Today was the first full-fledged baking day post 2/25.
I was hoping to be getting to bed a little earlier. A lot earlier.
But the bread is wrapped the dishwasher (thank God and my dear friends and especially the one who came over and installed it this morning!) is running, the signs are printed and I think we are ready.
Some other friends came over for the concrete pour. They poured the new milking area. Thomas and Patrick learned all about finishing concrete. Another friend came over and helped me wrap bread and pizza crusts and wash pots and pans.
Tomorrow starts earlier than I wish. Another friend will meet me at Grandin to be back up in case I get too teary. Another friend will take Patrick to another food event where he will give samples of our breads and sell some.
Have you gotten the idea that today's theme is friendship?
It was warm today. The milking tonight would have almost been pleasant but for the persistent no-see-ums. Torturous. How can such a tiny thing inflict such irritation?
The most lovely sight for me today was Rose and Nora, working, all by themselves, no direction or supervision, in the garden. Their lovely little selves interacting together out in the garden brought me a moment of deep joy. A glimpse of Thomas shoveling concrete (or is that cement, I never can remember), and Patrick stretched out on a board over the pour, and Maggie walking tall and strong with a laundry basket did also.
I hope I don't forget anything tomorrow.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Making Do
Today was almost warm. The house never warmed up, but once the sun came up and burned off the frost, it was pleasant outdoors.
I was glad I got dressed right away this morning. Sometimes I enjoy the luxury of staying in my pajamas to drink my coffee and do the milking. This morning a delivery man arrived at the door before eight o'clock with a brand new dishwasher. Thank you, you people, you know who you are! Shortly after, a neighbor came to pick up some pork liver and milk.
I had to take the boys over to a friend's house for the afternoon to do some work and some play and made a dreaded trip. To Walmart.
Sometime ago I dropped Wal Mart and Sam's. My shopping habits changed and so did my philosophy. HOWEVER, it was convenient having a husband with slightly less serious convictions about said stores. Every once in awhile we would need one thing or another that would be seriously cheaper at those stores. Like labels and fly tape and toilet paper. Going into those stores makes me depressed and irritated. It was wonderful leaving those horrible tasks to Philip.
Well, the warm spring weather brought a generous supply of flies and I was driven in desperation to the big WM to seek out non-toxic ways to deal with the dread of flies. Fly tape, underwear, shampoo, chewing gum, cat food. A clerk smiled at me and offered her help. I didn't need any, but was grateful for the offer, because there have been worse Wal Mart experiences.
Not having Philip means so many things in my life. I have to change the light bulbs, or ask the kids to do it. I bought a big box of the energy efficient light bulbs and realized I got the wrong size. Oh well. I couldn't open a bottle. 9 weeks ago I would have asked him to do it for me. I don't have a man-voice to talk to at night. Just the kids. (actually, Thomas and Patrick surprise me at times, when I hear them in the other room, I think Philip is speaking, they are developing such deep voices.) I miss his perspective. I miss disagreeing with him. We had a great deal of fun, disagreeing with each other. From theology to politics to literature, we shared many varying views. Now that he is in heaven, I imagine he realizes I was right, right?
Cow share people picked up milk and offered hugs. I realized how grateful I am for my job. Grateful that Philip believed in me enough to buy this farm for our family. Jason and his dad came to finish laying the metal to prepare for the concrete pour in the morning to make our new milking area. The ladies arrived for Bible study where we prayed for each other and discussed the love of God for us that is like a father, delighting in his children. Not the father, stern and demanding, never satisfied. But the father who looks at his child and grins with delight. Who looks at his child, sees the weariness or the skinned knee, and takes that child up to comfort and love. I thought about how weary I am, and how imperfectly I am managing things these days. I was grateful to remember the Psalm that David wrote, acknowledging that God knows we are but dust.
By the way, it appears that last night's frost did no major damage. Will it be a good fruit year? We are hopeful. I have been waiting for Mom to come visit at cherry picking time for a very long time. Maybe this will be the year? (Hint, hint)
Off to bed. The alarm is set for dark thirty to launch the market season. Bakery is officially open.
I was glad I got dressed right away this morning. Sometimes I enjoy the luxury of staying in my pajamas to drink my coffee and do the milking. This morning a delivery man arrived at the door before eight o'clock with a brand new dishwasher. Thank you, you people, you know who you are! Shortly after, a neighbor came to pick up some pork liver and milk.
I had to take the boys over to a friend's house for the afternoon to do some work and some play and made a dreaded trip. To Walmart.
Sometime ago I dropped Wal Mart and Sam's. My shopping habits changed and so did my philosophy. HOWEVER, it was convenient having a husband with slightly less serious convictions about said stores. Every once in awhile we would need one thing or another that would be seriously cheaper at those stores. Like labels and fly tape and toilet paper. Going into those stores makes me depressed and irritated. It was wonderful leaving those horrible tasks to Philip.
Well, the warm spring weather brought a generous supply of flies and I was driven in desperation to the big WM to seek out non-toxic ways to deal with the dread of flies. Fly tape, underwear, shampoo, chewing gum, cat food. A clerk smiled at me and offered her help. I didn't need any, but was grateful for the offer, because there have been worse Wal Mart experiences.
Not having Philip means so many things in my life. I have to change the light bulbs, or ask the kids to do it. I bought a big box of the energy efficient light bulbs and realized I got the wrong size. Oh well. I couldn't open a bottle. 9 weeks ago I would have asked him to do it for me. I don't have a man-voice to talk to at night. Just the kids. (actually, Thomas and Patrick surprise me at times, when I hear them in the other room, I think Philip is speaking, they are developing such deep voices.) I miss his perspective. I miss disagreeing with him. We had a great deal of fun, disagreeing with each other. From theology to politics to literature, we shared many varying views. Now that he is in heaven, I imagine he realizes I was right, right?
Cow share people picked up milk and offered hugs. I realized how grateful I am for my job. Grateful that Philip believed in me enough to buy this farm for our family. Jason and his dad came to finish laying the metal to prepare for the concrete pour in the morning to make our new milking area. The ladies arrived for Bible study where we prayed for each other and discussed the love of God for us that is like a father, delighting in his children. Not the father, stern and demanding, never satisfied. But the father who looks at his child and grins with delight. Who looks at his child, sees the weariness or the skinned knee, and takes that child up to comfort and love. I thought about how weary I am, and how imperfectly I am managing things these days. I was grateful to remember the Psalm that David wrote, acknowledging that God knows we are but dust.
By the way, it appears that last night's frost did no major damage. Will it be a good fruit year? We are hopeful. I have been waiting for Mom to come visit at cherry picking time for a very long time. Maybe this will be the year? (Hint, hint)
Off to bed. The alarm is set for dark thirty to launch the market season. Bakery is officially open.
Full Moon
The full moon slid down the sky into the west early this morning. It was so bright.
I had wanted to stay up and go outside to watch it last night, but alas, had not the wherewithal. It was pretty cloudy, anyway.
Was it the weight of the full moon that crushed my stomach yesterday? The day was so heavy.
I got up, made coffee, made to do lists, milked the cow, washed jars, phoned a friend, spoke to my mom and dad, dug up a mountain of plantain and dock. I even cooked a nice meal for the kids at lunch, trout with a dill cream sauce and asparagus. Read a couple more chapters of the Last Battle with the kids. Distributed Dutch Valley Coop grains.
But it was all hard. Every last bit of it, interspersed with moments of sitting, listening to piano sonatas, stone still.
A guest remarked about how strong I am, how it amazes her.
She didn't see me, afterward, lying down in my bed, crying out to God to "help me, help me, help me."
Today is a new day. The roosters are crowing. The sheep will be out to graze in another half hour. I will milk Coco. Not very strong. Weakly moving forward. Like a hospital patient, getting up out of bed, being cheered on by the nurses as I make the 20 steps down the hall to the nurses station.
Don't worry, it isn't that bad every single minute. But it occasionally feels pretty bad. I thank God for the farm and the kids to give me reason to keep getting up and moving around, even if it is slowly.
By the way, the lambs' tails are dropping off, one by one. They look a bit naked without their floppy tail. I found the geese hissing and snapping as they sit on their unfertilized eggs. I felt sad for them. Maybe we can find some fertilized geese eggs to swap in? The mama hen braved the wind and the cool to take her week old little chickies out for a stroll. They scratched and pecked and stayed close to mama for their first farm lesson. Garden is sprouting. Market season is upon us. Tomorrow is first serious baking day. I am nervous that I will flop. Nervous that I am too tired, sad, etc. But here we are.
Hoping for the same divine energy that causes moons to rise and fall and chicks to hatch to help me have enough. Enough to accomplish the little tasks set before me.
PS I was just going to skip writing because I am afraid that readers will get tired of reading about sad days. But since I am not paying anyone to read this blog, I decided I would keep it real. Even though it is humbling, and I don't want people to worry about me, and think they have to fix everything for me. I guess I wanted some other sad reader to know that when the grief is there, sometimes the occasional bad day turns into a bad week, and from what others tell me, it is a normal part of grieving.
I had wanted to stay up and go outside to watch it last night, but alas, had not the wherewithal. It was pretty cloudy, anyway.
Was it the weight of the full moon that crushed my stomach yesterday? The day was so heavy.
I got up, made coffee, made to do lists, milked the cow, washed jars, phoned a friend, spoke to my mom and dad, dug up a mountain of plantain and dock. I even cooked a nice meal for the kids at lunch, trout with a dill cream sauce and asparagus. Read a couple more chapters of the Last Battle with the kids. Distributed Dutch Valley Coop grains.
But it was all hard. Every last bit of it, interspersed with moments of sitting, listening to piano sonatas, stone still.
A guest remarked about how strong I am, how it amazes her.
She didn't see me, afterward, lying down in my bed, crying out to God to "help me, help me, help me."
Today is a new day. The roosters are crowing. The sheep will be out to graze in another half hour. I will milk Coco. Not very strong. Weakly moving forward. Like a hospital patient, getting up out of bed, being cheered on by the nurses as I make the 20 steps down the hall to the nurses station.
Don't worry, it isn't that bad every single minute. But it occasionally feels pretty bad. I thank God for the farm and the kids to give me reason to keep getting up and moving around, even if it is slowly.
By the way, the lambs' tails are dropping off, one by one. They look a bit naked without their floppy tail. I found the geese hissing and snapping as they sit on their unfertilized eggs. I felt sad for them. Maybe we can find some fertilized geese eggs to swap in? The mama hen braved the wind and the cool to take her week old little chickies out for a stroll. They scratched and pecked and stayed close to mama for their first farm lesson. Garden is sprouting. Market season is upon us. Tomorrow is first serious baking day. I am nervous that I will flop. Nervous that I am too tired, sad, etc. But here we are.
Hoping for the same divine energy that causes moons to rise and fall and chicks to hatch to help me have enough. Enough to accomplish the little tasks set before me.
PS I was just going to skip writing because I am afraid that readers will get tired of reading about sad days. But since I am not paying anyone to read this blog, I decided I would keep it real. Even though it is humbling, and I don't want people to worry about me, and think they have to fix everything for me. I guess I wanted some other sad reader to know that when the grief is there, sometimes the occasional bad day turns into a bad week, and from what others tell me, it is a normal part of grieving.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Normal?
Yesterday's wind blew in some cooler temperatures for today. Sweater weather. Early in the morning, the Dutch Valley guy called and I met him at the General Store to pick up the almost ton of human grains, wheat, spelt, rye and other good things to mill into breads and cookies.
Getting ready for market.
Lots going on, list making, drama class, piano lessons. Sort of looks like normal life.
Except I am weepy and cry at the drop of a hat. Don't feel like cooking. At all. Ever again.
The other day I was thinking about how I used to love to cook for Philip. He grew up eating lots of Dinty Moore beef stew out of a can when he wasn't heating up a frozen dinner. Growing up in a broken home with a dad who came home late in the evening on the train meant a lot a fending for himself at mealtime. It gave me joy to make him delicious healthy dinners. We loved lighting candles and eating dinner for hours. The kids might eat their three bites then run off and play, leaving us at the table to catch up. Philip loved everything I cooked for him. He appreciated me. I would hear other gal's stories of their picky, finicky, fussy husbands at table and rejoice in my lot.
I have to learn how to cook for our family without Philip. Some day I imagine I will rejoice in a perfectly pan-seared venison medallion with port and black cherry reduction. But not now.
The other day as I reheated the leftover macaroni from lunch for supper, Rose came up to the oven and reproached me. "When are you ever going to cook us a real supper again, Mom?"
I cried. Gave her a hug and promised that someday I would be ready to cook for them, but now I am barely getting by. I broke down and said yes to the friends who had been offering to bring a dinner. One of our church friends and her husband came out this evening with roast beef and mashed potatoes and salad and pie with ice cream. We sat at the table, the children chattered happily, and consumed the whole feast. We thanked God for our friends, for the food and prayed for our friends in India and Haiti who are trying to rebuild their lives and asked God to provide for them too, just as he is for us.
How to live without Philip? We miss his presence at our table so much. I am now sitting in his spot at the table, with Nora and Rose at either side. The table doesn't feel right.
Nora wondered at table what Dad would be eating in heaven tonight. Some of the kids suggested that he wouldn't eat yet, because it is not time for the BIG FEAST. The others thought he would be having cheeseburgers, since that was one of his favorite foods. I opted to listen and eat my own supper.
Thankfully.
No normal on the farm these days. But life continues to be good. What a paradox.
Getting ready for market.
Lots going on, list making, drama class, piano lessons. Sort of looks like normal life.
Except I am weepy and cry at the drop of a hat. Don't feel like cooking. At all. Ever again.
The other day I was thinking about how I used to love to cook for Philip. He grew up eating lots of Dinty Moore beef stew out of a can when he wasn't heating up a frozen dinner. Growing up in a broken home with a dad who came home late in the evening on the train meant a lot a fending for himself at mealtime. It gave me joy to make him delicious healthy dinners. We loved lighting candles and eating dinner for hours. The kids might eat their three bites then run off and play, leaving us at the table to catch up. Philip loved everything I cooked for him. He appreciated me. I would hear other gal's stories of their picky, finicky, fussy husbands at table and rejoice in my lot.
I have to learn how to cook for our family without Philip. Some day I imagine I will rejoice in a perfectly pan-seared venison medallion with port and black cherry reduction. But not now.
The other day as I reheated the leftover macaroni from lunch for supper, Rose came up to the oven and reproached me. "When are you ever going to cook us a real supper again, Mom?"
I cried. Gave her a hug and promised that someday I would be ready to cook for them, but now I am barely getting by. I broke down and said yes to the friends who had been offering to bring a dinner. One of our church friends and her husband came out this evening with roast beef and mashed potatoes and salad and pie with ice cream. We sat at the table, the children chattered happily, and consumed the whole feast. We thanked God for our friends, for the food and prayed for our friends in India and Haiti who are trying to rebuild their lives and asked God to provide for them too, just as he is for us.
How to live without Philip? We miss his presence at our table so much. I am now sitting in his spot at the table, with Nora and Rose at either side. The table doesn't feel right.
Nora wondered at table what Dad would be eating in heaven tonight. Some of the kids suggested that he wouldn't eat yet, because it is not time for the BIG FEAST. The others thought he would be having cheeseburgers, since that was one of his favorite foods. I opted to listen and eat my own supper.
Thankfully.
No normal on the farm these days. But life continues to be good. What a paradox.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Wind
Today I drove to Lewisburg, WV to pick up the lamb from the butcher. The three lambs turned into two ice chests of stew, ground meat, chops and legs, bone in and boneless. Two ice chests of future feasts for us, our friends and customers.
I was happy that a friend drove with me. A friend who knew Philip for even more years than I, since they went to Roanoke College together. We grieve the loss of our friend, Philip. She was patient to hear me share stories of our courtship that she never knew. We shed a few tears, but laughed even more laughs, and enjoyed the luxury of a lunch together in a cafe. We chose the even windier path home, going through Crows and Sweet Chilybeate and Paint Bank and Potts Mountain.
The children stayed home and tended household and school chores. Then they had the opportunity to go to a grief support group for kids in town (with pizza), leaving me to put up the lamb, to milk, to clean my room.
The wind has been gusty today. It blew a few rain drops to the farm, then blew them out again. As I milked, I watched the cherry tree sway. I thought the little green cherries would surely blow away, but they didn't. What a tight grip Mama Cherry tree has on her little ones. The air smelled electric, like lightening and thunder. It smelled like the wind I smelled while standing at Fort Sewell, at Marblehead, Massachussetts, drinking in the air by gulps as it blew in off the ocean. How can I drink that same air, here in our valley in Virginia? I wanted to open my mouth wide and drink it by the gallons.
I watched the trees on the ridge, hickory, poplar, I don't know what else. They danced to the wind, a stately, formal dance, welcoming spring. One tossed a green leaf, like a handkerchief. Not like the leaf confetti of fall. Most of the leaves stayed intact. The willows, on the other hand, were wild and free, like a toddler, like a wild child, hair flying everywhere, out of control. Which do I enjoy the more? The stately formal? The wild chaotic frenzy? Hmm. The frenzy is a bit frightening, but I want to run and hold hands with them all.
Amazing how quickly milking time can pass while watching the dance of the trees.
I didn't think about work, or about grief, or about bills or taxes or labels or Quickbooks. Or kids or school or the dirty clothes.
Just the dance of the wind that smells like it came from Marblehead to visit. A big and powerful wind that makes me want to drink it in by the gallons.
What a gift. A couple of hours of peace and quiet, wind, a chunk of chocolate and hazelnuts for supper, with a glass of red wine to round things out. (Thank you, Julie.) And the continued sound of the dance of the wind. With peepers to add to the background.
I love our farm.
I was happy that a friend drove with me. A friend who knew Philip for even more years than I, since they went to Roanoke College together. We grieve the loss of our friend, Philip. She was patient to hear me share stories of our courtship that she never knew. We shed a few tears, but laughed even more laughs, and enjoyed the luxury of a lunch together in a cafe. We chose the even windier path home, going through Crows and Sweet Chilybeate and Paint Bank and Potts Mountain.
The children stayed home and tended household and school chores. Then they had the opportunity to go to a grief support group for kids in town (with pizza), leaving me to put up the lamb, to milk, to clean my room.
The wind has been gusty today. It blew a few rain drops to the farm, then blew them out again. As I milked, I watched the cherry tree sway. I thought the little green cherries would surely blow away, but they didn't. What a tight grip Mama Cherry tree has on her little ones. The air smelled electric, like lightening and thunder. It smelled like the wind I smelled while standing at Fort Sewell, at Marblehead, Massachussetts, drinking in the air by gulps as it blew in off the ocean. How can I drink that same air, here in our valley in Virginia? I wanted to open my mouth wide and drink it by the gallons.
I watched the trees on the ridge, hickory, poplar, I don't know what else. They danced to the wind, a stately, formal dance, welcoming spring. One tossed a green leaf, like a handkerchief. Not like the leaf confetti of fall. Most of the leaves stayed intact. The willows, on the other hand, were wild and free, like a toddler, like a wild child, hair flying everywhere, out of control. Which do I enjoy the more? The stately formal? The wild chaotic frenzy? Hmm. The frenzy is a bit frightening, but I want to run and hold hands with them all.
Amazing how quickly milking time can pass while watching the dance of the trees.
I didn't think about work, or about grief, or about bills or taxes or labels or Quickbooks. Or kids or school or the dirty clothes.
Just the dance of the wind that smells like it came from Marblehead to visit. A big and powerful wind that makes me want to drink it in by the gallons.
What a gift. A couple of hours of peace and quiet, wind, a chunk of chocolate and hazelnuts for supper, with a glass of red wine to round things out. (Thank you, Julie.) And the continued sound of the dance of the wind. With peepers to add to the background.
I love our farm.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday
I woke up this morning and milled some grain and baked some bread. 10 or 12 baguettes and 10 loaves of milk and honey bread. Milked Coco. Skimmed milk and made three quarts of cream into butter. Several sets of friends came over and did things like fix an electrical outlet, repair screens, work on the milking parlor, etc.
Am still working out the details of how long to bake the bread in the new oven. I feel afraid that I won't be able to handle full capacity baking. "One day at a time," I tell myself. I don't have to bake full capacity today. Today I was able to bake enough to practice and to have plenty to share and for the kids to eat all week. Nora had been asking for some baguette. She has eaten almost half a loaf, all by herself.
The rain is hovering. A slight mist is starting to fall. Seems like the grey skies make the spring green even more vibrant. A nice rain would water in the garden very nicely.
This morning I paused in the baking long enough to make myself an omelet. I listened to a couple of Andrew Peterson cds while working and eating. Many of his songs speak to me, but these days, one called Faith to be Strong is especially dear.
Here are the lyrics:
Give us faith to be strong,
Father, we are so weak
Our bodies are fragile and weary
As we stagger and stumble to walk where you lead
Give us faith to be strong.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard.
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us peace when we're torn
Mend us up when we break
This flesh can be wounded and shaking.
When there's much too much trouble for one heart to take
Give us peace when we're torn.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us hearts to find hope
Father, we cannot see
How the sorrow we feel can bring freedom.
And as hard as we try,
Lord, it's hard to believe
So, give us hearts to find hope.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard.
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us peace when we're torn
Give us faith, faith to be strong.
When people ask me how they can pray for me, I have been suggesting they pray for me to be strong. It is hard for a weak person to run a farm or raise a family, for that matter. It is so hard to ask for help. But in our time of weakness, we have experienced an incredible tapestry of friends and community rising up around us to help. Patient. Understanding. Not mad at me for being weak. It is amazing. I think I am almost getting an inkling of the concept that the power of Christ is manifested through our weakness. I think is has something to do with all these people, the church friends and the non-church friends, all working side by side to be our strength. I think Philip must be so pleased to see how well our friends are caring for us.
"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." 2 Corinthians 12:9.
Am still working out the details of how long to bake the bread in the new oven. I feel afraid that I won't be able to handle full capacity baking. "One day at a time," I tell myself. I don't have to bake full capacity today. Today I was able to bake enough to practice and to have plenty to share and for the kids to eat all week. Nora had been asking for some baguette. She has eaten almost half a loaf, all by herself.
The rain is hovering. A slight mist is starting to fall. Seems like the grey skies make the spring green even more vibrant. A nice rain would water in the garden very nicely.
This morning I paused in the baking long enough to make myself an omelet. I listened to a couple of Andrew Peterson cds while working and eating. Many of his songs speak to me, but these days, one called Faith to be Strong is especially dear.
Here are the lyrics:
Give us faith to be strong,
Father, we are so weak
Our bodies are fragile and weary
As we stagger and stumble to walk where you lead
Give us faith to be strong.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard.
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us peace when we're torn
Mend us up when we break
This flesh can be wounded and shaking.
When there's much too much trouble for one heart to take
Give us peace when we're torn.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us hearts to find hope
Father, we cannot see
How the sorrow we feel can bring freedom.
And as hard as we try,
Lord, it's hard to believe
So, give us hearts to find hope.
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it's hard.
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong.
Give us peace when we're torn
Give us faith, faith to be strong.
When people ask me how they can pray for me, I have been suggesting they pray for me to be strong. It is hard for a weak person to run a farm or raise a family, for that matter. It is so hard to ask for help. But in our time of weakness, we have experienced an incredible tapestry of friends and community rising up around us to help. Patient. Understanding. Not mad at me for being weak. It is amazing. I think I am almost getting an inkling of the concept that the power of Christ is manifested through our weakness. I think is has something to do with all these people, the church friends and the non-church friends, all working side by side to be our strength. I think Philip must be so pleased to see how well our friends are caring for us.
"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me." 2 Corinthians 12:9.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Trying to Live Hopefully
The cherry tree is covered with little green balls. They look like earrings.
We planted a couple of wide rows of green beans with last year's seed since this year's seed has mysteriously disappeared. I went for feed. Took care of some business. Milked cows. Washed jars. Made goat cheese.
I feel very inefficient. Couldn't summon the spark to bake. I hope to experiment with the bakery equipment some more tomorrow to be ready for the big farmer's market launch.
I am looking forward to the next swing of good days.
We planted a couple of wide rows of green beans with last year's seed since this year's seed has mysteriously disappeared. I went for feed. Took care of some business. Milked cows. Washed jars. Made goat cheese.
I feel very inefficient. Couldn't summon the spark to bake. I hope to experiment with the bakery equipment some more tomorrow to be ready for the big farmer's market launch.
I am looking forward to the next swing of good days.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Two Months
Two months ago my mouth was dry. My whole body felt as dry as a desert. My hands were trembling and I knew.
Two months and one day ago, I was writing in my blog. Philip was reading to the kids. We were chatting about this and that and tired and getting ready to go to bed to be ready for another day. The snow covered the ground. The cold felt interminable. We slept with many blankets and made sure to load the woodstove one last time so the house wouldn't get down below 38 degrees in the morning.
Today we are not cold. The trees are full of leaves. The grass is growing in thickly. Not only is the snow gone, but so are the daffodils and the peach blossoms and the cherry blossoms. The radishes are growing. The first crop of lambs are monsters compared to their little newborn cousins. Their little tails are about to fall off. Dulce and Carmelita are ready to be weaned.
Well. I am ready for Dulce and Carmelita to be weaned. If you heard their plaintive cries to their mommas over the barnyard fence you would know they are not ready to be weaned.
Two months ago we had not yet heard one single peeper.
Today I milked and checked animals and garden and chatted with our cow share people and washed dishes and washed clothes and had kids do a math lesson and ran an errand and sat in the cemetery listening to Philip's Gram Parsons cd and thought about him for a few minutes. Today I ate supper and forced myself to look at pictures of Philip's smiling face on the bulletin boards that we have yet to take apart from the funeral and was in shock that he could still be gone.
I miss him.
After the Bible study ladies went home I returned a call to our neighbor from the other side of the ridge and down the road. He had a cow give birth to twins and she would only take one of them. He knew we were milking and wondered if we would want to take a calf and raise it. Could he bring it right over?
We have milk. We have little girls who love messing with baby animals.
I said yes.
Tonight we have a new little fellow moved into the stall next to the ewes with their little baby lambs. He is the color of dark chocolate, at least that is what he looked like in the dim light of the barn. Big and strong for a twin. He has a mama hen and seven little chicks to keep him company, as they live in the feed bucket hung on the wall of his stall. He drank a pint of milk and that was all he wanted, but I have a feeling that tomorrow morning he will decide that the bottle is significantly better than a mama who won't let him drink.
Life is a great mystery to me. Philip was here and now he is not. Winter was here and now it is not. The children were teeny and now they are not. The seeds were placed, like little specks of dirt, into the soil, and now they are sending up green shoots that will turn into food for our table.
Mystery. How can life and death be so intertwined and intermingled? How can life be sweet and miserable all at the same time? I don't know.
Why do I even try to write it all down when all I can capture is a crumb or two? I don't know.
I feel like a tottering toddler. Today's Psalm was Psalm 37. Verses 23 and 23 made me think of a toddler stumbling, but being held by his father's hand: "The steps of a man are established by the LORD, when he delights in his way; though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the LORD upholds his hand."
I am counting on being held by the hand while we stumble along in the middle of this mystery.
Did I say I miss Philip? That I can't believe he is gone? That he was too alive? That we shared too many things for him to disappear? That even though I am not mad at God and I am glad that Philip no longer suffers pain, there is a huge gaping hole in our house right now?
Two months and one day ago, I was writing in my blog. Philip was reading to the kids. We were chatting about this and that and tired and getting ready to go to bed to be ready for another day. The snow covered the ground. The cold felt interminable. We slept with many blankets and made sure to load the woodstove one last time so the house wouldn't get down below 38 degrees in the morning.
Today we are not cold. The trees are full of leaves. The grass is growing in thickly. Not only is the snow gone, but so are the daffodils and the peach blossoms and the cherry blossoms. The radishes are growing. The first crop of lambs are monsters compared to their little newborn cousins. Their little tails are about to fall off. Dulce and Carmelita are ready to be weaned.
Well. I am ready for Dulce and Carmelita to be weaned. If you heard their plaintive cries to their mommas over the barnyard fence you would know they are not ready to be weaned.
Two months ago we had not yet heard one single peeper.
Today I milked and checked animals and garden and chatted with our cow share people and washed dishes and washed clothes and had kids do a math lesson and ran an errand and sat in the cemetery listening to Philip's Gram Parsons cd and thought about him for a few minutes. Today I ate supper and forced myself to look at pictures of Philip's smiling face on the bulletin boards that we have yet to take apart from the funeral and was in shock that he could still be gone.
I miss him.
After the Bible study ladies went home I returned a call to our neighbor from the other side of the ridge and down the road. He had a cow give birth to twins and she would only take one of them. He knew we were milking and wondered if we would want to take a calf and raise it. Could he bring it right over?
We have milk. We have little girls who love messing with baby animals.
I said yes.
Tonight we have a new little fellow moved into the stall next to the ewes with their little baby lambs. He is the color of dark chocolate, at least that is what he looked like in the dim light of the barn. Big and strong for a twin. He has a mama hen and seven little chicks to keep him company, as they live in the feed bucket hung on the wall of his stall. He drank a pint of milk and that was all he wanted, but I have a feeling that tomorrow morning he will decide that the bottle is significantly better than a mama who won't let him drink.
Life is a great mystery to me. Philip was here and now he is not. Winter was here and now it is not. The children were teeny and now they are not. The seeds were placed, like little specks of dirt, into the soil, and now they are sending up green shoots that will turn into food for our table.
Mystery. How can life and death be so intertwined and intermingled? How can life be sweet and miserable all at the same time? I don't know.
Why do I even try to write it all down when all I can capture is a crumb or two? I don't know.
I feel like a tottering toddler. Today's Psalm was Psalm 37. Verses 23 and 23 made me think of a toddler stumbling, but being held by his father's hand: "The steps of a man are established by the LORD, when he delights in his way; though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the LORD upholds his hand."
I am counting on being held by the hand while we stumble along in the middle of this mystery.
Did I say I miss Philip? That I can't believe he is gone? That he was too alive? That we shared too many things for him to disappear? That even though I am not mad at God and I am glad that Philip no longer suffers pain, there is a huge gaping hole in our house right now?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Home
The children and I were afforded the opportunity to escape to Cape Lookout National Seashore for a long weekend. We loaded up the pickup truck with ice chests full of farm food, blankets and pillows and stacks and stacks of books. The drive was long. Very long. We listened to Mrs. Piggle Wiggle on the way down and a difficult day turned out to be a rather pleasant day as we laughed together over the fabulous cures Mrs. Piggle Wiggle wrought on many a challenging child.
The day we prepared to leave I also baked in our new bakery for the first time.
It worked beautifully.
I still have to work out some kinks. The oven is fabulous. It bakes bread and pizza crusts in a fraction of the time. The stainless steel table makes an excellent work space for rolling out and shaping. The mixer mixes amazingly.
But I noticed that I am still not 100%. Trying to work was grueling. It felt hard. Like hiking 18 miles up and down steep and rocky terrain. By the time my girlfriend came to pick up her pizza crusts I was at my wits end. The kids found a ewe with a new little lamb, still damp with birth. I went out to gather the little girl up and place her and the momma in a safe place in the barn and found a safe place for me, out in the pasture to vent to my dear friend and her unsuspecting guest. Both ladies also lost their husbands. They let me rant and rail and cuss and cry for a little bit, and I knew they understood. It made me mad to be so weak and tired. To have to be a single parent.
The trip to the beach was a rather sudden opportunity. We needed some time to regroup as a family in a quiet place. Portsmouth Island was just the ticket. A ferry took us out three miles to a place with no stores, no internet, no phones or tvs. No refrigerators or sidewalks. Just rustic cabins with bunk beds and a little propane stove. Windows looking out to the sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other. The ferry guys lent the kids some clam rakes and showed them where to dig. They brought a bountiful harvest of delicious clams which made their way into a chowder. Yum.
I thought that listening to waves and feeling sand would heal me. That all the grief and sadness would wash away into the ocean.
Well, we had some amazing family time. I read out loud to the kids many chapters of The Last Battle, by CS Lewis. The kids played many games of UNO. They built sand castles and played freeze tag and hide and seek and we ate many delicious meals together.
I read some poetry by Pablo Neruda. A John Steinbeck novel. A biography about Abigail Adams. A collection of poetry by Wendell Berry. An amazing memoir by Ann Hood called Comfort. The Bible. The Book of Common Prayer.
At some point I realized I was doing everything I could to distract myself from thinking about Philip. Any thought of him was so painful, I just tried to do anything I could to avoid it.
So I looked at the ocean waves, that changed color from morning to evening. The morning would be so glassy, it was like a shiny chrome. The dolphins would swim out past the breakers and give us delight. The terns would skitter and scatter across the wet sand, hunting their breakfast. The bright midday sand would warm up like a heating pad, and I would sink in my toes, huddled in Rachel's mom's shawl, shivering. At times the beach would be as hard as concrete and then at others, our feet would bounce in the wet sand. In the evening, the ocean would turn a deep deep blue, the waves would roll in, and the sun would slide down, faster and faster, pink and orange into the sound. Sometimes the wind would beat us, blowing the sand against our skin like a sand blaster, and we would laugh to see it swept along, as if a giant street sweeper were at work.
No major healing took place.
I still miss Philip and am becoming aware that I have no earthly idea just how much I miss him. I feel a bit like a coward to ignore the pain for a little while.
But it was important to re knit our family ties this weekend, and helpful to work on our new family dynamic. The family of six instead of seven. Someone asked me if I had fun. Before I could stop myself, I told her, no, not really. I wished I could have simply said, yes, it was a great trip. Because it was. But it wasn't fun. Even though I did delight in watching the children delight in the waves and the sand.
Not fun, but good. Very rich. Every single bit of it. As the peepers serenade me this evening, I can almost hear the crashing waves and feel the hot sand on my toes. Maybe there was more healing that took place than I am aware. Other people's words were like a balm to my soul.
Work was waiting on me. Not very patiently, but definitely waiting. Coco was happy to see me, even when I gave her a severe talking to. She wouldn't let any one else milk her, so Dulce and Carmelita had to do the job. Another lamb was born on Sunday morning to Dahnabad. A little ram lamb to add to Sissy's little female born on Friday. When I went to check on the new lambs and their mothers, I spotted the broody hen sitting on a nest in an adjacent stall. What did I spy when I picked up the fluffy gal? Seven little day old baby chicks! She was hiding them under her fluffy wings. What a wondrous thing, baby chicks hatched out by their mama.
I am happy for the reminder. The reminder of Psalm 91:4. "He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart." God is to our family like that hen with her chicks. We are tucked under a wing and are being sheltered and cared for, even in our weak times. Especially in our weak times.
Can you believe we had friends who would come to the farm EVERY day to take care of our animals? Deal with cantankerous cows? Belligerent turkeys? (George almost got roasted by Jason and Dylan after a flogging, but somehow managed to survive!) They even swept the floors and made my bed and threw the last wet clothes in the washer into the dryer for me so we could get on the road. I am so very grateful. And glad to be home.
The day we prepared to leave I also baked in our new bakery for the first time.
It worked beautifully.
I still have to work out some kinks. The oven is fabulous. It bakes bread and pizza crusts in a fraction of the time. The stainless steel table makes an excellent work space for rolling out and shaping. The mixer mixes amazingly.
But I noticed that I am still not 100%. Trying to work was grueling. It felt hard. Like hiking 18 miles up and down steep and rocky terrain. By the time my girlfriend came to pick up her pizza crusts I was at my wits end. The kids found a ewe with a new little lamb, still damp with birth. I went out to gather the little girl up and place her and the momma in a safe place in the barn and found a safe place for me, out in the pasture to vent to my dear friend and her unsuspecting guest. Both ladies also lost their husbands. They let me rant and rail and cuss and cry for a little bit, and I knew they understood. It made me mad to be so weak and tired. To have to be a single parent.
The trip to the beach was a rather sudden opportunity. We needed some time to regroup as a family in a quiet place. Portsmouth Island was just the ticket. A ferry took us out three miles to a place with no stores, no internet, no phones or tvs. No refrigerators or sidewalks. Just rustic cabins with bunk beds and a little propane stove. Windows looking out to the sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other. The ferry guys lent the kids some clam rakes and showed them where to dig. They brought a bountiful harvest of delicious clams which made their way into a chowder. Yum.
I thought that listening to waves and feeling sand would heal me. That all the grief and sadness would wash away into the ocean.
Well, we had some amazing family time. I read out loud to the kids many chapters of The Last Battle, by CS Lewis. The kids played many games of UNO. They built sand castles and played freeze tag and hide and seek and we ate many delicious meals together.
I read some poetry by Pablo Neruda. A John Steinbeck novel. A biography about Abigail Adams. A collection of poetry by Wendell Berry. An amazing memoir by Ann Hood called Comfort. The Bible. The Book of Common Prayer.
At some point I realized I was doing everything I could to distract myself from thinking about Philip. Any thought of him was so painful, I just tried to do anything I could to avoid it.
So I looked at the ocean waves, that changed color from morning to evening. The morning would be so glassy, it was like a shiny chrome. The dolphins would swim out past the breakers and give us delight. The terns would skitter and scatter across the wet sand, hunting their breakfast. The bright midday sand would warm up like a heating pad, and I would sink in my toes, huddled in Rachel's mom's shawl, shivering. At times the beach would be as hard as concrete and then at others, our feet would bounce in the wet sand. In the evening, the ocean would turn a deep deep blue, the waves would roll in, and the sun would slide down, faster and faster, pink and orange into the sound. Sometimes the wind would beat us, blowing the sand against our skin like a sand blaster, and we would laugh to see it swept along, as if a giant street sweeper were at work.
No major healing took place.
I still miss Philip and am becoming aware that I have no earthly idea just how much I miss him. I feel a bit like a coward to ignore the pain for a little while.
But it was important to re knit our family ties this weekend, and helpful to work on our new family dynamic. The family of six instead of seven. Someone asked me if I had fun. Before I could stop myself, I told her, no, not really. I wished I could have simply said, yes, it was a great trip. Because it was. But it wasn't fun. Even though I did delight in watching the children delight in the waves and the sand.
Not fun, but good. Very rich. Every single bit of it. As the peepers serenade me this evening, I can almost hear the crashing waves and feel the hot sand on my toes. Maybe there was more healing that took place than I am aware. Other people's words were like a balm to my soul.
Work was waiting on me. Not very patiently, but definitely waiting. Coco was happy to see me, even when I gave her a severe talking to. She wouldn't let any one else milk her, so Dulce and Carmelita had to do the job. Another lamb was born on Sunday morning to Dahnabad. A little ram lamb to add to Sissy's little female born on Friday. When I went to check on the new lambs and their mothers, I spotted the broody hen sitting on a nest in an adjacent stall. What did I spy when I picked up the fluffy gal? Seven little day old baby chicks! She was hiding them under her fluffy wings. What a wondrous thing, baby chicks hatched out by their mama.
I am happy for the reminder. The reminder of Psalm 91:4. "He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart." God is to our family like that hen with her chicks. We are tucked under a wing and are being sheltered and cared for, even in our weak times. Especially in our weak times.
Can you believe we had friends who would come to the farm EVERY day to take care of our animals? Deal with cantankerous cows? Belligerent turkeys? (George almost got roasted by Jason and Dylan after a flogging, but somehow managed to survive!) They even swept the floors and made my bed and threw the last wet clothes in the washer into the dryer for me so we could get on the road. I am so very grateful. And glad to be home.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Thursday
This Thursday was not as bad as previous Thursdays.
Maybe because there was a great deal of activity. Washing clothes, hanging them on the line, working some in the garden, getting the boys to plant more potatoes, onions, carrots, radishes, spinach and lettuce. Had to go to town and take care of business, paperwork, go to the library. Came home to a flurry of farm visitors, friends learning the ropes to help manage chores, farm customers, Bible study ladies.
We held our group meeting out on the front porch. The warm sun felt great on bare arms. As the sun went down, we shivered, but shared concerns, vulnerabilities, and prayed with one another, in awe at the way God designed us to be in relationship with one another.
I cried a bit as I ran errands alone. No wailing. But I do notice that I allow myself to feel a lot more deeply when alone. I miss Philip and his absence is so huge, it is surreal. I wish I could share parenting responsibilities with him and feel a bit afraid to manage the kids without his insight and help. I have been asking my men friends for their thoughts to balance out all the feminine energy. I grew up with two sisters. What to do with these young men in our home?
We eat meals together, but it feels more haphazard without Philip. He was the anchor at the table. I find we are going to have to come up with a new family dynamic that will come with time.
It was a beautiful sight to me as I drove away from the farm, two young men working together, down in the big garden. Brothers united in one vital job, sowing the seeds that will in turn yield our dinners.
Well, nothing spectacular to write. The sun shone today. It warmed our bones, dried the clothes, heated the soil and chased ladies outside to the front porch. Even more leaves unfurled, stretching themselves out after winter's cold grip. Lambs bounced, chickens laid eggs, cows and goats gave milk. I suppose all that is rather spectacular after all.
Maybe because there was a great deal of activity. Washing clothes, hanging them on the line, working some in the garden, getting the boys to plant more potatoes, onions, carrots, radishes, spinach and lettuce. Had to go to town and take care of business, paperwork, go to the library. Came home to a flurry of farm visitors, friends learning the ropes to help manage chores, farm customers, Bible study ladies.
We held our group meeting out on the front porch. The warm sun felt great on bare arms. As the sun went down, we shivered, but shared concerns, vulnerabilities, and prayed with one another, in awe at the way God designed us to be in relationship with one another.
I cried a bit as I ran errands alone. No wailing. But I do notice that I allow myself to feel a lot more deeply when alone. I miss Philip and his absence is so huge, it is surreal. I wish I could share parenting responsibilities with him and feel a bit afraid to manage the kids without his insight and help. I have been asking my men friends for their thoughts to balance out all the feminine energy. I grew up with two sisters. What to do with these young men in our home?
We eat meals together, but it feels more haphazard without Philip. He was the anchor at the table. I find we are going to have to come up with a new family dynamic that will come with time.
It was a beautiful sight to me as I drove away from the farm, two young men working together, down in the big garden. Brothers united in one vital job, sowing the seeds that will in turn yield our dinners.
Well, nothing spectacular to write. The sun shone today. It warmed our bones, dried the clothes, heated the soil and chased ladies outside to the front porch. Even more leaves unfurled, stretching themselves out after winter's cold grip. Lambs bounced, chickens laid eggs, cows and goats gave milk. I suppose all that is rather spectacular after all.
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