The enigmatic ad in the weekly "Trading Post"--a classified ad tabloid, available free around the area-- read:
We tried before but didn't succeed. Let's try again and then you'll see that after all this time we were meant to be.
No name, no phone number.
I wonder how many people read that ad and felt a faint flicker of hope for a long-lost love...or a glimmer of horror that the bad old boyfriend they ran into a few weeks ago was fishing for a re-match.
My own heart did a couple flip-flops in both directions, and then heaved a sigh, with an ironic smile on the side. My own lost beloved would never say anything like "you'll see that we were meant to be" (that's part of what I love so much) and the BOB who DID and WOULD say that is delusional if he thinks I've forgiven or forgotten his unpaid debt$.
But my mind wanders to other disappointments, like housemates who left in a huff, running away from demons that seemed personified in me, but in reality were within themselves. Some have returned to own their part in our strife; some haven't yet and may never. I sit in my life as if beside a river, watching other people's lives flow past. Watching them try to run from their own ghosts reminds me that when someone trips my trigger, I need to ask myself "What is it within myself that I'm running from, by running away from it in others?"
My life before these recent years was a tumultuous rapids, thrashing through rocky passages, rarely a calm place. A deeper, slower river flows more serenely now. But it's the same water.
Along the banks of that river lie the driftwood remains of any number of relationships broken and not mended, or not mended well, or mended more times than I want to admit. Small shames and sadnesses. I can't make anything whole again, but I can cherish the driftwood. Where these relationships are ongoing, the original thrill may never be recovered--there may always be an ever-present awareness that we have hurt one another; a certain innocent trust may never be given or received again--but a gentler, deeper, wiser love evolves that I've grown to prefer. At every possible opportunity, I affirm such mended friendships as the twice-precious jewels they are. Family relationships that have been strained over the years are also the more precious for their fragile renewal, even if it's just knowing that a kind word was said to a third party.
Not just people. I tenderly play the piano for Toss, who's nearly deaf but still loves to hear the piano. But there were so many times my words to her were harsh and unloving, beyond the need for correction in her sheepherding. How did we ever learn to trust one another again, after she bit me in the face and I pelted her with cardboard boxes in return? Yet our love would not be so rich if it had always been easy. I sat in the pasture for a few peaceful minutes today, while checking fences, and Eider came up to me, gazing into my eyes with her sheeply wisdom, breathing into my breath like a horse. My errors with her were more subtle, but real. Days here and there when the water froze, the mineral box was empty, the pasture gate didn't get opened, breakfast was late, I wasn't there in time to save a weak lamb, I tried to force her to mother a lamb she didn't want. And Mike reminds me, ah, the wrongs I've done the cats...asking them to eat a different brand of cat food, bringing them to a world full of hideous dogs and sheep that surely eat cats for lunch.
They forgive me, again and again. I forgive them. Our friendships grow deeper--sadder, in some ways, but richer as well, and more comfortable, more resilient. We have learned that beyond all the little wrongs, we trust one another implicitly in the big things, including the biggest thing of all: that we belong to one another, no matter what befalls. We acknowledge the intertwining of our lives, irrevokably.
It does not take a lot of time or effort to affirm our true loves, only a heart broken and mended enough times to be humbled and chastened by our admitted imperfection. A heart softened, cleansed of expectations and resentments.
How many times must we forgive our neighbor? Seventy times seventy, Jesus says. And I add to this, how many times must we forgive our beloveds? Seven thousand times seven thousand, at least. It is so well worth it. A lovely tenderness, an exquisite gentleness, is woven deeper in my heart each time I renew my commitment to journey together with all these beloveds through this mortal life, a serenity and acceptance that this old poem always seems to capture for me:
I sat at the edge of a dark place,
Casting my nets at the far sky;
Fished for a spell in a deep sigh
That rippled and raced.
......
I sifted my thoughts through the night air,
Mended my nets by the still cove;
Knotted the strands of an old love
That ravel and tear.
I slept by the lake of the dark sky,
Curled on my nets for a safe bed;
Searched in my dreams till the waves said
That you care
and I.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Behind Open Doors
I stopped by my daughter's this evening. She couldn't wait to pass on the gossip. "My massage therapist said she went to your farm on the Permaculture tour. She was really impressed! She liked your farm best of all--she said it was the most neat and tidy, and all the tools were put away, and there were beautiful crops growing...."
Music to my ears, even though we looked one another in the eye and burst out laughing.
I try. I really do. And partly, I schedule events at the farm every month if I can, just to give myself an incentive to get it tidied up on a regular basis. To see it through other's eyes, for it's esthetics, rather than through my own jaded practical eyes that tend to see unfinished projects and undone work more than any irrelevant clutter. The "event effect" DOES make a difference, over time.
But also, I get better at preparing for such events. I understand more and more what casual visitors notice, and what they don't. So I can impress them with less work.
This evening, that was brought home when I went to show the new WWOOFer his way around the bike shed. Well! We couldn't get in the door--and it doesn't even have a door! The bike (hm, I guess the last I rode it was BEFORE the Permaculture tour) was somewhere under and behind: A scrounged 1950's step stool (I sold my red one like that before I went to Canada), two garage sale bar stools (for a friend to make kumihimo looms out of), a box of extra coat hangers (someone said they wanted them, but hasn't come by for them yet), an almost-empty (but not quite) antifreeze jug, a stack of flower pots....
THAT'S why my daughter's massage therapist thought the farm looked so neat and tidy!
I commented to the WWOOFer, "If you ever see a farm that's all neat and tidy, you can be sure they have a shed somewhere that looks like this."
The secret is putting it out of the direct line of sight, and knowing when to distract your visitors. What tourist is going to notice the contents of the dark shadowy inside of the open-front shed, when I'm regaling them with stories about the bee colonies as we walk by? Much easier to tell good stories than to figure out better places for all these odds and ends, most of which are in transition anyhow.
If tools look like they've just been laid down, and will be picked up again any minute, it looks like work in progress instead of clutter. Therefore preparation for an event includes putting away all the tools that are lurking under vines and grass--and leaving out those that look like someone just walked away from a project 10 minutes ago.
But the grass under them has to be neatly mowed. Neatly mowed lanes make any surrounding anarchy look purposeful and under control. Especially if you refer to it with high-falutin' words like "fallow" and "wildlife feeding area".
I know the truth. So do those who know me and the farm well. But it's still nice to know I fooled someone. And, in truth, I do think the farm looks better than usual this fall.
Music to my ears, even though we looked one another in the eye and burst out laughing.
I try. I really do. And partly, I schedule events at the farm every month if I can, just to give myself an incentive to get it tidied up on a regular basis. To see it through other's eyes, for it's esthetics, rather than through my own jaded practical eyes that tend to see unfinished projects and undone work more than any irrelevant clutter. The "event effect" DOES make a difference, over time.
But also, I get better at preparing for such events. I understand more and more what casual visitors notice, and what they don't. So I can impress them with less work.
This evening, that was brought home when I went to show the new WWOOFer his way around the bike shed. Well! We couldn't get in the door--and it doesn't even have a door! The bike (hm, I guess the last I rode it was BEFORE the Permaculture tour) was somewhere under and behind: A scrounged 1950's step stool (I sold my red one like that before I went to Canada), two garage sale bar stools (for a friend to make kumihimo looms out of), a box of extra coat hangers (someone said they wanted them, but hasn't come by for them yet), an almost-empty (but not quite) antifreeze jug, a stack of flower pots....
THAT'S why my daughter's massage therapist thought the farm looked so neat and tidy!
I commented to the WWOOFer, "If you ever see a farm that's all neat and tidy, you can be sure they have a shed somewhere that looks like this."
The secret is putting it out of the direct line of sight, and knowing when to distract your visitors. What tourist is going to notice the contents of the dark shadowy inside of the open-front shed, when I'm regaling them with stories about the bee colonies as we walk by? Much easier to tell good stories than to figure out better places for all these odds and ends, most of which are in transition anyhow.
If tools look like they've just been laid down, and will be picked up again any minute, it looks like work in progress instead of clutter. Therefore preparation for an event includes putting away all the tools that are lurking under vines and grass--and leaving out those that look like someone just walked away from a project 10 minutes ago.
But the grass under them has to be neatly mowed. Neatly mowed lanes make any surrounding anarchy look purposeful and under control. Especially if you refer to it with high-falutin' words like "fallow" and "wildlife feeding area".
I know the truth. So do those who know me and the farm well. But it's still nice to know I fooled someone. And, in truth, I do think the farm looks better than usual this fall.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Prey for Piece
There are things you just never, ever in your wildest dreams even think about seeing. One female preying mantis trying to wrest a fellow female mantid's prey out of her "hands" is one of them.
Yes, I've seen the females calmly devour the males when everyone's job is done, and senescence is at hand for both anyhow. That seems like a logical suicide pact. The ultimate consummation of a brief, yet intense love affair. Parting is such sweet sorrow, you know.
What I just chanced to witness was just plain RUDE! Uncouth, heartless aggression at its most blatant.
The green mantis--obviously a female nearing her laying time; note the distended abdomen--caught my eye as she strolled acrossed the weathered boards of the shed. I ran out with the camera, wanting to document this species since I got some good shots of the larger one a couple weeks ago. They are fast and hard to photograph when they are on the move!
As I turned to leave, a tiny motion at the bottom of the wall caught my eye. Another female mantis of the same species, but in the gray color phase, calmly munching on a cricket. Forgetting the first mantis, I started trying to get a good angle on this one. What luck, to catch both color phases at once!
Then to my surprise, the green one appeared and began attacking the gray one, clearly trying to wrest the cricket away for her own dining pleasure! After two fruitless lunges, Green gave up and stepped aside a few paces.
I've got to figure out how to get this camera to take repeat shots, for fast-moving action like this.
Too Much!
I'm not the swiftest of farm workers, by any means. There are so many distractions!
Chief of those distractions, on a bright early-autumn day like this, is the sheer beauty that surrounds me at every moment.
Just...too...much...beauty!
The images you see here are a beetle (Insects in Kansas shows this to be a Locust Leafminer, probably on vacation from the many locust trees west of the garden) on a lettuce leaf; a pea blossom* (an heirloom variety, Desiree, that self-seeded itself from the spring planting); and the sublime pattern of fig leaves silhouetted against the sky.
Not in that order. Blogger has a mind of its own.
Snug as a Bug in a Bug
If you tend to be squeamish, you should probably glance at the photo and say to yourself, "Nice cocoon!" and move on to another blog or a computer game or something.The original title was "Snug as a Bug in a Rug", when I found this cozy cocoon rolled up inside an endive leaf as I was picking greens today. I snapped a photo.
Then I did a double-take. You see things in a photo that you don't notice with your bare eyes, esp. using the macro feature to take closeups. Sometimes I snap a photo just like I'd take out a magnifying glass.
What I saw in the photo was legs. A cocoon doesn't have legs, and despite the cozy nest of webbing pulling the leafy blanket around it for protection, this thing had legs (and pseudopods, which is what you see in this photo). But it was as still as a cocoon.
Stiller, in fact. I realized there was a dull, heavy deadness about the thing, instead of the sleek liveliness inherent in a cocoon. I looked more closely, and saw a granular look beneath the translucent skin.
This is no longer a caterpillar. It will never be a cocoon. It has been parasitized, and the entire body except the skin has been consumed by thousands of tiny maggot-like larvae. Unfortunately, in the photo of it broken open to show the larvae, the camera decided to focus on the leaf instead of the broken ends of the parasite hotel. But you can kind of see the odd texture under the deathly white skin.
The world of bugs is an alien, cutthroat place, full of life and death drama and everything in between. Sometimes I'm glad to be a human.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Cattle-ist
One thing leads to another, in unexpected ways, especially as my lifetime of random diverse routines, systems and lifestyles has accrued such variety that anything can trigger a chain rection.
This past spring, I downsized my ewe flock by "selling" a number of ewes as a started flock to some new friends who farm organically. The whole nine yards: Jersey milk cows, beef, heirloom hogs, chickens and ducks for meat and eggs, veggies. We actually didn't exchange any cash...we set a price, and we're keeping a tab as I enjoy farm-fresh variety my rather focussed farm cant' provide.
The other day I brought home my first gallon of farm-fresh Jersey milk in about 33 years (that was before my daughter was born). Granted, I've had other REAL milk since then, but still none since moving to Lawrence 15 years ago, and not for awhile before that, either.
Slowly the reaction began.
Cream! Even after the long ride home, there were several inches of butter-yellow cream on top. I could barely wait to skim it off. Somewhere in the back of the utensil drawer lay a long- idle gravy ladle that nicely fits in a waide-mouth gallon jar, bought just for skimming cream. In a few minutes, I had nearly a quart of thick, rich cream! The remaining "skimmed" milk tasted as rich as store-bought whole milk.
Several days later, it was still untouched. My current foodway doesn't include cream, and I kind of forgot about it. But then Beth and I had a cup of tea, and I remembered--cream in tea!
Then I was perusing the fridge this evening for a light supper. Cream...?
Dim memories began to gather and take form in my mind. I moved through the kitchen as if hypnotized, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.
THIS pan.
Set THAT burner to THAT temperature.
Water up to HERE.
Raisins first, a handful.
Sunflower seeds.
Nuts--all I have on hand is almonds, not my usual pecans. But they'll do. And here's some coconut--a special treat.
And then barley flakes.
Many MANY years ago, I noticed a correlation between eating oatmeal (with all the extras) for breakfast and getting cold sores by lunch time. When I switched to barley flakes...which taste and cook very much like rolled oats...no cold sores. Since then, I stick to barley. Apparently my body is especially sensitive to the balance of amino acids--oats have the least lysine of any grain, and lysine is an effective remedy for curbing cold sores.
After the water is absorbed into the flakes, the nuts are softened and the raisins are plumped, it goes in a bowl. Well, half of it...I had started with a little too much water, added ingredients accordingly, and it looked like more than I could eat.
Then what? It's been years since I've done this.
Oh, maple syrup, of course! Another ingredient that's been languishing in the back of the cupboard, used only when some guest makes pancakes. And then, finally, two big scoops of fresh golden cream.
It was so good, I went back for the other half.
This past spring, I downsized my ewe flock by "selling" a number of ewes as a started flock to some new friends who farm organically. The whole nine yards: Jersey milk cows, beef, heirloom hogs, chickens and ducks for meat and eggs, veggies. We actually didn't exchange any cash...we set a price, and we're keeping a tab as I enjoy farm-fresh variety my rather focussed farm cant' provide.
The other day I brought home my first gallon of farm-fresh Jersey milk in about 33 years (that was before my daughter was born). Granted, I've had other REAL milk since then, but still none since moving to Lawrence 15 years ago, and not for awhile before that, either.
Slowly the reaction began.
Cream! Even after the long ride home, there were several inches of butter-yellow cream on top. I could barely wait to skim it off. Somewhere in the back of the utensil drawer lay a long- idle gravy ladle that nicely fits in a waide-mouth gallon jar, bought just for skimming cream. In a few minutes, I had nearly a quart of thick, rich cream! The remaining "skimmed" milk tasted as rich as store-bought whole milk.
Several days later, it was still untouched. My current foodway doesn't include cream, and I kind of forgot about it. But then Beth and I had a cup of tea, and I remembered--cream in tea!
Then I was perusing the fridge this evening for a light supper. Cream...?
Dim memories began to gather and take form in my mind. I moved through the kitchen as if hypnotized, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.
THIS pan.
Set THAT burner to THAT temperature.
Water up to HERE.
Raisins first, a handful.
Sunflower seeds.
Nuts--all I have on hand is almonds, not my usual pecans. But they'll do. And here's some coconut--a special treat.
And then barley flakes.
Many MANY years ago, I noticed a correlation between eating oatmeal (with all the extras) for breakfast and getting cold sores by lunch time. When I switched to barley flakes...which taste and cook very much like rolled oats...no cold sores. Since then, I stick to barley. Apparently my body is especially sensitive to the balance of amino acids--oats have the least lysine of any grain, and lysine is an effective remedy for curbing cold sores.
After the water is absorbed into the flakes, the nuts are softened and the raisins are plumped, it goes in a bowl. Well, half of it...I had started with a little too much water, added ingredients accordingly, and it looked like more than I could eat.
Then what? It's been years since I've done this.
Oh, maple syrup, of course! Another ingredient that's been languishing in the back of the cupboard, used only when some guest makes pancakes. And then, finally, two big scoops of fresh golden cream.
It was so good, I went back for the other half.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Beth
One thing I relish with my time off from the bus job is being able to talk to the neighbors. It's not so much about having time but about being around when they are, being available to just run into them in the natural course of our days.
I was on my way over to work on Dawdy House early this evening and took a moment to appreciate the ornamental sweet potatoes that are flourishing around the farm sign. So I noticed my neighbor in front walking to get her mail. I said "hi" and we exchanged a few pleasantries, plus a reminder that she really would like me to get that tree trimmed. It will have to wait...chatting with another neighbor at a garage sale last weekend brought me the news that my tree trimmer guy is currently biking across India, which would explain why he hasn't returned my phone call.
As we talked, I noticed something odd at the neighbor's garden across the street, and I saw his garage door open, so I wandered over there to make sure he was aware of it. He was, of course...and filled me in on all the details. And then some.
While we were chatting, the neighbor across from HIM wandered across and we chatted some more. Local politics, local history, local gossip. We are quite a motley crew, spanning several generations and several income brackets and the whole spectrum of political and religious beliefs. But first and foremost, WE are the 500 block of North Street.
The evening production of the North Street News ended when I noticed a strange car pulling hesitantly into my driveway. I bid farewell and ran to see who it was. I wasn't expecting anyone.
And of all the people I wasn't expecting, I most wasn't expecting Beth, who I understood to be either in California or being an airline flight attendant--not leaping out of her car to give me a big hug.
Beth is one of those people who came through my life (as a housemate at the farm) for a very brief time, but is here to stay in my heart. Part and parcel of the farm, forever.
Beth, the C.S. Lewis fan. Yesterday Eider's ram lamb finally found a name, Aslan, because the shearer left a tuft of wool on the tip of his undocked tail, making it rather lion-like, and I had just Sunday found the whole Narnia series in hardback at a garage sale (see paragraph 2 above).
Beth, the creator of the meditation swing on the edge of the wilderness area at the farm. Beth, seeking God and sharing her faith through every sense, through dance and music and drama and journalism and listening and just being there.
Beth, the photographer who captured the timeless black and white image of my quirky laundry hanging on the line (note to self: hang laundry tonight). A few days ago my current housemate presented me with a wonderful color photo of...my quirky laundry hanging on the line. OK, so I have photogenic underwear. There's something charmingly nostalgic and non-sexy about long johns flapping in the breeze in a disembodied dance.
Beth, one of my dearest and sweetest Christian friends, who is undertaking to become a full-time missionary. Her dream is helping of women and children who have survived sex trafficking--an issue most Americans have their heads in the sand about. I learned a great deal about this issue during my stay at Holy Names House of Peace in Winnipeg when I lived there in 2005.
Beth. Younger than my daughter, a mentor, a minister, a forever friend. A gift from God.
A visit I will cherish in my heart until our paths cross again, in a year or 5.
I gave her a tomato as she left, after a couple too-short hours of singing, piano playing, laughing, story telling, hugs, tears of joy and amazement.
"Here," I said. "You must eat this. Then the calcium in it will be in your bones, and you will carry that little bit of the farm with you whereever you go. And you really must visit at least every seven years, so that there is always the farm in your bones."
I was on my way over to work on Dawdy House early this evening and took a moment to appreciate the ornamental sweet potatoes that are flourishing around the farm sign. So I noticed my neighbor in front walking to get her mail. I said "hi" and we exchanged a few pleasantries, plus a reminder that she really would like me to get that tree trimmed. It will have to wait...chatting with another neighbor at a garage sale last weekend brought me the news that my tree trimmer guy is currently biking across India, which would explain why he hasn't returned my phone call.
As we talked, I noticed something odd at the neighbor's garden across the street, and I saw his garage door open, so I wandered over there to make sure he was aware of it. He was, of course...and filled me in on all the details. And then some.
While we were chatting, the neighbor across from HIM wandered across and we chatted some more. Local politics, local history, local gossip. We are quite a motley crew, spanning several generations and several income brackets and the whole spectrum of political and religious beliefs. But first and foremost, WE are the 500 block of North Street.
The evening production of the North Street News ended when I noticed a strange car pulling hesitantly into my driveway. I bid farewell and ran to see who it was. I wasn't expecting anyone.
And of all the people I wasn't expecting, I most wasn't expecting Beth, who I understood to be either in California or being an airline flight attendant--not leaping out of her car to give me a big hug.
Beth is one of those people who came through my life (as a housemate at the farm) for a very brief time, but is here to stay in my heart. Part and parcel of the farm, forever.
Beth, the C.S. Lewis fan. Yesterday Eider's ram lamb finally found a name, Aslan, because the shearer left a tuft of wool on the tip of his undocked tail, making it rather lion-like, and I had just Sunday found the whole Narnia series in hardback at a garage sale (see paragraph 2 above).
Beth, the creator of the meditation swing on the edge of the wilderness area at the farm. Beth, seeking God and sharing her faith through every sense, through dance and music and drama and journalism and listening and just being there.
Beth, the photographer who captured the timeless black and white image of my quirky laundry hanging on the line (note to self: hang laundry tonight). A few days ago my current housemate presented me with a wonderful color photo of...my quirky laundry hanging on the line. OK, so I have photogenic underwear. There's something charmingly nostalgic and non-sexy about long johns flapping in the breeze in a disembodied dance.
Beth, one of my dearest and sweetest Christian friends, who is undertaking to become a full-time missionary. Her dream is helping of women and children who have survived sex trafficking--an issue most Americans have their heads in the sand about. I learned a great deal about this issue during my stay at Holy Names House of Peace in Winnipeg when I lived there in 2005.
Beth. Younger than my daughter, a mentor, a minister, a forever friend. A gift from God.
A visit I will cherish in my heart until our paths cross again, in a year or 5.
I gave her a tomato as she left, after a couple too-short hours of singing, piano playing, laughing, story telling, hugs, tears of joy and amazement.
"Here," I said. "You must eat this. Then the calcium in it will be in your bones, and you will carry that little bit of the farm with you whereever you go. And you really must visit at least every seven years, so that there is always the farm in your bones."
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