The chives are blooming purple pompoms. The sage is exploding in purple bouquets. The rogue larkspur shoots out delicate, purple butterflies. They saw the wisteria and grew jealous. She sat back to take a break from center stage to give her companions a chance to shine.
The oak leaves are the size of a squirrel's ear, at least I think so. I planted a little patch of silver queen corn. Watered it in.
Theo and the kids helped me move giant playmobil world out of the greenhouse. We are preparing the nursery for babies. Cornish cross chicks, that will provide chicken dinners for my family. Pekin ducks to provide bug eating services and future protein sources for the family, and toulous goslings for vineyard weed eating.
When I showed Theo the broken down fence, and cried, she rolled up her sleeves, confident that the two of us could tackle the problem and win.
The big posts that were set decades ago into concrete have thoroughly rotted. The fence first fell a month ago, and kids propped it up with boards until a moment came.
Yesterday was the moment.
Necessity is a catalyst for resiliency. Not enough finances to replace rotten fence, we managed the best way possible. The two of us shoved, pushed and heaved the section into a lovely upright position. I scrounged for wire and we wired the fence up to three big swing posts. I grimaced at our rogue, feminine approach to home maintenance, thinking of the many men who might laugh at our efforts. I defied anyone to criticize our methods. I grimaced, until I saw how sturdily the fence stood. How inexpensive and thorough the repair.
We laughed and clapped hands at our ingenious manner of trouble shooting. And moved on toward more pressing tasks.
Then I spent a good bit of the afternoon sad, weepy and miserable, wishing to return to farm life, hard as it was, wishing to return to cheesemaking and dinner parties and peepers. Knowing there is no going back, only forward, I changed clothes, went to St. James Episcopal for a Taize service. First time in church in months. I volunteered my mom to play the piano for the contemplative chants. Candles were lit. We sung. We listened to readings, from scripture, from Rumi, from an ancient Buddhist teacher, another piece attributed to a Ute leader. We sat in silence. I breathed.
I don't have the wish to return to church full time at this point in my life. Which is a more personal story than I care to share right now. But the Taize service was a gift to me. Sharing music with my mom, giving her some insight into contemplative prayer and chanting was a gift.