (and horses have their own challenges). The reasons for this are many, including the fact that they need to be fed every 2-3 hours or so around the clock, but one of the big ones is that bottle fed cria are prone to developing Aberrant Behavior Syndrome (or ABS… otherwise known as Berserk Male Syndrome). When they are inappropriately socialized with people, specifically when they are over socialized or coddled as babies to the point that they fail to recognize the difference between other llamas and people, they basically lose their minds. The females are bad enough; the males are nightmares. Bottle raising any cria, but especially a male, is not for the faint of heart, or the inexperienced, or for anyone who is inclined to ignore warnings and make a pet of the poor thing while it’s tiny and extra cute. (Saying in the ad that he loved attention and followed them everywhere was a huge red flag for how things would go if left in his original owners’ care.)
Elizabeth messaged me the posting and asked if I had room for him.
Did I have space in the barn? Sure. But I knew the question was more about space in my life and my head than it was about space in the barn.
The answer, as usual, was no. And yes. And no.
I can’t save them all.
Even as I write that, it stings a little. It reminds me that there’s an invisible line out the door of all the creatures and people whose pain I can’t alleviate. The world is big, and people are cruel. I am small.
And yet, I firmly believe that we are sent that which is supposed to be ours, and somehow I always know when I see the creatures who have been sent to me.
I knew when Jiminy’s photo showed up, from Pennsylvania, as he stood in a kill lot waiting to ship to Canada. I knew when my friend posted Miss Rosie Posie after her daughter found her in a ditch in Texas. And I knew when I saw this tiny cria.
There is a voice somewhere deep down inside that says, “This one, darling. This one will hold a piece of your heart.”
So I said yes.
Therein began a two day long saga of getting the little guy home. The owner refused to take a penny less than $500, telling us that there was a petting zoo that wanted him if we didn’t. (I cannot think of a worse situation for a bottle fed cria, or a more dangerous situation for the public, than placing him in a petting zoo.) Truthfully, neither Elizabeth or I had ready access to $500 to throw at a rescue, not really, but, since I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try, I told her to commit to buying him. I would figure the money out later.
Later that day, the owner reported that the baby had died. Rescue off. Later still, he realized that he had mistaken a stillborn baby on the ground for the bottle baby he had been feeding for two weeks. Rescue back on.
Two days later, with $500 borrowed from various sources I usually don’t touch, including my hay fund, and an online appeal for help hopefully crowdfunding his ransom and the associated bills I knew would be coming, Elizabeth and her husband purchased the little guy. They drove him home where I was waiting with a new dog coat, lots of goats milk, a shot of antibiotics, and my little herd of mamas and babies, who were shut in a stall and exceptionally confused.
I saw him and heard that little voice again. “This one.”
Rescue, like life, never has guaranteed outcomes. You never know what you’ll encounter. What will come up. Health issues. Behavioral issues. You just do it, because it’s the right thing to do. Because something in you tells you to jump even when you can’t see the net.
I wasn’t quite sure what to name him until I saw him. Originally, I had thought “Little Orphan Andy” (for obvious reasons) or “King’s Ransom” (because the $500 we paid for him was basically ransom money), but neither of those names quite fit. Honestly, it came down to this: I didn’t want his entire life to be defined by being an orphan if I could help it, and, as cute as he is, he is never quite going to look like a “King.”
I landed, instead, on “Miracle Max,” partly because I went in hoping for miracles with this guy (and so far, by the way, I’ve gotten them), partly because Elizabeth and I found ourselves referencing Miracle Max from The Princess Bride during the whole “is he dead or alive” debacle, and, honestly, partly because one of the best dogs I’ve ever known was named Max. I thought naming the cria Max might invite my dearly departed, dog Max to look out for the little dude from heaven, and dog Max would make an exceptionally good guardian angel and namesake.
I put Max in a dog jacket, fed him straight away with a warmed up mixture of 2/3 goat’s milk and 1/3 water. His wool felt like spun cotton under my fingers. He was alert and curious. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking.
John and I alternated feedings that night. I fed at 11:00 and 2:00. He got up and fed him at 5:00. The mama llamas and babies were intrigued, but not yet attached, and I felt bad every time I came out to see him sitting alone. Bonding with a herd is a process…I thought, watching for signs of attachment. Starry Knight, my oldest cria, seemed to take to him first. I hoped the others would follow suit.
Over the next few days, donations began to pour in. Some from social media followers who I had never met. Some from dear friends. Some came in locally. Some from across oceans. I found myself in tears more than once as paypal notified me of a donation with a message like “thanks for saving the baby llama.” People were sharing his posts across Facebook and keeping tabs on his story. Max, it would seem, had a whole host of fans out there rooting for him, dozens of good people cheering him on from all over the world.
The world is small, and people are kind. We belong to eachother.
Within three days, my mama llamas started allowing Max to occasionally nurse. The babies counted him as one of their own, and I would see the three playing in their pen, the two older boys obviously being extra gentle with their new little friend.
That night, I had concerns that he seems lathargic. I gave him his bottle before bed. Gave him another in the middle of the night. I convinced myself I was being hypervigillant. Two friends, and fellow livestock people, reminded me that Max was likely to have a lot of catching up to do after the way he was handled for the first two weeks (in addition to everything else, he was also notably underfed). I slept fitfully, even more fitfully than you get when you have to go to a barn every few hours.
The next morning, I found him in the corner of the stall, almost unable to stand up.
Something was very wrong.
I took his temperature. 94.4.
Very, very wrong. Part of me wondered if my thermometer was malfunctioning.
My mama llamas looked on with obvious confusion as I ran back down to the house. They were downright alarmed when I collected Max and put him in the car.
I drove us straight to the vet, keeping him from standing on the seat with one hand while steering with the other. (It only worked because he was pretty out of it at that point.) The vet techs ushered us straight into an exam room where we placed Max on a heating pad, covered him with extra blankets, and began running a space heater while we waited on the vet. Everything we knew said hypothermia.
(This, by the way, is what happens when you try to raise livestock in the house; their system doesn’t know how to handle actual weather.)
I waited until the vet came in. He wanted to keep him for the day and work on the body temp. I left Max in the capable care of the vet techs. He was alert and his temp was steadily ticking up.
I went home and took a nap. Four days of about five hours of heavily interrupted sleep was taking a toll. I rested for several hours, checked in with the vet when I woke up, and was told that it looked like I could bring Max home that night.
Max rode home on my lap in the backseat of my sister’s SUV. He wore four blankets to sleep that first night, and woke up not only to feed him every few hours, but also to take his temperature. It dipped down a tiny bit in the middle of the night, but generally held steady.
Over the next few days, I watched as my mama llamas went from sort of adopting Max to fully adopting Max. I moved them all into my front pasture, which is drier and can be seen from the house, and watched as he fully integrated into the little herd. (Personally, I think maybe the mamas doubted my ability to keep him alive, given the whole putting him in the car debacle, and begrudgedly took over.) His bottle feedings decreased the more llama milk he drank until he eventually refused them altogether.
Last week, I pulled Max’s little coat off of him. He had outgrown it, playing catch up with his weight after a very rough start. I watch in the evenings as one of my mamas, Baby, nurses Max and Hardy Boy at the same time. They both tuck against her at night to sleep.
This one, darling…
Max, for sure, has captured a bit of my heart, but he also reminded me of just how small and kind this world can be, even in the face of ugliness. He reminded me that, even when one day at a time seems like too much, we always have it in us to do the next right thing.
His temp is holding steady. He is adopted and healthy and on track to be a normal, non-abberent little llama. He is a miracle for sure, in every sense of the word.
The world is small, and people are kind. We belong to eachother.
I sat down last weekend and made my Christmas lists. Christmas shopping. Christmas goals. Taking some inspiration from a blogger I follow–Karen at The Art of Doing Stuff–I decided that this year, I want to have my holiday obligations (the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, etc) out of the way by the end of November, leaving December wide open for less-stress celebrations and evenings enjoying the season in front of a nice fire.
This year, I will be organized and intentional, and I WILL NOT be wrapping the last of my gifts on Christmas day before we load the car…again. I refuse.
Maybe it was the early first snow that kicked my butt into gear. Maybe it was Karen’s email about her Christmas pledge. Maybe it was the fact that my furnace chose the evening of our first snow to take a shit, reminding me very clearly and viscerally of what cold and winter feel like.
Maybe it was a combination of the three.
Either way, Winter, I’m here with you. To-do lists in hand. Continue reading “Winter, Christmas, and All of the Lists”