Listening

Saucon Valley Autumn

This has been a year of changes for me; for the last 10 years, I enjoyed a certain rhythm of activity and contemplation, business and quiet.  My school-year days were spent teaching, interacting, communicating; as a normally introspective person, that level of activity was stressful for me, and the quiet time I enjoyed with the goats after school was a welcome transition to a few hours of quiet time each night, before my husband returned from work.

Things have changed.  Peter's position with a local university was cut due to grant cut-backs, and he's much more present in my life.  I can't think of anyone I'd rather share my life with. However, I'm finding it difficult to adjust to the absolute lack of contemplative time...quiet time with no human distractions.  Even the farm is fraught with activity; people come and go, ask questions, want to learn.  Peter helps me milk now, and the delicate dance of woman and goats has become a tango, complete with dramatic shifts and turns. I still work every day, tutor twice a week, milk the goats, and attend a grad class on Wednesday nights.  My personal time is limited. I try to find time for the people I love.  I hope they'll understand.

Claire

It's a changing lifestyle for me, this new, uninterrupted pace of interaction.  My body is reacting to the change with little anxiety attacks, interrupted sleep, irritable bowel and fibromialgia flare-ups.  And therein lies the title of this blog: Listening.

It's season's end, here in frosty Pennsylvania.  The last garden vegetables have been brought in, and all that remains are the hearty cole-crops and the indigenous herbs.  The latter have been calling to me lately; the lemon balm and mint, the few remaining leaves of the transplanted passion-flower, and the rambunctious parsley.  This morning, anticipating a difficult day (our goats showed signs of pink-eye last night, and today will be spent treating them), I woke in a back-wrenching, twitchy sweat at 4 AM.  The usual remedies (a glass of milk, a chapter of a novel, relocation to the couch) did nothing.  But I kept thinking of those herbs.

Lemon Balm

Two days ago, during my morning prep period, I read a bit about "A Course on Miracles", and since then have tried the first two exercises which allow you to reframe your assumptions.  I don't know if I'll continue the course or not, but I do know that I was more aware of my inner thoughts this morning, as those plant images kept coming to me.  At a certain point, it occurred to me that those very plants had exactly what I needed; they were calming, strengthening, antibacterial.  The infusion I made from the lemon balm, mint and passion flower immediately untied the knot in my back; and the parsley I picked several days ago will be going to the goats this morning.  It's just what they need.

Parsley

So, in my transitioning rhythms, I'm learning something new: in those wee hours of the night, in those fleeting still moments, take the time to listen.  The answers are there.

Mint

Before the Breath

There is a moment...

right between; between...being unborn, and born.  I've experienced it often this year.

There's the reveal; she's ready, showing the signs, doing the little nesting dance, making a circles or meditating.  She hears something no one else can hear.

She begins to talk to her belly.  Little lowing sounds, unlike her normal voice.  Gentle.  Consistent.

She focuses harder, and may cry out.  Or may just put her head down and push.  This can go on for awhile...or not.  Soon, you'll see more water, and more tissue...and...

feet.  Followed by a nose.  If everything is right.  You pray for the nose. Sometimes you have to find it, turn it, set things straight.  Scary times.  You close your eyes, and visualize.  Sometimes you pray.  Sometimes you cry.  Sometimes you laugh. You work hard.

Then things can happen.  They happen fast, or slow, and can be wonderful, or terrible.  If they're normal, they're excruciatingly passionate.  There is a point at which you forget to worry about getting dirty, or putting your hands where they've never been, or doing what needs to be done.  You do it. You help, because it's right.  You put your back into it.  It's why you were there.  And there's a life coming...

So you sometimes pull, and you always get wet, and you wipe away mucous, and you hold that new life in your hands, and in that excruciating moment between being and not being, that moment when you're holding the most perfect, still and silent creature on the earth in your hands, on your lap, you're holding your breath too.  You've done everything you can. You know now's the time...and you swipe with your fingers, and touch your lips to the moist nose, and...blow. 

What was still and perfect, not quite alive, not a living soul, stirs.  An eye opens, a head turns, and you catch your breath too, and your life has changed.  There's another soul in the world, and your breath was the first it felt in its still-wet, brand new lungs.  You wipe it clean, rub it hard, check its sex, and hand it over to its mother to be licked...and loved...and taught to live in the world, taught to take nourishment, taught to be a goat, or a cow, or whatever it was meant to be.  You let go, step back. And it's beautiful. You quiver with the miracle still in your bones, in your tired arms, in your heart.

And for a day, or a night, or a week, you remember what you were witness to; what old voices whispered in your ears.  And the circle is complete until you begin to step away from it...until the next time.

When you'll be there again...and share the magic, the blessing of that moment...that longest second...before the first breath.

Lame

I haven't posted for a day or two because , as my mother (as EVERYONE'S mother) once said: "If you can't say something nice..."; you remember the rest, I'm sure.

I had patellar debridement done on my left knee on Monday.  In plain English, the doctor placed a small instrument behind my kneecap, and smoothed out what he charmingly called "potholes", trimmed away some debris, then drilled some "micro fractures" into the remaining bone to stimulate stem cell production and hopefully promote healthy healing. 

Simply said: OUCH. Monday was a blur.  Yesterday was agony.  Today, I'm beginning to feel more hopeful, having discovered that I can actually put my weight on the offended limb without having it break off.

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I am so blessed to have Peter with me; I have never had such help before.  I've endured a few physical setbacks in my long life, and I can honestly say that with the exception of my mother's help, I've never had such a loving caretaker. 

I cannot imagine having to do this if I was solely responsible for a working farm. In the past, my physical limitations only affected me and my immediate household, and were easier to handle.  Now, with the farm in my heart, it's something altogether different.

As it is, they have a capable young man (Cory) doing the milking at Flint Hill in my absence. Though the goats there aren't my own (except for Faith, who isn't lactating), I do feel a responsibility toward them.  How do farmers do it by themselves?   I'm beginning to better understand the need for large, extended families in agrarian societies, and how those groups of people build community. The goats and cows need to be milked, the chickens fed, the crops watered, whether or not one person can walk that day.  Those critters don't care if Gramma has arthritis.  They're hungry and their teats are full! Buck up! Ask Junior to do it, or do it yourself, gimpy knee or not!

Physical labor, especially labor closely associated with our own personal well-being (aka FOOD), promotes a communal dependency and compassion sorely lacking in the modern world of interpersonal isolation. We can telecommute, take a sick day, get a sub; no one will go hungry or risk mastitis. On a farm, my potential week of lameness might have meant losing the garden, especially during this heatwave, without help.  Without help, the horses would either be left out to fend for themselves, or stand in stalls. I hate to even think what would happen to the lactating animals; I would have had to get out there somehow, most likely to my own detriment. Farmers need family and friends. It's that community, that interdependence that is so lacking in our contemporary lifestyles.

I am not a social person by nature, but I understand the need for compassion and loyalty. Now that I'm on the receiving end, I'm so grateful for it.  How difficult it would be to deal with this alone!  Even something as simple as preparing a meal is impossible right now; thankfully, I was able to plan in advance, and have my loving partner to help me.

I'm humbled by this experience.  When I remarked to Peter how glad I was to have him at home, he said "It's all part of the plan."  What plan, you might ask?  I did.  He smiled rather sheepishly, and said "I needed to be off work to help you.  And here I am."

Life unfurls itself like a banner in the wind.  It's a beautiful thing.

The Laying-On of Chins

My Herd

There are peak moments in our lives when we know that something has profoundly changed; whether it's an understanding, a circumstance, or a glimpse of a larger truth, those moments stand larger than life, and take on a significance that transcends mundane reality.

I know I go on about the goats.  I love them; I'm thrilled to be able to interact with them, and I find them infinitely entertaining.  I've been with them through births and deaths, through cavorting in the grassy fields and huddling in the winter hay.  I know my goats.  Or I thought I did.

Yesterday, they brought me into the herd.  That's right.  THEY did it.

"Are you ready?"

Last year when we bred the does, a handful of them didn't conceive.  Though it was mainly the smaller, younger ones, my Nubian Faith was among them.  This little group watches the milkers come to the stands every day, and waits patiently until the last one is finished for their personal attention.  Yesterday, as I finished for the day, magic happened.  Goat magic.

I finally removed the plastic chain collars from the last two does, and had returned their full, fresh water buckets.  As I was standing among them, they began milling about, coming close and staying.  They were sniffing my legs, nuzzling me; though they do this individually, this was the first time that I was the focus of the small unbred herd.  I bent down so my face would be on level with theirs, and they came in close: sniffing, puffing back, lip-nibbling (no teeth) and looking in my eyes. They were uncharacteristically gentle.  Goats are a boisterous bunch, most days.  This day was different.

 I can't describe the feeling of the moment, except that it was transcendental; time stood  still, and we were one herd, one trusting group.  Faith stood back until the smaller does had welcomed me, tasted me, experienced me...then she stepped in and did the same, though with her it was different.  We had already bonded, Faith and I; she gave me a sniff and a nuzzle to say hello and welcome, then lifted her chin and laid her head on top of mine, holding me still for a moment.  It was a blessing, a goat-sacrament, nothing less.  The laying-on of chins. She was my godmother, my patroness, and I was one of them now. 

I have known these girls for over a year, and though I've tended to their needs and loved them daily, they waited and watched, through each season to claim me.  I'm theirs now.  My herd. Their human.

My "Goat Mother", Faith

Wildcrafting

I have spent every possible moment out in nature lately! I'm not surprised at this impulse; every spring, my heart actually yearns for the outdoors. I spend my free moments researching herbs and nature-related arts and crafts (I'm an artist and teacher as well as a budding (ha!) herbalist). This year, my indoor research topics have been the various plants I have encountered while on my walks, and how to use them.

Jack

Do the rest of you feel the communion with a higher energy that I feel when I'm in a forest? I feel...harmonious. Like I'm a part of everything, and everything is a part of me. I have internal conversations with the plants and the spirit of the place (or is it the place? Perhaps the "Spirit" is a larger energy), and I lose track of time. I'm never bored or lonely; as a matter of fact, I prefer these walks to be solitary, as my mind is so stimulated by everything I'm seeing, and my senses are engaged by the smells, sounds and textures of the living things around me. I almost feel as if I've stepped into a dream.

I imagine that our brain waves change naturally under these circumstances. I wonder if there have been studies done. I'm certain that my body becomes more relaxed in nature. A biofeedback study would be interesting, if only to promote the habit of communion with nature for those who need such proof. I'm content knowing that what I'm doing feels like "coming home".

On Sunday morning, on the way to my mother's home (an hour from my own) my husband and I stopped to do a little wildcrafting. It's full-on spring here in Pennsylvania, and now that kidding is done at the farm and my mother is recovering from her hospitalization, I've been able to take some healing time for myself. I asked him to join me on Saturday, as it's such an important part of my life, and he's my loving partner. I want him to have the joy that I feel, as well.

When I was a child, my father used to take me with him to collect minnows for fishing. He'd hold a big net on two wooden poles downstream from me, then he'd tell me to splash my way downstream toward him. The stream where we did this is fed by a spring, where people have been filling their water bottles for at least 50 years (I remember 45 of them!); the spring first drains into a marsh, and the marsh produces the best watercress I've ever eaten. I don't know why more people don't harvest it, but it's there year after year, and it’s wonderful. I've been there twice before already this spring, so my stop on Sunday was leaning toward the end of the season for the watercress, but stop I did, with peter in tow. He watched from the bank while I negotiated the crossed wood and tussocks that are strategically placed in a hidden, marshy path to the heart of the cress. I have a small gardening shear that I carry, and had two plastic bags that I filled with my bounty; one for us, one for my friend Stephanie, who has offered a trade for some morels today. I love collecting watercress; the peppery smell, the rampant growth, the cool, moist surroundings. I've been coming to this spot since I was on my own, not so long after my minnowing days. I have never been disappointed. Watercress is one of the blessings of spring.

Nearby, I have a favorite spot to collect ramps, a short walk from a country roadside, and a little hop over a sweet, crystal clear stream. Peter joined me there, and we dug two bags of ramps from a large sandbar, barely making a dent in the population. It was a warm, sunny morning, and the moist air had us perspiring despite the early hour. I thank the ramps as I take them, and I feel their willingness to come; whether it's that process or simply more experience, I don't know, but I harvested nearly twice the amount he did, but he enjoyed himself, and was a willing participant. I pointed out the trout lilies and skunk cabbage as we harvested; the poison ivy on the walk back, and the garlic mustard by the car. I showed him the mullein growing by the roadside, and the lamb's quarters alongside it. Just steps away, we found wild mustard and plantain; curly dock and burdock. What a wonderful place.

I breathe easier in nature. I find peace and spirituality there. As we were enjoying our morning in the sun, by the dancing stream and the dozing trees, my heart was lifted in something akin to prayer, and I felt, as always in nature, that I was exactly where I needed to be. My sanctuary, my sacred place. We are blessed.


Later, Peter described the experience to my mother, who just nodded her head. "She always did that", she said. It's true; but now, I'm learning more. What was always a part of me is becoming a studied path. I feel like I'm coming home.

On Balance

My friend Ron said it beautifully: "Some things of beauty just have to have that dark side associated with their natural condition. I suppose nature has the yin yan too!" We are nature. And, as beautiful as she is, she can be lethal. (Winter Aconite, below)

The beautiful Angels' Trumpet is poisonous. And exquisite. So is Datura. O'Keefe painted Angel's Trumpet. She saw the beauty; she also saw the beauty of bones and skyscapes. Certain beauties are both breathtakingly exquisite and literally breath-taking.

So here's my observation; it's obvious. Life is precious. Life is tenuous. For each perfect kid we rub dry and lead to the teat, there is the potential balance of loss; the stillborn kid, the badly positioned birth. As I've rubbed the living babies to vibrant health, I've wrapped a few still, never breathing infants in their soft-cloth shrouds. And sent them back to the cycle of nature with a prayer. I'm glad this doesn't happen often, but it does happen.

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It's the potential for death that makes this life so bittersweet. A human baby is borne to an online friend; my neighbor's elderly mother is dying. I carried a still-wet goat-kid's body away yesterday, then returned to guide his newborn brother's mouth to their mother's udder. Sometimes it's too painful to bear; and sometimes it's bliss. I only know that we're all a part of it, and that life in its infinite wisdom, has a way of going on. Welcome, Vernal Equinox, with your symbolic dichotomy. Welcome, Spring.

Considering Personal Balance

"To see the world in a grain of sand

And heaven in a wildflower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in one hour."

(William Blake, "Auguries of Innocence")

*Note: I'm writing a great deal for my herbalist course. This is a highly distilled version of my thoughts today.

PASA Pictures

I attended this year's PASA (Penna. Association for Sustainable Agriculture) conference last weekend. In the blizzard. On a whim. I'm SOOOOOO glad I did. What I found there was profound; in the midst of the season's first actual blizzard, alone, I found something wonderful. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE! Peter once said that, when we were walking the street of New York, and I understood. He felt at home there, like things made sense. I felt that way at PASA. The unselfconscious women, the long hair, the plain clothes, the bearded men: there were MY people. Funny it should happen in State College, PA, but there it was. A little piece of my soul.

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I had to take one of my previously planned vacation days to get there before the snow. I'm glad I did; though I managed to get there before the afternoon lectures on Friday, by the time I was ready to return that evening (my motel was a few miles away) the roads were too snowy to navigate in my light truck, so I had to take a cab. But I digress.

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The first lecture I attended was by the author and keynote speaker Lisa M. Hamilton. Her stories of farmers that buck the system, that transcend the agribusiness machine and maintain their connection to the earth on an intimate level were wonderful. She read excerpts from her book, "Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness" which I'm currently reading and enjoying, and explained the relationships she had made and the insights she had gathered. Her experiences further validated my own; the farm I've been working with and the people I have met have become that much more noble in my mind since hearing her stories. Here she is:

There were so many wonderful presentations. I bought audio Cd's of those that I was unable to attend, so I could still learn what they had to teach me. It was a wonderful conference. It was so fulfilling, and even though I live in a small city and have limited land, my experiences at Flint Hill Farm, my urban gardening and my past experiences were all enriched by what I learned there. Below you see the silent auction and raffle. I was amazed by the variety and quality of the artisanal products offered by the farmers in Pennsylvania. We are a very fortunate and fecund state.

I bought some hand-painted, hand spun wool, and some multi-colored roving to make a scarf on Friday. On Saturday, after digging out my truck in street shoes, I returned and bought a pair of hand knitted socks. I spent the rest of the weekend in those socks. I wasn't the only member who walked the halls on the Penn Stater in my stocking feet that weekend. My people...

The other keynote speaker, Michael Reynolds, was wonderful. He was brilliant, real, thoughtful, fun. He was someone I'd like to spend time with. He is an architect who has a vision; he uses the materials available to him in a manner that makes them most useful to the final inhabitants of the homes he builds. His sustainable houses are the solution to the world's problems of both energy consumption and material conservation. I bought a copy of his movie "Garbage Warrior", which I first viewed on Friday night at the conference, in a snowstorm. He was there that night. I was too smitten to speak to him. ("I'm not worthy..."). I love old hippies.

Here's what I woke up to the following morning. Long story/short: I made use of the city's taxis. I shared one with a couple from Bermuda who had come in just for the conference. I met a former Penn State alum who was driving in his retirement. I met a mom who was supporting her family. I met a nice neo-hippie guy who knew about PASA through his girlfriend. And one guy didn't talk much, but that's OK. He got me back alive. Those roads were a mess! We got 18 inches of snow that weekend. I was really happy to have my 62 degree, no frills motel room (knowing Earl has made me appreciate shelter, no matter how humble). That coffee pot was my best friend (along with my new socks and my wool blanket from home!) (More stories of the presentations to follow).

The moral of this story is this: follow your heart. I found a little bit of my lost self at PASA. It's easy to push back those parts of your soul that are inconvenient when you're raising children and paying bills, but they won't go away. And when they whisper to you, you need to listen. I listened. And I found them despite the snow last weekend. It was a good experience. I'll go again. I'll keep listening.

Hello, (Wolf) Moon

What an awesome full moon! I noticed it on my way home from the farm this evening though I couldn't stop in the traffic for a photograph, so this shot is later from the deck. It's overcast now. It wasn't earlier, and I could barely believe how beautiful she was! Here's an interesting description of the whys and wherefores of the beautiful Wolf Moon.

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In the meantime, I want to comment on serendipity, nostalgia, regret and faith. They don't seem to be related, do they? But they are. I read a quote by Elisabeth Kubler Ross somewhere today, stating her belief that "there are no coincidences". I agree with her, but then I always have. You just have to accept the messages that are placed before you, if you can.

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In the past year, I've been revisited by so many old friends, or messages from old friends, from across the decades. One way or another, via Facebook, email, Classmates.com, sheer coincidence or decades-late third-party communication, I'm suddenly reconnecting with those people that formed my reality. It's shocking, painful, and wonderful. So here's the dilemma: I'm facing an existential crisis. What I believed to be truth was actually my ill-informed, one-sided interpretation of truth. In the real world, how many wars were fought because of this type of miscommunication? How many lives lost? How many loves? Can we ever really know what's true, at the moment the truth that forms our reality occurs? There are so many sides to any given story. People withhold and manipulate the truth for their own (misguided) reasons, which shapes our subjective, individual "realities". Sometimes, they think they're doing what's right; sometimes, not.

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In my life, time has passed, and life has evolved. And here's where I find solace: those things that were devastating and painful have resulted in growth and strength. They've given me my family, my present life, my mindset. What I do regret is my ignorance, and the pain it may have caused others. I will make that right, if I can; but can we ever really know what's true? What's true to everyone...those left behind, those that are present, and ourselves? Life is dynamic; only small parts of our souls get stuck, and those are the parts that we revisit. The parts we need to heal. If only we could know each others' hearts. And cause no harm.

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I've been trying to live in the moment, to savor my experiences as they occur. I've been trying to accept the unraveling of time and the progression of events, and believe that there is direction to them. And you know, I do believe that. Time is so precious. I want to fix those things that have been broken...through life circumstances, through misunderstanding, through inadequacy. I forgive those that hurt me. I do. And I apologize to those that I may have hurt. It was never intentional; we look back, and see through different eyes. If I find you, I'll tell you myself. Don't get stuck there. Fill up on the positive. Move forward.

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In this last year, I've met new people who live on faith. All different forms of faith. One family has a traditional monotheistic faith. They lost everything they own, and give thanks for their lives. They're happy; they move on. Another friend lives on hope and dreams. She asks her higher power for help and accepts the answers she gets, then moves forward, whether they're the answers she expected or not. She lives in service to others. The third friend doesn't speak of any religion or system of faith, but lives without desire or possessions, and serves as a lesson to others through his simplicity. These are the serendipitous friends that have come into my life this year, in the year I've also reconnected with so many older acquaintances; so many old memories.

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There are no coincidences. We're here to learn.

Lives of Quiet Desperation

Chickens Roasting at Goschenhoppen

Last Summer

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What do we really need? As I'm watching TV tonight with our friend Earl, I'm struck by the dichotomy of our worlds. Earl lives with very little by his own choice, but this morning he asked to come in for the weekend because of the impending blizzard. You can read about him HERE. On Saturdays, I visit Earl with soup and a sandwich. This morning, as I was handing him his breakfast, he said "Maybe I'll come in for the weekend. It's up to you.", and I was happy he did, because this snowstorm is supposed to be a whopper. Peter and Earl have been watching old movies all day, and I've been feeding them warm soup and muffins and coffee. But that's not what I've been thinking about.

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I'm watching TV as I make my weekly soup in the kitchen today. While I stand at the stove, I'm seeing ads about fashion and decorating, the perfect way to fillet a shrimp for that extra-fabulous appetizer, the latest exercise programs being touted by an amazingly well-preserved 45 year old Christie Brinkley, fiction about vampires and princes, and the repetitive dire weather warnings that precede a blizzard. I'm hearing about automobile accidents and car insurance, the stock market and Tiger Wood's conquests and shame. And I'm watching an elderly man who has lived outdoors for 25 years kiss my cat and laugh at the joke he just told my husband. He's watching two men fence in an old movie called "Scaramouche"; he told me he likes James Bond and cowboy movies. What does it mean to him? What do we really need?

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We need food, certainly. We need to be able to protect our bodies so they don't freeze or become diseased. We need companionship, whether from people or animals; sometimes we need more, sometimes less. We need wonderment; whether the fascination of the intricacies of a snowflake or the plot of a good book or movie. And we need peace in our souls; whether from the simplicity of our natures, from finding our centers, or from faith. I think that peace is the most important thing of all. With it, we can put away the desires that are filling the pathogenic void that many of us feel. How often have you felt uneasy, then decided to redecorate, or buy new shoes, or travel to the Bahamas? Did the unrest go away when the object of your desire was obtained, or did it just change its face? Maybe you had a drink to quiet it. Or maybe you cleaned your house, or jogged a mile or two to dispel the energy. Maybe you picked a fight with someone you live with. Maybe you had an affair. If you felt comfortable in your own skin, at peace in your soul, I believe those energies and desires might not be so intense. What do we really need?

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I'm not suggesting that we all take up a nomadic life like Earl did, or take vows of poverty. I think that the key to finding that quiet place inside is to live honestly, a difficult task in the world we live in. We all live lives of compromise for so many reasons; political correctness, professional obligation, social or religious expectations. Some of us were brought up to be selfless; some of us were brought up to be social climbers. Most of us, in one way or another, chafe at the confines of our civilized lives when confronted with situations that are in conflict with our true selves. What to do? Thoreau said that "Most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." I think the answer is this: Let your soul sing it's own peculiar song, if just a little; then let it sing more loudly when it can, whether that happens on the weekends or the evenings, during your retirement or (if you're lucky) every day. Because living an inauthentic life is the worst kind of hell there is. We all know that our time is precious. Ask yourself: What do I REALLY need? I'm certainly thinking about that tonight.

Memories...All Alone in the Moonlight...

There has been a definite theme to my experiences this year; it's nostalgia...old friends. And you know, I've heard the same from other individuals in that group (not just referring to their relationships with me). We are searching out (or being searched out by) people with whom we shared significant memories, or repeats of the experiences themselves. What I want to know is...why?

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As a 52 year old woman, I believe that most of my emotional angst is behind me. I am in a stable, happy relationship, am independent, am well established in my profession, and have grown a healthy adult daughter who has a family of her own. Things are pretty calm right now (knock on wood). There are the usual problems; we have financial struggles, illnesses in the family to deal with, young grandchildren and aging parents, and all of the logistic problems of a family spread to the winds; but in terms of my day-to day life, it's probably the most stable time I have ever actually experienced. So why the nostalgia? Is it because I'mfinally stable enough to look back, or be looked back at? I don't think so, but I may be too close to it to see the reality of the matter. I feel like it's something outside of me...something that I am being drawn into.

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Tom said it best. He said that this last year, for him, was all about reconnecting. Not just with his living friends, but with friends and lovers who are gone. For him, it was so real that he nearly expected to see them; the veil between this world and the next had thinned for him, at least when we spoke of it a few weeks ago. The only time I expect to see my friends who have passed is in my dreams, where they carry on as if nothing has changed; maybe it hasn't, in some dimension untouched by time and our mortality. In my dreams, we still boat and fish, and cuddle under warm blankets. Is it real? We won't know until we...know.

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My other experiences, here in the mortal world, have more to do with people who are seeking me out and chance meetings. In the past two years I have been reclaimed by several old, old friends...elementary school friends. Friends I used to go to "sleep-overs" and first dances with. I have been contacted by students from the first few years of my teaching career, now 22 years past. I have observed (from a discreet distance) one of my first true loves, now into his retirement years, looking like his father, demonstrating the traditional craft he and I learned together as teenagers. Though I had to look deep into his face to find him, I could see it was him by the curve of his forearm; I know his bones. I have begun to remember phone numbers, addresses and other trivia from my single-digit years, when I can barely remember the ones I have stored in my cell-phone now. I have been dreaming of my childhood as I approach my later middle life.

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I want to know why. Is it a natural process we go through as we age, or is it something more? Is there a new paradigm? A change in reality that is about to occur? Friends involved in most religions seem to think a change is coming; some call it "End Times"; some call it a "New Millennium". World affairs remain ominous. The Mayan calendar is rolling quickly to its end in 2012. Nostradamus predicts dire consequences for our actions...and I sit back and watch it all, and wonder what on earth (or otherwise) is going on. While the world is apparently going to hell in a hand basket around me, and everyone is searching for the happy memories to hold on to, I'm living my naive life. Day to day. I'm content, amidst this desperation and memory mining, and I'm confused about the newly emerging pattern. I'm not ecstatic, I'm not anguished, I'm not desperate or rapturous...I'm just content, and it's all I ever wanted to be...(desperately, rapturously, when I wasn't). I don't understand. I welcome the renewed friendships...but I don't understand why, NOW.

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I do admit to vast expanses of lost memories. I have led a tumultuous, dynamic life, and in the manner of people who have had emotional trauma, I have forgotten much. Sometimes this bothers me; more often, it doesn't, because I don't want to relive the pain associated with those experiences. I wonder if this personal history of mine has distanced me from the nostalgia others seem to be searching for right now; I don't know. Again, I don't understand.

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Are you feeling nostalgic lately...in a BIG way? Do you have any idea why? Do you think it's the zeitgeist? Or is it just that my peer group is aging, and I'm still misanthropic? Help a buddy out, here. I need some answers.

Welcome November

November 1st, a Beautiful Sunday.

Peter treated me to a class at My Father's Beads, a little shop in Coopersburg. A small but MIGHTY little shop.

Meet Susan Newquist, a horsehair and porcupine quill artist, who taught me to do a 4 strand braid today.

Susan creates custom work, and is very willing to work with her clients.

(Her work, below) This is my rendition of her 4 strand braid, using Flint Hill's horsehair. Who knew there was such a variety of thicknesses and textures in horsehair? Those drafts have big, strong hair, too.

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My neighbor and good friend Pam accompanied me to the farm after my class, where her beloved cat Patches will be living now. It was a hard decision for her to make, but we know he'll be happy there, with no threat of nasty neighbors, brand new cat friends and acres of mice to hunt. Cat heaven. So many changes; life marches along.

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It occurs to me that one of the few things that remains constant is our love for each other (and our pets). We come and go, but the memory of those emotions is as real in memory as it was in the moment. Loved ones gone remain beloved.

Today and tomorrow, All Saints and All Souls days, the Days of the Dead...let's celebrate our love for those that are gone from us, in one way or another.

Love survives.

Hope

There's a rainbow over Coopersburg tonight.

Cool Weather Changes

A Warm, Fuzzy Nose

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Do you feel it coming? There was a strong wind tonight, and I swear winter was riding on its coat-tails. Change is in the air, and it's as palpable as the changing angle of the afternoon light. I feel it in my choices: I want potatoes instead of salad. I want soup and bread. I want to work with wool, and roving. I'm gathering my herbs and trimming my tender plants to bring in for winter.

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The goats feel it, too. They have been ravenous lately. And they have been aggressive with each other, which makes me think they're coming into season. They call for the bucks, and considering the near rape that occurred when we brought the buckling kid to them a few days ago, I'd say the bucks are ready, too. It's in the air; get ready for the long haul. Fatten up. Nest. We all want to.

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Do you think our holidays are instinctual? Thanksgiving, to fatten up before the cold of winter, Christmas to give us hope from the depths of icy despair? There have always been celebrations that mark the seasons, and whether you want to admit it or not, we are creatures of this earth, just like any other. The historical dates of religious holidays have been changed to accommodate these needs...you can research it, if you like, and I'm not denigrating the significance of the events we observe...but the seasons are significant as well. We feel them in our bones. Just like the goats...and the crows...it's time to fatten up, and look to home. And have faith that spring will come again.

Saving Seeds

Labor Day! Peter went to work anyway, and I've been granted a day at home with absolutely no obligations (except to myself!), as the boys decided to stay with my son-in-law rather than drive all the way down to Grammy's house in Allentown. Who could blame them? Daddy lives in the country. I'd stay there too. This leaves me alone but not lonely, excused from both school and grandsons, and fancy-free! Though it's Monday, I finished the weekly soup today; there is enough for everyone. And, as I was trying to locate counter space in my cluttered kitchen, I found the seeds I started collecting this summer.

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Saving seeds makes me dream of spring; those first sweet breezes, the warmer sun, the relief from ice and snow, and the first bowed, green, infant cotyledons pushing themselves free of the womb of the earth. I see the new year; the winter ahead will be filled with different memories, growing the garden of family and school, and when the time is right, we'll move outdoors again.

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I saw a vanity plate today that simply said "DEMETER". I took it as a sign that fall was coming, poor Persephone in peril of her time underground. As a mother, grandmother, and teacher, I think the message of Demeter is closer to me that that of Persephone, though they're both timely. I dream fitfully in the fall, in the transition of the seasons. It's a transformative time. I don't quite understand my restlessness, apart from the usual school anxiety. The approaching months are always intense, and have been since I can remember. Perhaps it's a genetic memory of impending winter trials; or a pre-birth memory of last-months crowding and discomfort. It may be a sense of turning seasons, of saying good-bye; I don't know. The myths are interesting in their archetypal truth; they continue to resonate with me, even as I age and learn.

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The seeds are saved, the waning garden tended, and I'm filling my freezer for winter. Though my garden was disappointing after the first flush, the farmers' markets are blooming now. Harvest approaches.

Of Cabbages and Kings

I just stopped following a blog because of a sentence that bothered me: "New Age, Buddhist or other Cult philosophies will *NOT* be welcome here."

When did Buddhism (which began in 580 BCE!) become a cult? And why are some people so intolerant of others? How can we be so culturally ignorant? As an artist, teacher and lover of diversity in all things, I truly have problems with this sort of thinking. While it may be prudent to warn off the poor Buddhists and New-Agey spiritual seekers from potential shunning and dogmatic aggression, I find it difficult to understand the real reasons behind such divisiveness.

But I digress. Please forgive my rant; today's post was just supposed to be about composting, little boys and the wheel of life, not exclusionism and cultural ignorance. My bad.

http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/walrus.html

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On a lighter note, I'm happy to report that my grandsons, who I assumed would be new to the magic of composting, are way ahead of me. I handed the 10 year old the trowel, and opened the bottom chute, and his comment was "Yup, it turns into dirt. Hey, you have worms!" Then, pointing to the planter beside it: "May I eat that tomato?" My daughter is doing a good job with them. The little guy just carried the soup jars to the truck so we could go see Miss Vicky at The Caring Place. He likes Miss Vicky. They met Earl today, too. They were very curious about his life, and very grateful for their own lives and circumstances when we returned home. Good boys.

P.S.: Check out the following blog (Frugal and Urban's timely post today!) for some helpful meditation techniques based upon Buddhist principles: http://frugalurban.wordpress.com/2009/08/11/taking-refuge-in-the-moment/

There's Nothing More Beautiful Than a Garden

Tomatoes, first: plums, heirloom plums, a yellow pear (hidden), cherries and a few volunteer strays; rhubarb, parsley, dill and dill seed, rosemary, basil (both English and Thai), green beans, spearmint tea, chocolate mint tea, lemon balm, peppermint, oregano. Left for another day...the greens, more herbs, more and more. So much my neighbors are feasting too. So much.

I find God/ Goddess/ Powers-That-Be in my garden. In any garden. Growing, giving, nurturing, natural. My days see the divine in the eyes and udders of the goats, the growth of the vegetables, the harsh reality of animal and human birth and death, and the breathtaking beauty of nature. We're all breathing, together. Life's good.