Wicked Rural Homestead
Live Simply
Canine Catch-up
The day started like any other. Ryan called me on his way into work and while we were chatting he said “ohh doberman puppies.”
A random statement even for our morning commute conversations.
“What now?”
“A sign, on the side of the road, it says ‘doberman puppies'”
“I’ve always like dobies, my aunt had one and always claimed it was the best dog she ever had.”
“Well, if I’m late coming home you know what happened.”
I laughed and told him to have a good day at work. Around 6pm, almost two hours after he called saying he was headed home I started to think, “holy shit, we might be actually getting a puppy.”
As usual, I was wrong.
A little after 7pm he pulled into the driveway and got out of the car with one jet black puppy under each arm, which if you do the math, is two dogs. Two of the cutest sweetest puppies I’ve seen in a while. Koa was over the moon with the little critters. His 80lbs of lab twisted and wiggled, sniffing and smelling every inch of the tight knot of sleek black fur. This brother and sister duo would become Kailani and NaPali in honor of Ryan’s years on Kauai.
Read MoreEverything is different now
Ever since Sara died, my mom and I have been overusing the phrase “it’s all working out so well.” This incantation is said with varying degrees of sarcasm and sincerity. Finding something in Sara’s belongings that we thought was lost, but that she had ‘appropriated’ – “it’s all working out so well?”
An unexpected life insurance policy through the teacher’s union to offset the debts of her estate- “that worked out well!” The mixed bag of grief and its resulting realities and situations can be lamented, embraced or rejected. Each instance is as different as the snowflakes currently falling out the windows of Mom’s new apartment.
Read MoreImpermanent Beauty
As I look out our new kitchen window a muted pop interrupts my day dream of future gardens. I don’t have to look down to know that I should have been more attuned to the task in my hands. I sigh, and see I have indeed broken the pysanky egg I had been working on for half the day. Motifs of wheat, intricate borders and symbols of the sun interrupted by a fissure that circumnavigates this little talisman, bright sunny yoke spill out in all directions filling the cup below. The cup receives this bounty with equanimity, it has no care how the internal contents come to it.
Maybe I added the air too quickly in my bid to rid the little cell of its perishable innards as I planned new beds and counted seeds in my head. Perhaps I left it a minute too long in the vinegar that last dunk, exacerbating a previous flaw in the shell. For every colorful, tediously decorated orb I produce each year, at least as many go the way of this one.
A failed attempt at art, but a successful demonstration of life.
Read MoreThe Pivot and the Pirouette
As the years go on it is hard to articulate the way my grief has changed. When I compare my feelings to the words of others, nothing fits. It seems apt for this time of year that those words feel like tight pants after holiday meals. The holidays in general are a slippery slope for those remembering loved ones gone on. Now, with Grandma’s death-a-versery the a little before Thanksgiving and Dad having died on Black Friday, that time of year is as much celebration as reminder that our harvest table has empty chairs around the feast. I can say that overall, I am happy. I don’t live in the empty spaces left by their passing.Visits to and from the land of grief are frequent, but less often unbidden. Some days tears come with the dawn and others I can’t find them; even when I’m looking for something else and find dad and Sara’s now defunct stockings, left in the Christmas bin with the other unused items for the year. I have learned to accept both without any hesitation or judgment for how I should or should not feel. If shared with anyone out loud that moment of the found stockings would bring a flood of tears but, alone with them in the basement it was ok.
Sad, but ok.
Read MoreSara Quiz…
At Sara’s Day we made everyone take a quiz on basic Sara knowledge. We might be grieving, but haven’t lost our sense of humor.
Read MoreSara’s Day- The Book
At some point I will post my reflections and pictures from the day, for now here is the printed eulogies that were given to those who could make it. It was an amazing day!
Shit Sandwich Part 3-The Spicy Pepper Anger Sauce
Some people skip this ingredient on their grief sandwich. Many folks only have a couple angry spaces they have to pass through in their mourning, and some of us get extra. This ire can be directed at the universe, oneself (with regret and remorse for things done, or left undone), or (in my case) the deceased.
When someone’s death is a direct result of their action, earth swallowing rage is hard to avoid. When someone dies in a completely preventable, foolish manner that anger is multiplied, but must be dealt with all the same. My dear sister decided (sober) that since she was locked out of her room, the obvious plan of action is to free climb between stone balconies over 30 feet in the air. It had been raining all that day and the easy looking free climb for an experienced, lifelong climber was too slick.
She could have woken someone up to get a spare key, slept in the common areas or bunked with someone else, but no, scaling a mountain side hotel in the fucking middle of the night is the only reasonable thing to do. When I was first told what happened, there was not a single cell in my body that thought this choice was odd or out of character. There was not a second when I entertained an alternate scenario. It was simply something she would do, an activity in a category of activities mom and I were sure would eventually lead to her death.
Read MoreShit Sandwich Part Two- The Meat.
Let’s talk about death, shall we?
Hey wait, where are you going?
Why does everybody do that?!
In this sandwich metaphor I’m embracing, it should be no surprise that the meat of this process is the grieving, and that meat is raw. Honest discourse about the realities experienced by those separated in death are rare to encounter in modern culture. Most of the popular notions about grief seem to be for those adjacent to death. A peripheral population of people who have yet to move through a loss that disrupts their daily life. This tool box is full of platitudes and euphemisms, words and practices that seem like they should be useful, but up close and personal they are often a metric wrench set for a standard nut. Sure, sometimes they work, but it often feels more like a coincidence than a dependable device or service. I have my theories about this, but they can wait.
For starters, there is no expression for a person who has lost a child or sibling. I find it woefully inadequate that we only have a word for someone who has lost a spouse, a title that tells people with a single word what you have been through. That label and its implications come with as much good as bad, yet- there is language for it. An acknowledgement that in many ways, this will be an enduring characteristic of one’s life from now on. The closest I came to an accurate description of my current status was “bereaved” which I find lacking, mostly because it seems to denote a period in time rather than a life long descriptor.
Read MoreEverywhere I look, there she is.
Since she was born, it’s always been this way. During our childhood everywhere I looked in our small house there was a reminder of my sister. As we grew, the physical there-ness of her was inescapable. We shared a bed for many, many years and a room till our teens. We had more belongings that were jointly owned than separate sets of things, and it was joyous. I always had a buddy, a partner and a mate. Even though she was three years younger than me, It wasn’t till she left for college that we stopped cohabitation. For 18 years, I was immersed in her being.
Read MoreHow do you write the obituary for the one who writes the obituaries?
She was born Sara Caitlen Gobets in Santa Cruz, Ca, July 23 1986. She died “Gobbi,” in Sabana de la Mar, Dominican Republic, July 25, 2022 from a fatal accident while working as a counselor for an adventure guide company.
She left behind friends and family all over the world. This is not an exaggeration or hyperbole, in her short time on this earth she traveled around the world many times. As a youth, she toured the USA in the years before her passport would be filled with stamps from remote locations and countless adventures.
Read MoreShit sandwich part one- the bread
I was folding towels, of all things, when my phone went off across the room. Expecting nothing pressing, I kept folding towels. It went off again, beeping that a voice message had been left. I kept folding. Then it buzzed some more, with another call. As if my phone had decided to become a square flightless bee of some sort, strange. I crossed the room and looked, it was a Dominican number, but not one of the ones my sister had used before to call me.
Picked it up, and it broke my life.
There had been an accident, a fatal one. My sister Sara, was dead. It was two days after her 36th birthday. “Do you want us to call your mom?” Said the sad anonymous voice on the other side.
“No.” I squeeked, “I’ll do that.”
It would appear that the worst phone call I ever received would be quickly followed by the worst one I had ever had to make. There we were; both faces in a small box, keening and sobbing in turn, on opposite sides of the country, now the only survivors of a once four sided family unit.
I floated the idea that we really didn’t have to tell anyone else, this sorrow could end with us. We could tell the rest of the world that she decided to move to a tiny tropical island, and devote herself to the study of some new creature. The illusive Sara bird perhaps. We could say that this particular island was so remote there were no communications and dedication to her work would mean she had to live there year round, you know, “for science.” An old joke among Team Squeam members to justify any ridiculous plan of action, these things were always done in the name of “science”.
Read More“Into the woods I go, to lose my mind and find my soul”- JM
Reflecting at the lake always gives pause to my bounty of existential distress. In order to be still and alone, I walked away from the cacophony of the lakegoers, along a path that is barely there, praying for perspective.
Pysanky 2022
I often refer to this season as the ‘dregs of winter’, when snow still covers the earth and spring seems like a dream. Since 2014 I have been crafting Pysanka eggs around March when the hens increased laying reminds me that spring is inevitable.
I came to this practice without any link to Ukrainian heritage, only a deep desire to learn more about such a sacred craft. Now, almost a decade later, it has become much more than a way to celebrate the lengthening days. As I apply hot wax to shell, I pray for peace not just for Ukraine, but the world.
This time around I’m not sure if it feels more like synchronicity, tragedy, or irony that this practice and the unprovoked attack on Ukraine coincide. It feels frivolous and callow to be decorating eggs in this ancient way while so many suffer.
I almost didn’t bring out my supplies this year out of grief. My heart bleeds for people I will never meet, but as I cleaned my tools I could feel a connection with hope and love. Daring to dream of summer days during cold dark nights; and peace during war. Traditional Pysanka eggs were not hollowed out, but left whole and intact, to be placed on the land as offerings and protective agents for the crop, livestock, bees and people. Though it is a craft of the ancient times, due to the nature of the object there are no examples left of truly old Pysanka.
Read MoreWhen Not Sharing, is Caring for Yourself.
The pitter patter of cats playing brings me back from waking dreams to the present moment, and this attempt at writing, before distracting me again. Waves of feline driven attention lapping consciousness’s shore. This pleasant early morning dance between grounding myself in the now, and communicating with others in the ether, accurately depicts my last couple years. My motivation to write, share, or participate in any community larger than my family has been at an ebb tide.
While trying to figure out a revenue stream as a stay at home mom, I thought I would get good at ‘the gram’. I posted consistently and at the right times of day, followed other like minded profiles, made sure to share stories of my posts, I honed my ‘brand’, got to know my ‘audience’ and made sure to engage them daily. It worked, my likes and followers grew, but I was left feeling more and more hollow.
I learned the kind of daily effort involved in growing my online presence and after about a month, I was over it. Sure, I got results and attention, but for me the cost was too high. I have never cared too much about the opinion of others, so to constantly sell myself to strangers is foreign to me. The things I create speak for themselves; even if it is a whisper no one will ever hear, and that’s fine. I feel bad (not in a ‘I’m so superior’ way, but honestly and empathetically) for those whose livelihood is tied to these online Wendigo entities, and their constantly shifting rules and algorithms. I have seen many of my friends’ small businesses suffer with the change of an algorithm. Overnight, the stable foundation for their business platform they were promised, becomes endlessly shifting quick sand. A carrot always out of reach.
Read MoreFire
Before my dad passed, he published a book. It was meant to be the first in a series of outdoor/camping books, but he never got to the rest of them. It was called How to Build a Campfire with One Match. Growing up, we heated our house under the redwoods with wood, much like our little house here.
Our Fluffy Angel
This November, I woke up early to try and get some holiday tasks done, but it was not what my day would bring. Instead, I realized I needed to get Isis to a vet, never thinking she wouldn’t be coming back home.
She had been noticeably ‘off’ during the weekend. Sunday, it was undeniable that something was wrong. We assumed she had eaten something from the compost and that it would pass, sadly this was not the case. I dropped her off (COVID protocol meant I couldn’t go in with her), still expecting the worst case would be a huge vet bill (I was not wrong about that, it boggles my mind how quickly these things add up). Her blood work came back in the afternoon, showing a bilirubin level of 40; 1 is normal, 15 is very sick. An ultrasound revealed a large stone blocking her gallbladder duct. The vet said that the surgery would be over $10K and aftercare more still. Even in a very young dog the prognosis would not be great, for a 9 year old dog there was really only one thing to do.
Read MoreThe Sweetness of the Long Night.
Hidden inside lush darkness live things too precious for the harsh light.
This is our time to rejoice in the slack tide of the year wheel’s revolution.
Our future possibilities growing unseen, cradled in the Abyss
Like seeds encased in frozen earth, safe, dreaming of the sun in their dark womb, we wait.
Perennial Heaven
I remember planing our first garden at this house, I was looking at a pack of asparagus seed and reading the fine print saw that it would take a whole year to get actual asparagus. “Who needs that?!” I thought. I was blinded by the quick turn around of annuals, but things have changed. I have come to appreciate the patient nature of a perennial plants and truly love the fact that they come back year after year, timing their emergence with the receding snow without me having to do anything.
After I had our daughter and began life as a stay at home mom, I had time to expand the perennial beds around the house. I bought a few different types of lilies to add to the ones already here. Many of the lilies that came with the house started to divide and I begun rearranging and relocating. My favorite, is what I believe to be a High Tea lily tree, they are about 10 feet tall with abundant fragrant flowers that I look forward to every July.
Nature’s composition is Flawless
This summer we’ve spent a lot of time in the woods. Every mushroom our daughter sees, she tells me to “take a picture” so I do. The abundant rain this year has made so many little mushroom scenes its hard to get through the woods without stopping every few feet. What a change from last year!
Read MoreMama Baba Yaga
What grows within that fence of bones? Motherwort, with its thorny flowers towering above Jack-in-the-pulpit’s striped hood. Perhaps she has Poison ivy in the window box and thistle lining the walk. I imagine her garden full of plants that enforce their sovereignty, without fail. Like Baba herself.
Read MoreThe Little Girl and the Flag
Squinting into the sun, I could not see what was right in front of me.
The boys bounding over rocks, leaping casums and laughing at the day.
Their little sister, trying to keep up, but trailing far away.
Read MoreHindsight is 2020
This summer will be 9 years since we bought this property. We, the world, and this little bit of land have changed a lot since then. When we bought this little house it sat in a sea of perfect lawn, it was the quintessential little Maine ‘camp’.
I was cleaning out our secretary recently, and I came upon the original MLS listing sheet for the property. The description reads “NOTHING TO DO BUT sit back and this sunny home…” (caps are not mine) We interpreted that as a challenge, and haven’t stopped ‘doing’ things since. In most cases, what we have done is the opposite of the New England esthetic in our quest to turn a lake house into a homestead. In keeping with some East Coast traditions, we started by making a rock circle in the backyard. Where we were married that fall.
Read MoreUsnea! “gazuntite”
I have always found lichens fascinating. From the start, nothing is what it appears. They grow in a myriad of different structures and forms, all over the world. Lichens are not plants, instead it is a symbiotic relationship between alga and fungi. The fungi offers the structure of the lichen and the algae photosynthesizes the sun to provide food.
Here in Maine, they are some of the only green things to wildcraft during the winter. Lichens should not be gathered off of trees, I like to go around after storms and gather from downed branches or just wait for them to blow along my path like tiny eastern tumbleweeds. Most lichens are incredibly slow growing, so it is important to harvest respectfully.
Lichens have many uses, and ID can be difficult since there are so many variations. Some are powerful medicine, others can be used as dyes and they are all beautiful. There are a few that are poisonous, including Letharia Vulpina or wolf lichen. Bright, almost neon green, it can be used as a dye and was once used to poison wolves. One of the most widespread and medicinal lichens is Usnea, sometimes called Old Man’s Beard. Usnea comes in many different lengths, colors and formations, but there are a few things that are very specific to Usnea that I use when identifying it.
Read More
Stalking Plants
I have been tracking elder plants in my area over the last few years. A lot of the time I visit them, just to say “hi”, and I would be lying if I said that this behavior was pandemic related. It’s been like this for a while now. Out of the dozens of patches and plants I watch, only a handful of them will be harvested. Last year was a sad one on the elder front, we had a drought in Maine and New Hampshire and these water loving plants suffered mightily.
Adding to the problems faced by these amazing beings, is that they are slow growing and incredibly fragile. The woody structures are hollow and snap like dry twigs even during the high season when they are full of life. I bet in southern parts of the country they grown much quicker, but harsh New England winters make that difficult. They love having “wet feet” and this affinity for water means they often grow on the side of the road in runoff ditches and are subject to mowing in the summer and plow damage in the winter. Even a head high bush can be mowed to the ground with ease. Every August I find myself mourning my friends, destroyed and torn asunder along with the grasses and brush. Erasing years of hard earned growth in seconds.
In a natural situation this breakage is a means of propagation but it seems that when assisted by man this possibility fades. When they are mowed the branches are chipped and damaged too much to come back and damage by plows happens at a time of year when the broken bits will die before spring.
Of the dozens of shrubs I track, many are rendered inaccessible by either location or the plants that surround them. Often the road side patches are edged with poison ivy and I don’t dare try and make it through. Two summers ago, I notices a huge elder in the middle of a field close to our house. The field is full of wicked brambles and during the summer harvest, a sea of hip high, tick laden grass fills the spaces between gnarled, sickle throned brambles and poison ivy. I have admired it from afar for a while now.
Thirteen Mothers Before Me
This quote has been making the internet rounds and while it is a very catchy meme, it has really started to bother me. I like the sentiment, but it confounds the most devastating details of the ‘burning times,’ in many essential ways. Primarily, it implies that those murdered had no family, and that it is only the linage of those who outsmarted persecution, who remain. It erases the generational trauma that these executions created and makes light of the mechanism used to control any who would dare step outside the boundaries of the patriarchy.
This quote is misleading from the start; executions for witchcraft were often by hanging (especially in the US), not burning. It also implies that they were not mothers and grandmothers snuffed out. Those persecuted were not old barren hags who lived alone and apart from the world, perhaps in forest cottages on chicken legs. They were stripped from the arms of loving husbands and children to be taken to the gallows. They left behind daughters and sons, grandchildren, husbands, wives, and siblings.
The burning times were not a culling of outlying populations; it was the public display of the power and authority of the church to deal-out death, at a whim. A reminder that what didn’t fit the mold of the patriarchy would be destroyed physically, and slandered eternally.
As a child, my mother was told that one of our ancestors was executed as a witch in colonial times. This story was a way to invoke a woman unjustly accused, a woman history tried to erase. A person that our family was tasked with remembering for who she was, and not how she died. During the not so ancient times of dial up internet, my mom got really into genealogy. She managed traced our ancestors back to Cambridge in the 1600s and Elizebeth Cogan Holly. After coming to the colonies from England, Samuel Holly died, leaving a parcel of land on the South side of the Charles River to his wife, Elizabeth and son, John Holly. Elizabeth soon remarried John Kendall (a younger man. *gasp!*) and became Elizabeth Holly Kendall. All of this can be easily verified though Samuel’s will, marriage records and land deeds.
Read MoreGaia’s Grief
Mama Gaia was almost ready!
The deep blue ocean teemed with life.
The mountains all lush and green, ready to provide food, shelter and medicine.
All the other creations waited patiently for their new brothers and sisters.
Humans.
Read MoreIs and Isn’t
Last week, a beloved friend of mine posted a beautiful letter to her mother on the second anniversary of her death. I tried to think exactly how long it had been since my dad passed, and I couldn’t do it.
Was it 2012? Or 2013? What month is it now anyway? Is it seven or eight years gone now?
What a change from years past when, like her, I knew almost down to the minute how long it had been since he died. Then the other day this picture popped up in my “memories”.
Hi dad.
His smile, that shirt, his hands, all reminding me of the time before. I have done a lot of writing about his death. The creation of this blog was largely inspired by it. A way for me to write down all the things he was missing, each post an unofficial letter to him about what is going on in my life. Me, reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there anymore. Very often, ten hands reach back to me. Ones I can still hold, and that has been a great comfort and tool throughout this process.
Read MoreStir Crazy
PJ and I are very fortunate to be able to stay home, so we do. During the warm months it was easy to spend the days outside; walking in the woods, playing with the chickens and tending the garden. Winter has given those outdoor activities a time limit before she turns into a toddlercicle. I keep on flashing back to when the boys were this age, and all the cool stuff we would go do during the winter. Trampoline parks, indoor play areas, museums, walking around the mall, movies, etc. New England is well equipped to get active kids through the winter months.
Not this year.
To add insult to injury, she is finally at an age when she would be aware of, and really enjoy these activities. Lockdown happened a month before her second birthday and we are soon coming up on her third. The growth this year is incredible. There is a part of me that is super happy she don’t know what she’s missing but I know how much she would be getting out if it this year, so that has been bittersweet.
The other day it was a balmy 16o and I decided it was time to take a drive, and go to the beach. When we first moved east we settled in Kennebunk for a couple years. I loved living close to the ocean as it has always been a big part of my life.
We had an ice storm the day before gilding everything, it’s breathtaking. I tried to get a couple pictures but they hardly do it justice, but you a least get the idea.
I thought of calling them Swarovski shrubs, prism pines, glass trees, gilded forest, etc. All I know is that it’s sublime, each turn in the road brings about a new vista dripping with light.
Read MoreSharp Knifes and Powerful Herbs
With our Christmas money I got us a present, a new set of Global knifes. After over 20 years of professional kitchen work, I have found there is no better kitchen tool than a very sharp knife. Globals are my favorite. All metal, light, perfectly balanced and just right for my smaller hands.
True to form, within the first week of ownership I whacked off the whole side of my index finger. It was my fault for trying to go quickly in-between toddler demands, while using a serrated utility knife, I knew glances slightly to the left, to cut a butternut squash. It was operator error entirely. There was a lot of blood. I had cut it clean off and applying pressure was excruciating. The only thing worse was when the bandage shifted at all, rubbing against the rawness there, plus any sideways pressure shifted the clot and caused more bleeding. I needed a way to stop the bleeding before my daughter got up to anything else.
What could I do?
Yarrow!
Read MoreA Mother’s Prayers
I look at this little creature and I see myself.
My face, eyes and hair, all copied in this little elf.
It stops my breath and I plead “please, little one- don’t be like me.”
Then we walk in the wood, she grabs my basket and takes the lead.
I remember she is made of so much more,
The thirteen mothers that came before.
Her father’s people guide her too,
A long and noble queue.
The woods stop their spin
I am grateful for the company we’re in.
She is not looking at my footsteps to see where to go.
And that is all I need to know.
Tales of a Toddler
Most days during this pandemic, I start by calling my mom and telling her all the things her granddaughter did to me the day before. More often than not, she laughs at me without remorse. After she regains her composure, she tells me I should write about PJ’s antics. Toddler shenanigans have delayed those efforts but I have been piecing this post together bit by bit.
Read More
Decking New Halls
Right before COVID took over our lives, my Oma made a huge decision. At 94, she realized that it was no longer the best idea to live alone in her home without help. After carefully weighing all her options she made the very practical decision to move to a live-in community and sell her home of over 60 years.
Read MoreHowling Hearts Can’t Be Broken.
Thanks to the miracle of FaceTime, I could read the excitement on my mom’s dimly light face as she sat on her deck high in the redwoods, listening to the howling. “Can you hear them?!” She asks through her grin.
Read MoreValley of the Sempervirens
We grew up in backyards full of fire scarred trees.
Playing in ancient flame hollowed trunks, making silent promises to the bit of earth that gently cradled our innocence.
These monuments whispered reminders; that it is this land’s nature, to burn.
Read MoreA World in the Weeds
I have worked in restaurants my whole life. Till the little monster was born almost two years ago, my life revolved around executing meal services. Front and back, top to bottom. I have held every position possible in the industry from dishwasher to department manager. Service culture is a universe in and of itself; with its own language, practices, traditions and philosophies.
Read MoreElderberry Kind of Year
Last year, at the first herbal apprenticeship class, we each drew a card from a plant tarot deck. I drew Elder. A plant of wisdom, magic and powerful medicine. I was aware of its existence, but had very little experience with it. I vowed to change that, and dubbed last year my year of Elder.
Read MoreHope
Hope is the splint we use to bind and tie, all the things broken by the weight of a lie.
It is feeling of relief that kindness brings, when we realize the giant is here to help fix our tattered wing.
Hope is being cradled through worst moments of our lives, with the assurance that action and time will make it right.
Read MoreFebruary’s Rose
Valentine’s Day is often associated with freshly cut long stem roses. The redder, softer and more fragrant the better- as if that is the only incarnation of a rose that could represent love. A soft, fresh, fragrant specimen picked before it has properly bloomed, separated from it’s roots and stripped of all it’s thorns.
Read MoreGifts From Gaia
This year, I found myself an unemployed mother. The basic tasks of child rearing are not a problem for me, though the sleep schedule and PTO suck. The most difficult things was adjusting to a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on. Something that grew as surely as she did.
Read MoreHomesteading Triage
I stated my Tuesday sure that the biggest challenge I was going to have; was going to be not eating the pie I made the day before. As usual, my assumptions were spectacularly wrong.
Read MoreAshes of Sweetgrass
What was the step too far? Where have we gone so wrong?! At what time did we lose sight of that essential thing that kept us in balance with everything else? Was it when we stopped roaming with the seasons and started cultivating fields? When we settled into towns and then cities? Was it the arrogance of proclaiming ourselves better than all the other beings on this earth? What would living in line with our nature even look like in modern times?! Braiding Sweetgrass really flushed out these questions, systematically untangling the roots of the tree that is ‘modern man’ and explored how we can once again participate in the Honorable Harvest.
Read MoreShe’s Got the Whole World in Her Hands
*I wrote this a while back. It has taken this long to edit and post. All accounts of the gardens and sheep are not current 🙂
Summer 2018-
Adjusting to having a daughter has been surreal and overwhelming in every way possible.
There is anxiety that at any second I could make a mistake that might result in her being injured or worse. Pair that, with the change of going from working a high stress job with a three-hour daily commute to being at home for days on end. I went from talking to dozens of people every day to having only the company of the critters much of the time. It’s not totally horrible or unpleasant just, very different. All while healing from the corporal aftermath of pregnancy and birth. (Which IS mostly horrible and unpleasant.)
I judge a “good” day to be one where I keep the baby and other animals alive. A “great” day is one where I mange to keep the animals out of the gardens so the plants aren’t murdered by two and four-legged assailants. We (by which I mean my husband) have just started a new sheep pen, so of course the sheep have figured out how to get out of their old pen and have taken to escaping in turns and wreaking havoc on the less secure gardens.
Sometimes, I get to clean the house or eat (but not both.) Any attempts at art, writing and (let’s be honest) bathing; are so far down the list of “things to do when the baby is not clamped to my boob” they might as well not even be on it but… as this writing proves it CAN happen.
*Insert sinking feeling the sheep have gotten out again and go check the pen.*
Ok, they are still in.
Read MoreA Letter From Baby Jail
Dear mom,
I hope this letter reaches you. My warden/guard/fellow prisoner will no doubt try to intercept this correspondence. (To date- she has postponed it’s creation by a week, using nothing more than dirty diapers and grunts of discontent.) She will stop at nothing to make sure that my access to the outside world is limited. On the bright side, she can’t read- so even if she does get a hold of this there’s not much she can do about it.
I hope.
Well, That Stinks!
Three days ago, I decided I would get some writing done! I was going to pen (type) beautiful pros about motherhood, growth, life and other profound stuff. Things did not go as planned. I thought I could accomplish this feat because Ry is home and could therefore take care of the little snapping turtle, while I roam free. FREE I tell you!!!. I sat down to the keyboard and heard the sheep blatting. My sleep deprived brain thought: “I should use my new found morning mobility go feed the outside animals really quick, then come back in a write. I will be a hero!”
That’s where things went sideways.
I mentioned in my last post that skunks have been getting into the chicken coop and causing all sorts of issues. I can say skunks plural, because we have already caught and relocated three this year. We drive them miles and miles away, so it is not the same skunk multiple times. My husband has been taking their mug shots as well, in order to make sure we are not dealing with just one super smart skunk, equipped with GPS and a quad. Last year, we caught four before the summer was out and this morning it appears that we tied that record, and it’s not even July.
Seriously, what the heck is this?! Are we on some sort of skunk grocery map of the area?
May? What May?
I don’t know how it happened, but May is almost over. Shoot, it might BE over by the time I hit ‘publish’ (I have been working on this post for a couple days). Somewhere in-between midnight feedings and dirty diapers a whole month slipped through our fingers. Ry went back to work yesterday. I can’t articulate how grateful I am he got paternity leave at all. It was amazing to have the time to figure out what our home life looks like now. He also put in almost all the gardens for the summer, including an expansion of the garden outside the front door.
It might not look like much from the deck, but up close you can see the beginning of popcorn on the ridges and black beans in the valleys. We decided last year that these crops are friends.
We planted two cherry trees and two pear trees in honor of Persephone’s first spring to add to our apple trees in the big yard.
We even got a few flowers on the apple trees this year.
The only things I got around to planting were bulbs, some of which we won’t see this summer. Others have already come out to play!
All-You-Can-Take Mother’s Day Pain Buffet
Child birth is often touted as the most pain a person can experience and I can’t say that I disagree. I can say that it is a fortunate thing the body has no capacity to remember that pain. I remember it happened and that it was excruciating but I cannot call back the exact nature of the pain and that is FINE with me!
I went into labor early Friday morning April 27th. My sister is an amazing Photo Journalist and she was there to document the whole thing. I had contemplated a home brith, but given that the nearest hospital is almost a hour away I opted for a hospital birth. On my mom’s side the past 9 births over two generations have all resulted in C-sections, most of the emergency type. For my own birth; my parents and aunt went to the hospital and were told to go home. Upon their return, almost a day later the nurse couldn’t find my heartbeat. They had to give my mom general anesthesia to get me out. With my sister, our mom had another emergency C-section but this time only got local anesthetic. Again, after 22 hours of labor. I decided an hour is too far to go if there are complications. I am glad I made that decision.
At my scheduled Dr. appointment the day before I was 3 cm dilated but other than that not really bothered by my condition.
I had gone to bed with cramps and a feeling different than the now familiar sensations of pregnancy.
The dogs knew something was different even though I was still in denial.
My husband just made fun of me, par for the course in that regard.
When I woke up early the next morning, it was a whole new ball game. Ry had to leave for work before 6 am and my mom was on a red eye from California set to arrive around 11am in Maine. By 7 am I could honestly call the sensations contractions though they were not that bad, yet. When my mom walked through the door 4 hours later I was ready to get to the hospital. May poor mother had to get right back in the car, she was such a trooper!
On the way to the hospital the contractions had gotten so bad that I was unable to talk through them. All I could do was breath as they came at ever shortening intervals. Halfway to the hospital I had a revelation as the timing closed to 3 minutes. Hesitantly, I asked my mom “are these going to continue to get closer and closer together till there is no time between them?!”
The look she gave me said it all. This was not going to be a good time.
Wicked Rural Homestead 