My mother says that after decades of feeling troubled by other people's opinions, she has reached an age of freedom and no longer really cares what they think. I have not reached that state yet, I told her, but I hope I will someday. Right now, I am feeling painfully awkward about the last message I delivered in Quaker worship.
Mom, a self-proclaimed agnostic who has never attended a meeting for worship, listened supportively as I told the story. In silent worship a few days ago, I felt a sense of something rising all around me. It was flowing from the floor to the ceiling with the power of a river. “Maybe this has something to do with the ascension,” I told myself, but that did not feel right at all. “Maybe I am supposed to stand up and deliver a message,” I thought, and this felt right, but I sat testing the feeling for a very long time with my heart pounding before I let that wild river carry me up slowly to standing.
When I got up there, I had nothing to say, but I let my hands keep rising up. Then I stood there moving my arms along with the motion that I felt around us. It seemed like I did this for a very long time, and I feared that I heard someone sigh impatiently. I started to shake, and tears started falling down my cheeks, and I wished fervently for some words. Finally I recieved some words of thanks and praise and devotion, but after they were delivered, I was not certain that the message was really done. I moved my hands some more and finally sat down.
Instead of feeling excruciatingly awkward when I think back on this, I wish I could say to myself: “I had a powerful and mysterious experience with the Spirit in worship this week, and I tried very earnestly to be faithful to it. What a blessing!”
“There!” my mom responded. “You said it! See? That’s great. Just let it go at that now.”
“But Mom!” I said. “Nobody else does that kind of thing!”
“Well, then!” said my mom. “Maybe it's high time somebody did.”
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The blizzard and the willow
During the blizzard on Saturday afternoon, my husband and son started pulling on jackets and acting as though they were going to go outside.
"I'd better go with you," I said. "I am supposed to go out to the fields."
"I don't think you're going to get to the fields," my husband said. He was right. Standing on the deck felt like enough of a wilderness experience to me. The snow was falling hard, and each flake made a quiet, sharp sound as it hit the hood of my jacket. The wind was so cold that it hurt bits of bare skin around my eyes that I had not been able to cover up. It rushed between our parked vehicles and made huge snowdrifts in front of our cars and trucks. White plumes came whistling off the peak of each drift.
My son crouched down and busily started digging paths through the snow. He was joyfully engrossed, and eventually headed out for his fort behind the garage, but we called him back because we did not want him to disappear from our sight. As a child I used to be able to entertain myself like that outside, but it does not come as easily to me now, and so I busied myself carrying boxes into the house from one of our cars. Like my son, I wanted to be doing something purposeful while I spent more time outside.
Carrying those boxes was tough. I had to lift up my legs high to trudge through the deep snow, and the wind had turned deadly cold. It hissed ominously through the trees to my north. With the last box in my hands, I thought disapprovingly, "This is really overdone. This clearly goes beyond the limits of good taste.” Right away, I was shocked by my arrogance. It doesn't seem right to take a superior attitude with a blizzard.
At that point, I felt what I can best describe as a change in pressure just to the east. Instinctively, I looked in that direction and saw the huge weeping willow tree that stands just outside my kitchen window. I waited there with a box in my arms, and I understood that I was being asked go to that tree. After setting the last box inside, I trudged around the house and found a place for myself just inside the fringes of the willow's swinging branches.
I have wanted to feel a connection with this enormous tree since we moved to this house a year and a half ago. Late in the summer, I allowed the power company to remove some of the willow's branches, and I felt uneasy with the tree for months. Throughout the fall, I talked to it, stood with it, and even rested with my arms wrapped halfway around its trunk, but I only felt anger and shame. Not knowing whether this was coming from me or coming from the tree, I finally asked a friend to drive out from Minneapolis and stand beside it in with me. This friend of mine has a very loving heart and has been willing to stand by trees with me before. On the couple of occasions, I have experienced a very clear feeling that the trees appreciate her presence. I appreciate it too.
On the day my friend came, I had a migraine, and so she stood outside alone. She eventually came back into my living room and reported that although she does not often experience these things, she felt a special warmth at the end of her time with the willow. A couple of days later, my attention was drawn by the sound of the wind in the leaves of the willow, and as I looked up into its branches, I felt a wildness and a powerful pull from the ground to the sky. It was magnificent. I believed that the tree was speaking to me in its way.
Standing beneath the willow in the blizzard, I heard an intimacy between the wildness of the tree and the wildness of the blizzard. The storm was not a stranger but a relative, and something of it would remain with the tree long after the snow passed. I believe the tree wanted me to understand this. I stood listening to the sound of the ice flakes and wind hitting dry leaves that still cling to the yellow willow whips. I noticed the snow drift near my house, evidence that the tree had slowed the North wind before it hit my home. Before I was satisfied that I had heard everything that I was meant to hear, I trudged back through the house and went inside.
My husband greeted me as I peeled off my jacket. “I was worried about you!" he exclaimed. “Did you go to the fields?”
"I'd better go with you," I said. "I am supposed to go out to the fields."
"I don't think you're going to get to the fields," my husband said. He was right. Standing on the deck felt like enough of a wilderness experience to me. The snow was falling hard, and each flake made a quiet, sharp sound as it hit the hood of my jacket. The wind was so cold that it hurt bits of bare skin around my eyes that I had not been able to cover up. It rushed between our parked vehicles and made huge snowdrifts in front of our cars and trucks. White plumes came whistling off the peak of each drift.
My son crouched down and busily started digging paths through the snow. He was joyfully engrossed, and eventually headed out for his fort behind the garage, but we called him back because we did not want him to disappear from our sight. As a child I used to be able to entertain myself like that outside, but it does not come as easily to me now, and so I busied myself carrying boxes into the house from one of our cars. Like my son, I wanted to be doing something purposeful while I spent more time outside.
Carrying those boxes was tough. I had to lift up my legs high to trudge through the deep snow, and the wind had turned deadly cold. It hissed ominously through the trees to my north. With the last box in my hands, I thought disapprovingly, "This is really overdone. This clearly goes beyond the limits of good taste.” Right away, I was shocked by my arrogance. It doesn't seem right to take a superior attitude with a blizzard.
At that point, I felt what I can best describe as a change in pressure just to the east. Instinctively, I looked in that direction and saw the huge weeping willow tree that stands just outside my kitchen window. I waited there with a box in my arms, and I understood that I was being asked go to that tree. After setting the last box inside, I trudged around the house and found a place for myself just inside the fringes of the willow's swinging branches.
I have wanted to feel a connection with this enormous tree since we moved to this house a year and a half ago. Late in the summer, I allowed the power company to remove some of the willow's branches, and I felt uneasy with the tree for months. Throughout the fall, I talked to it, stood with it, and even rested with my arms wrapped halfway around its trunk, but I only felt anger and shame. Not knowing whether this was coming from me or coming from the tree, I finally asked a friend to drive out from Minneapolis and stand beside it in with me. This friend of mine has a very loving heart and has been willing to stand by trees with me before. On the couple of occasions, I have experienced a very clear feeling that the trees appreciate her presence. I appreciate it too.
On the day my friend came, I had a migraine, and so she stood outside alone. She eventually came back into my living room and reported that although she does not often experience these things, she felt a special warmth at the end of her time with the willow. A couple of days later, my attention was drawn by the sound of the wind in the leaves of the willow, and as I looked up into its branches, I felt a wildness and a powerful pull from the ground to the sky. It was magnificent. I believed that the tree was speaking to me in its way.
Standing beneath the willow in the blizzard, I heard an intimacy between the wildness of the tree and the wildness of the blizzard. The storm was not a stranger but a relative, and something of it would remain with the tree long after the snow passed. I believe the tree wanted me to understand this. I stood listening to the sound of the ice flakes and wind hitting dry leaves that still cling to the yellow willow whips. I noticed the snow drift near my house, evidence that the tree had slowed the North wind before it hit my home. Before I was satisfied that I had heard everything that I was meant to hear, I trudged back through the house and went inside.
My husband greeted me as I peeled off my jacket. “I was worried about you!" he exclaimed. “Did you go to the fields?”
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Blizzard
There is a blizzard warning in the Rice County, where we live. Early this morning, our neighbor's field of tall, brown corn stalks appeared to be last thing on earth before the white oblivion of the bare, snow-covered fields farther south. Throughout the morning, our world shrank. Gradually, a veil of white slowly drew closer to the house as heavily falling snow hid all but the closest rows of corn. Now the corn is a blurry shadow, and I cannot see the woods that stand across the street. Snow piling up against my window is striated with layers of dark and light, recording the different qualities of the snow, the changing moods of this storm, which lie beyond my understanding.
Everything we had planned for the day has mercifully been canceled, except for my plans to bake Lucia buns. Our children will get up in the darkness tomorrow morning, and speaking in whispers, they will put on special clothes and assemble a tray of Lucia buns and hot drinks. Then, lit only by my daughter’s crown of candles, they will slowly walk in and serve us breakfast. In past years, I have struggled between wanting to watch them approach and wanting to open my eyes when they are beside the bed because they are always afraid we will wake up before the appointed moment.
Last night, we celebrated Santa Lucia day in Northfield, and drove home just as the snow was beginning to fall. Dozens of children in white robes filed into the darkened room, glowing with the candles they carried, and singing the familiar Swedish song about light coming into the darkness. The song began to rise from the whole room as the adults joined in, until the whole space was filled with gentle, haunting melody. My mother-in-law, sitting beside me, said that if her father had been there, tears would have been running down his face. I could barely answer her because I thought that a sob might come out instead of words. I believe, in a special way, my children's great-grandparents were there, along with many others.
After all the children had delivered cookies and filed out again, someone flipped on the lights, and we began to sing Swedish carols. First, we listened patiently as a lady explained the translation of the lyrics. As soon as we heard each tune, my mother-in-law and I looked at each other with round eyes and exclaimed with delight, “Oh! It’s that one!” We knew them all. By the time folks were dancing around the Christmas tree, I was singing with unbridled gusto.
My heart still feels full from all that beauty. Like grief, deep joy can make it difficult for me to understand how the world can continue blithely on with all of its regular details. Today, my world can't carry on. Today, because of the blizzard, my world has stopped in awe and delicacy.
Just as I thought I finished this essay, my daughter called out for help with a terrible headache, so it only seems fair to add that some parts of my life are clearly carrying on as usual. That is okay. My cup runs over.
Everything we had planned for the day has mercifully been canceled, except for my plans to bake Lucia buns. Our children will get up in the darkness tomorrow morning, and speaking in whispers, they will put on special clothes and assemble a tray of Lucia buns and hot drinks. Then, lit only by my daughter’s crown of candles, they will slowly walk in and serve us breakfast. In past years, I have struggled between wanting to watch them approach and wanting to open my eyes when they are beside the bed because they are always afraid we will wake up before the appointed moment.
Last night, we celebrated Santa Lucia day in Northfield, and drove home just as the snow was beginning to fall. Dozens of children in white robes filed into the darkened room, glowing with the candles they carried, and singing the familiar Swedish song about light coming into the darkness. The song began to rise from the whole room as the adults joined in, until the whole space was filled with gentle, haunting melody. My mother-in-law, sitting beside me, said that if her father had been there, tears would have been running down his face. I could barely answer her because I thought that a sob might come out instead of words. I believe, in a special way, my children's great-grandparents were there, along with many others.
After all the children had delivered cookies and filed out again, someone flipped on the lights, and we began to sing Swedish carols. First, we listened patiently as a lady explained the translation of the lyrics. As soon as we heard each tune, my mother-in-law and I looked at each other with round eyes and exclaimed with delight, “Oh! It’s that one!” We knew them all. By the time folks were dancing around the Christmas tree, I was singing with unbridled gusto.
My heart still feels full from all that beauty. Like grief, deep joy can make it difficult for me to understand how the world can continue blithely on with all of its regular details. Today, my world can't carry on. Today, because of the blizzard, my world has stopped in awe and delicacy.
Just as I thought I finished this essay, my daughter called out for help with a terrible headache, so it only seems fair to add that some parts of my life are clearly carrying on as usual. That is okay. My cup runs over.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Going to the fields and coming home fast
During the last couple of weeks, I have been asking God how I should be spending my time. Should I be doing the laundry? Drawing up a budget for raising beef cattle? Teaching more exercise classes?
The only clear answer that I have felt in my heart has been, “Go to the fields.” I have heard this call periodically for over a decade, and I am never sure what to do about it. On Saturday, when I heard it again, I asked follow-up questions. “So, God, should I work on the beef budget because that has something to do with fields? Should I should turn down the invitation to teach another exercise class?” My follow-up questions are usually unproductive, but on Saturday, I heard an unsatisfying answer. It was something like, “You are making this way too complicated. Just go outside and hang out in your fields.”
That afternoon, I climbed a maple on the west edge of our shelter belt. The wind was strong on my back, and I draped myself along the length of a long, arched branch. I smelled the melting snow in the dried leaves and tried to soak in the mysterious evening colors of the winter sky. I told myself that I was soaking in some kind of light that might grow inside me to help light the world.
For the next three days I stayed inside, marveling at how easy it is to dismiss the quiet promptings of the Spirit. If someone asked me what I would want from heaven, I would tell them that I wanted a chance to stand surrounded by fields and trees and to listen with my soul to the music that rises up from them. Even with God asking me to do just that, I filled my days with "more important" work and stayed inside.
Late Wednesday night, I went out again, carrying a bucket of compost as if my mission were purely practical. After emptying the bucket, I strolled across our dark southern field to our property line, where the neighbor's corn still stands. I expect he will harvest it in the spring, as is his custom. The crunchy snow sparkled like the stars in the sky, and I stood in it waiting for my second sense of hearing to kick in. My second sense of hearing lets me listen to the song of trees, and plants and fields. Sometimes I have to wait for a while before I am blessed with it, and sometimes I wait for it in vain.
A gentle breeze from the west began to rustle in the dry corn. It sounded as though the whole field were suddenly alive and moving, and as my second sense of hearing kicked in, I became aware that the corn harbored no warm feelings for me. It wasn't exactly hostile; it was just wild and focused on other things. My heart started beating fast.
At that point, a coyote howled, and it didn't sound too far away. I sprinted towards the house, forgetting that I was running over the earth that Ian had plowed up for next year's garden. Our clay soil was turned in ridges that were frozen as hard as concrete. I tripped and went sailing into the air before crashing down with my thumb squashed underneath me. As I wriggled around on the ground in pain, several more coyotes joined the eerie song. I scrambled to my feet again as and limped to our back door. Standing safely in the doorway, I listened to the wild yipping and moaning and howling, trying to appreciate it. I couldn't. I know coyotes are God's creatures, and they wouldn't hurt a person, but they scare me beyond reason.
Inside, I found that my thumb was basically okay, but my shin and knee were impressively bloody. Looking around my quiet family room, I found more compassion for myself for spending the last few days inside. When God asks me to do something, even the simplest thing, I can never predict what lies ahead. It is not in my control, and it is not really about me. Staying inside, surrounded by my illusion of personal power, feels much more comfortable.
It lacks glory, though.
The only clear answer that I have felt in my heart has been, “Go to the fields.” I have heard this call periodically for over a decade, and I am never sure what to do about it. On Saturday, when I heard it again, I asked follow-up questions. “So, God, should I work on the beef budget because that has something to do with fields? Should I should turn down the invitation to teach another exercise class?” My follow-up questions are usually unproductive, but on Saturday, I heard an unsatisfying answer. It was something like, “You are making this way too complicated. Just go outside and hang out in your fields.”
That afternoon, I climbed a maple on the west edge of our shelter belt. The wind was strong on my back, and I draped myself along the length of a long, arched branch. I smelled the melting snow in the dried leaves and tried to soak in the mysterious evening colors of the winter sky. I told myself that I was soaking in some kind of light that might grow inside me to help light the world.
For the next three days I stayed inside, marveling at how easy it is to dismiss the quiet promptings of the Spirit. If someone asked me what I would want from heaven, I would tell them that I wanted a chance to stand surrounded by fields and trees and to listen with my soul to the music that rises up from them. Even with God asking me to do just that, I filled my days with "more important" work and stayed inside.
Late Wednesday night, I went out again, carrying a bucket of compost as if my mission were purely practical. After emptying the bucket, I strolled across our dark southern field to our property line, where the neighbor's corn still stands. I expect he will harvest it in the spring, as is his custom. The crunchy snow sparkled like the stars in the sky, and I stood in it waiting for my second sense of hearing to kick in. My second sense of hearing lets me listen to the song of trees, and plants and fields. Sometimes I have to wait for a while before I am blessed with it, and sometimes I wait for it in vain.
A gentle breeze from the west began to rustle in the dry corn. It sounded as though the whole field were suddenly alive and moving, and as my second sense of hearing kicked in, I became aware that the corn harbored no warm feelings for me. It wasn't exactly hostile; it was just wild and focused on other things. My heart started beating fast.
At that point, a coyote howled, and it didn't sound too far away. I sprinted towards the house, forgetting that I was running over the earth that Ian had plowed up for next year's garden. Our clay soil was turned in ridges that were frozen as hard as concrete. I tripped and went sailing into the air before crashing down with my thumb squashed underneath me. As I wriggled around on the ground in pain, several more coyotes joined the eerie song. I scrambled to my feet again as and limped to our back door. Standing safely in the doorway, I listened to the wild yipping and moaning and howling, trying to appreciate it. I couldn't. I know coyotes are God's creatures, and they wouldn't hurt a person, but they scare me beyond reason.
Inside, I found that my thumb was basically okay, but my shin and knee were impressively bloody. Looking around my quiet family room, I found more compassion for myself for spending the last few days inside. When God asks me to do something, even the simplest thing, I can never predict what lies ahead. It is not in my control, and it is not really about me. Staying inside, surrounded by my illusion of personal power, feels much more comfortable.
It lacks glory, though.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Turkeys
I knew the turkey that we ate at Thanksgiving. We did not raise turkeys this year, but my friend did, and I took care of her animals when she went on summer trips. My friend’s turkeys lived in a small pasture surrounded by a 4 foot wooden fence that was beefed up with chicken wire. As soon as they grew fairly large, the fence was just another interesting part of the landscape for the turkeys. They crossed over it freely to strut around by the barn.
When it was my job to care for the turkeys, I pulled up in the driveway and looked for them near that fence, expecting to see several of them roosting on top of it. Alerted by the sound of my car pulling up, they also looked for me, and soon they came running towards me. These were large, white birds with long necks and ancient looking faces. It was a daunting to see a flock of them racing towards me, but when they reached me, they gathered around earnestly and expectantly, tilting their heads so that they could focus one eye directly on my face.
The massive birds stepped right on my feet with their sharp yellow claws, and when I foolishly wore sandals, I had to run away from them. They pursued me. Even at the height of their enthusiasm, they seemed gentle, but when I peeked over my shoulder and saw those huge yellow feet reaching forward in great strides, I felt like I was running from a flock of trolls. I had to laugh.
Towards the end of the summer, my friend provided foster care for young black lab that was so energetic its body curled and lept like a banner on a gusty day. It joyously chased after the turkeys, and they responded by fluffing up the feathers on their huge impressive chests and mounting short, purposeful strikes at the dog, which retreated. The big puppy was too giddy to remember being chased and was soon after them again. The turkeys held their own.
The turkeys made the most amazing sounds as well. Before they really learned to "gobble," they made rich trills that sounded almost like water. I had never heard anything like this before, and I felt as though I were standing in a rain forest listening to an exotic bird song instead of doing some farm chores in the land of corn and soybeans.
People say turkeys are dumb, and I believe that our domesticated birds might lack some survival skills. Still, when I was around them, I had a sense that these birds have a variety of wisdom that is so old that we cannot easily relate to it. I could hear it in their rich calls and see it in their strange, mask-like faces. My heart feels richer because I spent time with them.
When it was my job to care for the turkeys, I pulled up in the driveway and looked for them near that fence, expecting to see several of them roosting on top of it. Alerted by the sound of my car pulling up, they also looked for me, and soon they came running towards me. These were large, white birds with long necks and ancient looking faces. It was a daunting to see a flock of them racing towards me, but when they reached me, they gathered around earnestly and expectantly, tilting their heads so that they could focus one eye directly on my face.
The massive birds stepped right on my feet with their sharp yellow claws, and when I foolishly wore sandals, I had to run away from them. They pursued me. Even at the height of their enthusiasm, they seemed gentle, but when I peeked over my shoulder and saw those huge yellow feet reaching forward in great strides, I felt like I was running from a flock of trolls. I had to laugh.
Towards the end of the summer, my friend provided foster care for young black lab that was so energetic its body curled and lept like a banner on a gusty day. It joyously chased after the turkeys, and they responded by fluffing up the feathers on their huge impressive chests and mounting short, purposeful strikes at the dog, which retreated. The big puppy was too giddy to remember being chased and was soon after them again. The turkeys held their own.
The turkeys made the most amazing sounds as well. Before they really learned to "gobble," they made rich trills that sounded almost like water. I had never heard anything like this before, and I felt as though I were standing in a rain forest listening to an exotic bird song instead of doing some farm chores in the land of corn and soybeans.
People say turkeys are dumb, and I believe that our domesticated birds might lack some survival skills. Still, when I was around them, I had a sense that these birds have a variety of wisdom that is so old that we cannot easily relate to it. I could hear it in their rich calls and see it in their strange, mask-like faces. My heart feels richer because I spent time with them.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Our dog
We have a dog now. We really wanted an outdoor dog to let me know if anyone was poking around the house, to scare away possums and deer, and to help keep our chickens safe. Our next-door neighbor, who has been farming there for 46 years, recommended that we get something without a drop of birding blood in it because a bird dog would be more likely to go after our chickens. A corgi would be good, or an Australian Shepherd. Get a neutered female, he added, because the males tend to roam, even if neutered.
We got an unneutered male yellow lab. We didn't try to – our friends couldn't take him with them when they moved to a new place, and they have two little boys that love the dog. The whole situation just broke my heart. Besides, the dog is an outdoor dog, which is exactly what we wanted.
The dog is no longer an outdoor pet. A couple days after we got him, we took him to the vet, who amputated part of a crushed foot that had been bleeding for about two years. Because we were ordered to keep that foot dry and clean for 10 days after the surgery, we barricaded the dog in the front porch so I could care for him more easily. About halfway through his healing process, the big guy vaulted over our barricades and split his foot wide open again. As a result, the vet decided to tie up the injured foot in a sling, and tie a big plastic cone around the dog's head so he can't lick himself. When the dog walks outside, he lurches around like something on the brink of death, and his ridiculous plastic collar scrapes up bits of snow with every step. We are torturing the dog for its own good, but I just can't bear to think of him being lonely and scared while going through all of this. So he is lying in the kitchen right now (even though this is the cause of some family tension).
The whole problem is that this is the dog might qualify for sainthood. St. Francis of Assisi apparently said that one of the two things people can do to please God is to bear frailty with patience. If the same is true for dogs, then God must be delighted with this guy. In spite of everything, he remains unwaveringly gentle and cheerful. He gazes up at us with affectionate brown eyes and doesn't even chase the cats. I am completely in love.
My husband and I are concerned that our handling of this situation serves as a yet another sign that we won't be able to move past our city ways and be good farmers. This dog and our cats are a huge drain on time, money and energy that I could be putting into farm planning. That is a real problem.
Still, I couldn't imagine dealing with this any other way. I pray that if God wants me to go about this differently, then God should please consider changing my heart.
We got an unneutered male yellow lab. We didn't try to – our friends couldn't take him with them when they moved to a new place, and they have two little boys that love the dog. The whole situation just broke my heart. Besides, the dog is an outdoor dog, which is exactly what we wanted.
The dog is no longer an outdoor pet. A couple days after we got him, we took him to the vet, who amputated part of a crushed foot that had been bleeding for about two years. Because we were ordered to keep that foot dry and clean for 10 days after the surgery, we barricaded the dog in the front porch so I could care for him more easily. About halfway through his healing process, the big guy vaulted over our barricades and split his foot wide open again. As a result, the vet decided to tie up the injured foot in a sling, and tie a big plastic cone around the dog's head so he can't lick himself. When the dog walks outside, he lurches around like something on the brink of death, and his ridiculous plastic collar scrapes up bits of snow with every step. We are torturing the dog for its own good, but I just can't bear to think of him being lonely and scared while going through all of this. So he is lying in the kitchen right now (even though this is the cause of some family tension).
The whole problem is that this is the dog might qualify for sainthood. St. Francis of Assisi apparently said that one of the two things people can do to please God is to bear frailty with patience. If the same is true for dogs, then God must be delighted with this guy. In spite of everything, he remains unwaveringly gentle and cheerful. He gazes up at us with affectionate brown eyes and doesn't even chase the cats. I am completely in love.
My husband and I are concerned that our handling of this situation serves as a yet another sign that we won't be able to move past our city ways and be good farmers. This dog and our cats are a huge drain on time, money and energy that I could be putting into farm planning. That is a real problem.
Still, I couldn't imagine dealing with this any other way. I pray that if God wants me to go about this differently, then God should please consider changing my heart.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Climbing trees
A wooden ladder leaned against the enormous trunk of my maple tree. The rungs of that ladder became polished by my feet as I climbed up and down it, day after day and year after year. In that tree I enacted many imaginary dramas, clambering back and forth through different configurations of branches that formed distinct rooms. Sometimes I tried to climb into higher into the branches I rarely touched. Often, I just sat there. Things might have been different if I had brothers and sisters my own age to play with me or if I had parents who felt they had to keep me employed in profitable activity, but I did not have either of those things. Instead, I had time, which passed in a slow, wordless way, marked by shifts in the wind and changing shadows.
With that gift of time, I learned to wait silently with my head against a branch until I was filled with peace. It didn't happen right away, but if I waited long enough, I knew that a sweet, bright sensation would pass through me and leave me content. Then, I could sit in that tree without any words in my head, and know I was part of the branches, the leaves, and the wind. I was part of bird cries, sunshine, and the smell of mud.
In ninth grade, when my family built a new house on part of our land, I lost my tree. The tree was still there – I think it is still standing today -- but when I climbed it, our new neighbors could easily see me. Ninth graders, I thought, were a little too big to climb trees so conspicuously, and so I stopped. With that, I lost my way of relating to God, although I would not have been able to put those words on it at the time. Before ninth grade, I understood the peace that I found in that tree was part of my world, like a small child understands its mother's love to be an inevitable part of existence. When I could no longer climb the tree, I believed the loss was an unavoidable part of growing up, and I felt ashamed by my frantic grief.
I was a young adult before I recognized my time in that tree as a holy. When I started to attend Friends Meeting, the process of settling into waiting worship was completely familiar to me from my time in the maple. Instead of sitting with my head against a branch, I sat on a chair in a room full of people and I learned that I could find the peace of God there, as well. I felt the relief of someone who has been freed from a chronic pain.
More than 20 years after I stopped climbing my beloved maple, I have begun climbing trees again. This fall, I have occasionally let myself wander out to the maples on the western edge of our shelter belt and pull myself into their branches. Yesterday, as I sat down to write an essay for this blog, I kept hearing in my heart that it was time to climb a tree. I fought the frivolous urge valiantly until something in my heart said, "You are being disobedient.” With a sigh, I turned off the monitor and went outside. As I approached the trees, I suddenly had to fight back tears, which passed as quickly as the shadow of cloud. I pulled myself up into a maple, looked out into the turned earth of the cornfield, and breathed the earthy scent of the neighbor's cattle. The narrow tree limbs that bent down to the dry grass were so smooth they became golden with reflected sunshine. Fragrant leaves called me from the base of the trunk, so I swung myself down and flopped down amongst them, arms stretched wide as I gazed up at the brilliant pattern of slim gray against the blue. Like the tree limbs, I felt radiant with reflected light.
With that gift of time, I learned to wait silently with my head against a branch until I was filled with peace. It didn't happen right away, but if I waited long enough, I knew that a sweet, bright sensation would pass through me and leave me content. Then, I could sit in that tree without any words in my head, and know I was part of the branches, the leaves, and the wind. I was part of bird cries, sunshine, and the smell of mud.
In ninth grade, when my family built a new house on part of our land, I lost my tree. The tree was still there – I think it is still standing today -- but when I climbed it, our new neighbors could easily see me. Ninth graders, I thought, were a little too big to climb trees so conspicuously, and so I stopped. With that, I lost my way of relating to God, although I would not have been able to put those words on it at the time. Before ninth grade, I understood the peace that I found in that tree was part of my world, like a small child understands its mother's love to be an inevitable part of existence. When I could no longer climb the tree, I believed the loss was an unavoidable part of growing up, and I felt ashamed by my frantic grief.
I was a young adult before I recognized my time in that tree as a holy. When I started to attend Friends Meeting, the process of settling into waiting worship was completely familiar to me from my time in the maple. Instead of sitting with my head against a branch, I sat on a chair in a room full of people and I learned that I could find the peace of God there, as well. I felt the relief of someone who has been freed from a chronic pain.
More than 20 years after I stopped climbing my beloved maple, I have begun climbing trees again. This fall, I have occasionally let myself wander out to the maples on the western edge of our shelter belt and pull myself into their branches. Yesterday, as I sat down to write an essay for this blog, I kept hearing in my heart that it was time to climb a tree. I fought the frivolous urge valiantly until something in my heart said, "You are being disobedient.” With a sigh, I turned off the monitor and went outside. As I approached the trees, I suddenly had to fight back tears, which passed as quickly as the shadow of cloud. I pulled myself up into a maple, looked out into the turned earth of the cornfield, and breathed the earthy scent of the neighbor's cattle. The narrow tree limbs that bent down to the dry grass were so smooth they became golden with reflected sunshine. Fragrant leaves called me from the base of the trunk, so I swung myself down and flopped down amongst them, arms stretched wide as I gazed up at the brilliant pattern of slim gray against the blue. Like the tree limbs, I felt radiant with reflected light.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
On getting what you want
At least once a week during this beautiful autumn, I had to cajole my children to go outside. The sun was shining on fall leaves, a mild wind blew, and the fields around us lay like blankets of flaxen colored corn and green alfalfa. In spite of this, my son wanted to sit on the family room floor and put together Legos, and my daughter wanted to sit on the couch and read.
“Go outside!” I told them, and they dragged their feet as if they didn't see the point of it. "The world has things to say to you,” I urged. "You need to go out there and hear those things now, because it is harder to hear the world when you are grown up. You have to learn the language of the outdoors while you are a kid.” They finally yielded, my daughter carrying her book out to her climbing tree.
Then, last week, the weather turned suddenly. The wind got raw and so strong that it blew over a small tree in our shelter belt. It rained, and then the sky brooded purple as it prepared to snow. The cold edged its way into my bones, and I sprinted whenever I was outside so I could warm up again as fast as possible.
During that afternoon, we went over to visit our friends. As I was wrapping up my hour-long chat with Molly, the mother of that family, all of our children all got dressed in warm gear and inexplicably went outside to romp and wrestle in the wet grass. We watched them through the window with wonder. We finally got dressed and went outside, too. Molly was going to feed her calves, and I was going to round up my children and take them home.
The children had other plans. They had been waiting for us to come out of the house so we could march with them through the corn fields, looking for ears of corn that had fallen down on the ground when the combine passed. On one level, this seemed absolutely ludicrous to me. On another level, it seemed like exactly what I have been hoping for, so I tied my hood around my head and followed the whole crowd out to the fields. The wind was so strong that I staggered a couple of times. A piece of rigid pink insulation as large as a twin mattress went cartwheeling over the gentle slope before us, blown by the gale. I was grateful that I had worn my big rubber farm boots because frigid water stood on the ground between the wretched rows of shorn corn stalks. I shivered so violently that my right arm seemed to take on a life of its own. Finally, the ridiculousness of it all gave me the giggles.
In the meantime, the children pranced along as though they were fawns on a lovely spring day. When they found a little cache of grain on the ground, they would cry out with glee, “I am rich in corn! I am rich in corn!” Sometimes there were tears if their riches were not distributed equitably, but then they took off in another direction and found a new treasure trove with enough to satisfy everyone. After what seemed to me like an eternity, everyone had enough corn, so we turned towards home. Now the ears of useless field corn sit on our counter as mementos, but they will soon join the compost.
It was a miserable experience, but now the colors of the brooding sky and wet corn stalks will be part of my heart and the hearts of my children. The buffeting wind will remain with us as an experience of unbridled power. I believe that while they were looking for corn, my children were learning to hear the language of wildness. I find myself wishing in vain that one could learn that language while staying warm and dry.
“Go outside!” I told them, and they dragged their feet as if they didn't see the point of it. "The world has things to say to you,” I urged. "You need to go out there and hear those things now, because it is harder to hear the world when you are grown up. You have to learn the language of the outdoors while you are a kid.” They finally yielded, my daughter carrying her book out to her climbing tree.
Then, last week, the weather turned suddenly. The wind got raw and so strong that it blew over a small tree in our shelter belt. It rained, and then the sky brooded purple as it prepared to snow. The cold edged its way into my bones, and I sprinted whenever I was outside so I could warm up again as fast as possible.
During that afternoon, we went over to visit our friends. As I was wrapping up my hour-long chat with Molly, the mother of that family, all of our children all got dressed in warm gear and inexplicably went outside to romp and wrestle in the wet grass. We watched them through the window with wonder. We finally got dressed and went outside, too. Molly was going to feed her calves, and I was going to round up my children and take them home.
The children had other plans. They had been waiting for us to come out of the house so we could march with them through the corn fields, looking for ears of corn that had fallen down on the ground when the combine passed. On one level, this seemed absolutely ludicrous to me. On another level, it seemed like exactly what I have been hoping for, so I tied my hood around my head and followed the whole crowd out to the fields. The wind was so strong that I staggered a couple of times. A piece of rigid pink insulation as large as a twin mattress went cartwheeling over the gentle slope before us, blown by the gale. I was grateful that I had worn my big rubber farm boots because frigid water stood on the ground between the wretched rows of shorn corn stalks. I shivered so violently that my right arm seemed to take on a life of its own. Finally, the ridiculousness of it all gave me the giggles.
In the meantime, the children pranced along as though they were fawns on a lovely spring day. When they found a little cache of grain on the ground, they would cry out with glee, “I am rich in corn! I am rich in corn!” Sometimes there were tears if their riches were not distributed equitably, but then they took off in another direction and found a new treasure trove with enough to satisfy everyone. After what seemed to me like an eternity, everyone had enough corn, so we turned towards home. Now the ears of useless field corn sit on our counter as mementos, but they will soon join the compost.
It was a miserable experience, but now the colors of the brooding sky and wet corn stalks will be part of my heart and the hearts of my children. The buffeting wind will remain with us as an experience of unbridled power. I believe that while they were looking for corn, my children were learning to hear the language of wildness. I find myself wishing in vain that one could learn that language while staying warm and dry.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Chicken delivery/performance art
Next year, we will be finding a different way to distribute our chicken. This year, we had drop-off points, much like a vegetable CSA, except we had to sit there with our frozen chickens in a cooler and wait for people. Sometimes people forgot to meet us, and even when they remembered, the experience was often unusual.
One of our drop-off sites was in the public boulevard of Franklin Avenue, right next to Seward Co-op. On a Sunday in August, I drove up from Northfield with a bunch of chickens in a cooler and my late father's ornate cowboy hat. It is woven from straw and has a huge brim, a wild spray of feathers in front, and a slightly more subdued collection of feathers encircling it like a hat band. Co-op shoppers in Minneapolis rarely wear this kind of thing, so my husband thought it would be a good way for our customers to identify us. We sent out an e-mail telling our customers that we would be there at the appointed time, wearing the magnificent hat.
I lugged our cooler out of our car and plopped down in the skimpy shade of a little boulevard tree. There I sat as though my cooler were a little bench. Some pedestrians on the sidewalk glanced at me with curious expressions on their faces, and others kept their gaze resolutely forward. I began to become very self-conscious about my posture because I sense that people were analyzing it as they tried to decide whether I was a threat or not. I rummaged around my purse, found a small notebook and started to write in it, both to pass the time and because I thought it might be a comfort to uncertain bypassers.
Finally someone called out to me. It was our dear friend’s partner Chris, who was there to pick up four chickens, but did not have a bag for them. Because her dog was in her car, we decided that she should don the cowboy hat and stand between the cooler and her dog while I jogged half a block down and around the corner to fetch a bag from my car. That way, we could have a bag for the chickens, a calm dog, and someone with a fabulous hat standing by the cooler in case another customer came.
It did not fully occur to me what I had asked this woman to do until I returned with a bag sometime later. There she stood, looking slightly outlandish on the boulevard of Franklin Avenue. She assured me that she had looked meaningfully at every person who passed, but none of them seemed to be my customers.
We have been told over and over that to market our chicken, we need to sell more than the meat; we have to sell stories, values, and a lifestyle. Apparently we are all so selling opportunities for guerrilla performance art in the streets of Minneapolis. As unique and exciting as that opportunity may be, and as gracefully Chris executed it, I decided at that moment that I do not want to offer that opportunity to anyone else ever again.
After Chris left with her chickens, I sat on the boulevard waiting for a couple of people who never showed. One woman slowed on the sidewalk near me, looking very indecisive, so I asked her if she was there to pick up a chicken, but this only added to her confusion. A lean, wide-shouldered man stared at me with pale blue eyes as piercing as lasers, but mercifully kept walking.
Finally a buddy from worship group strolled out of the co-op and came to chat with me. As he sat on the grass, he remembered that while he was in the co-op, he heard some employees debating about whether they should call the police on the people who were outside. At the time he was assuming that they were talking about some panhandlers, but now he wondered if they might have been talking about me. We had a lovely visit about some worship group business, and no police arrived.
One of our drop-off sites was in the public boulevard of Franklin Avenue, right next to Seward Co-op. On a Sunday in August, I drove up from Northfield with a bunch of chickens in a cooler and my late father's ornate cowboy hat. It is woven from straw and has a huge brim, a wild spray of feathers in front, and a slightly more subdued collection of feathers encircling it like a hat band. Co-op shoppers in Minneapolis rarely wear this kind of thing, so my husband thought it would be a good way for our customers to identify us. We sent out an e-mail telling our customers that we would be there at the appointed time, wearing the magnificent hat.
I lugged our cooler out of our car and plopped down in the skimpy shade of a little boulevard tree. There I sat as though my cooler were a little bench. Some pedestrians on the sidewalk glanced at me with curious expressions on their faces, and others kept their gaze resolutely forward. I began to become very self-conscious about my posture because I sense that people were analyzing it as they tried to decide whether I was a threat or not. I rummaged around my purse, found a small notebook and started to write in it, both to pass the time and because I thought it might be a comfort to uncertain bypassers.
Finally someone called out to me. It was our dear friend’s partner Chris, who was there to pick up four chickens, but did not have a bag for them. Because her dog was in her car, we decided that she should don the cowboy hat and stand between the cooler and her dog while I jogged half a block down and around the corner to fetch a bag from my car. That way, we could have a bag for the chickens, a calm dog, and someone with a fabulous hat standing by the cooler in case another customer came.
It did not fully occur to me what I had asked this woman to do until I returned with a bag sometime later. There she stood, looking slightly outlandish on the boulevard of Franklin Avenue. She assured me that she had looked meaningfully at every person who passed, but none of them seemed to be my customers.
We have been told over and over that to market our chicken, we need to sell more than the meat; we have to sell stories, values, and a lifestyle. Apparently we are all so selling opportunities for guerrilla performance art in the streets of Minneapolis. As unique and exciting as that opportunity may be, and as gracefully Chris executed it, I decided at that moment that I do not want to offer that opportunity to anyone else ever again.
After Chris left with her chickens, I sat on the boulevard waiting for a couple of people who never showed. One woman slowed on the sidewalk near me, looking very indecisive, so I asked her if she was there to pick up a chicken, but this only added to her confusion. A lean, wide-shouldered man stared at me with pale blue eyes as piercing as lasers, but mercifully kept walking.
Finally a buddy from worship group strolled out of the co-op and came to chat with me. As he sat on the grass, he remembered that while he was in the co-op, he heard some employees debating about whether they should call the police on the people who were outside. At the time he was assuming that they were talking about some panhandlers, but now he wondered if they might have been talking about me. We had a lovely visit about some worship group business, and no police arrived.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Harvest time
I finally got my new voice recognition working today! It seems to be going fairly well. I am sending a huge thanks to my mom for helping with this.
The soybeans around here have been replaced by fields shorn so clean that the stubble reminds me of shag rug. The corn is going down now, field by field. Combines bulldoze into forests of corn stalks, which fall down before them and are shredded. Big clouds of dust rise up behind the machines like smoke, and once when my children and I were driving past, we could see that the cloud of dust from a combine was drifting over the road just ahead of us, and it glowed golden in the sun. It looked as though we would be driving to some kind of magic spell. When we finally entered the plume of gold, gritty particles swept into my truck, and when we breathed, it smiled like dry autumn leaves. It reminded me of jumping into leaf piles as a child.
Businesses in the Faribault area sponsor maternal sounding public service announcement on the radio, urging people to get enough rest during harvest, or to be careful and stay safe. They do not do this at other times of year. On Saturday, a combine caught on fire just up the road from us – we could see it from our house. If we had lived here longer, I expect that we would know the whole story, but we know nothing. Our next-door neighbor was out today harvesting, and I scanned his combine for scorch marks but didn't find any.
A radio announcer man with the most delicious, homey Minnesotan way of talking discusses the international grain market on the local station. When he talks about how farmers in South America have been low on rain and plan to start planting soon, it sounds as though he were gossiping about families who live just down the road. As I delight in his turns of phrase, I slowly get an inkling for this scale of the global commodities harvest. I am awed by the enormity of it. In my mind it assumes the sound of machinery roaring and rumbling over swaths of land too large for me even to imagine.
The soybeans around here have been replaced by fields shorn so clean that the stubble reminds me of shag rug. The corn is going down now, field by field. Combines bulldoze into forests of corn stalks, which fall down before them and are shredded. Big clouds of dust rise up behind the machines like smoke, and once when my children and I were driving past, we could see that the cloud of dust from a combine was drifting over the road just ahead of us, and it glowed golden in the sun. It looked as though we would be driving to some kind of magic spell. When we finally entered the plume of gold, gritty particles swept into my truck, and when we breathed, it smiled like dry autumn leaves. It reminded me of jumping into leaf piles as a child.
Businesses in the Faribault area sponsor maternal sounding public service announcement on the radio, urging people to get enough rest during harvest, or to be careful and stay safe. They do not do this at other times of year. On Saturday, a combine caught on fire just up the road from us – we could see it from our house. If we had lived here longer, I expect that we would know the whole story, but we know nothing. Our next-door neighbor was out today harvesting, and I scanned his combine for scorch marks but didn't find any.
A radio announcer man with the most delicious, homey Minnesotan way of talking discusses the international grain market on the local station. When he talks about how farmers in South America have been low on rain and plan to start planting soon, it sounds as though he were gossiping about families who live just down the road. As I delight in his turns of phrase, I slowly get an inkling for this scale of the global commodities harvest. I am awed by the enormity of it. In my mind it assumes the sound of machinery roaring and rumbling over swaths of land too large for me even to imagine.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Death
Still no voice recognition, and I know this is not polished, but I so much wanted to share these thoughts ...
During the process of childbirth, I became willing to lay down absolutely everything in my life and hurl myself forward into the mystery. Something within me knows that death will be like this, and that it will not be the end. St. Francis of Asisi saw death as a rather insignificant event in the life of the faithful and apparently embraced his own death. Even my father, who would be the first to admit he wasn't a saint, seems more present to me in some ways after his death. He is more diffuse, but vibrant, and often with me.
St Francis also saw all living creatures (and other natural things) as siblings because we share God as a common parent. This matches my experience so perfectly, and it makes me hope that death is not the end of the road for any part of creation. I am holding onto this hope as I wade in an ocean of grief and guilt for the beautiful things that are coming to an end all around us through environmental destruction. I stand on the edge of this sea and pray that the coming generations will be given the guidance to navigate it. And as I stand here, I am aware of an illogical joy, a peace that surpasses understanding. My eyes are shocked by sparks of light.
During the process of childbirth, I became willing to lay down absolutely everything in my life and hurl myself forward into the mystery. Something within me knows that death will be like this, and that it will not be the end. St. Francis of Asisi saw death as a rather insignificant event in the life of the faithful and apparently embraced his own death. Even my father, who would be the first to admit he wasn't a saint, seems more present to me in some ways after his death. He is more diffuse, but vibrant, and often with me.
St Francis also saw all living creatures (and other natural things) as siblings because we share God as a common parent. This matches my experience so perfectly, and it makes me hope that death is not the end of the road for any part of creation. I am holding onto this hope as I wade in an ocean of grief and guilt for the beautiful things that are coming to an end all around us through environmental destruction. I stand on the edge of this sea and pray that the coming generations will be given the guidance to navigate it. And as I stand here, I am aware of an illogical joy, a peace that surpasses understanding. My eyes are shocked by sparks of light.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
borage flowers
The borage plant in our garden is almost otherworldly. It is has a misty look to it because it is covered in a light fur, and its pointed flowers, like stars, are a deeper blue than the sky. It has always startled me to pass it, as though I had wandered into a lovely elvin presence. Today my son picked borage flowers for me and held them out in his still round six-year old hand. I was lying down, so I looked up at him with deepest indigo in his hand, and light blue in his eyes, and the whole wide blue sky framing him. I ate the flowers, which were cool and pleasant as cucumbers, and felt blessed beyond my ability to understand it.
PS. Still no voice recognition here, but it will be soon!
PS. Still no voice recognition here, but it will be soon!
Friday, September 10, 2010
technical troubles
I use voice recognition software because of repetitive stress injuries. Mine started working poorly and finally totally crashed a couple of weeks ago. We're hoping to get a new computer today to support it better. I am hoping I'll be blogging more in 1-2 weeks. I have so much to say. It is beautiful here.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Carried Home
If you always wanted to farm, but never did, you would not need to decide what to do with a baby chick that limped and dragged its wing but lived for weeks.
You would not weigh the possibility of contagion against the possibility of recovery.
You would not finger your lumpy purse of obligations, considering how much time you might lose.
You would not lift the golden bird from its hospital pen to watch it nestle down next to the earth and cock its head sideways to study you with suspicion.
You would not stand in a field of clover rustling in the sweet wind and shoulder the weight of the job before you.
You would not kneel in the clover when the job was done.
You would not feel yourself drift beyond your tumbling fence lines into a glittering ocean of corn, which would receive you completely and close over your head.
You would not discover that you could breathe under this sea, but that words all drown.
You would not allow your body to lift you like a competent mother and carry you to the garage where the shovels hang.
You would not live without words for a while, swaying to rhythms you knew before you were born.
You would not know if you were really home.
You would not weigh the possibility of contagion against the possibility of recovery.
You would not finger your lumpy purse of obligations, considering how much time you might lose.
You would not lift the golden bird from its hospital pen to watch it nestle down next to the earth and cock its head sideways to study you with suspicion.
You would not stand in a field of clover rustling in the sweet wind and shoulder the weight of the job before you.
You would not kneel in the clover when the job was done.
You would not feel yourself drift beyond your tumbling fence lines into a glittering ocean of corn, which would receive you completely and close over your head.
You would not discover that you could breathe under this sea, but that words all drown.
You would not allow your body to lift you like a competent mother and carry you to the garage where the shovels hang.
You would not live without words for a while, swaying to rhythms you knew before you were born.
You would not know if you were really home.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
We have an unusually collegial batch of chickens. The other night, one of them stood by Ian and pecked at his boots. Ian stooped over and to stroke the chicken, and it just stood there calmly. They stayed that way for a long time. I have been troubled by the birds’ friendliness because I have taken to wearing some plastic flip-flops when I step into their yard to take care of them, and they all rush over to step on my feet with their sharp toenails.
The ducks are fully feathered out, and they look magnificent. When I let them out of their pen in the morning, they all run across the driveway, flapping their white wings. My yard is filled with the sound of air moving under many strong feathers. We have granted the ducks a week of reprieve before they go to the processors because we want them to be able to attend our potluck on Saturday. It is at 5 PM. Can you come?
Friday, August 13, 2010
the kids remember
As I cut up a watermelon for my children, I realized that they had visited the place where it grew.
“Was that the farm with the pigs in the silo?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said.
“Was it the one where there were all those ducklings crossing the driveway?” my son asked.
“No,” I said, realizing that as I have been taking educational farm tours and trying to learn about farming methods, my children have been having dream-like adventures.
We finally identified the farm where the watermelon was grown. According to my kids, it was a farm that had a swing hanging from an impressive tree that had been struck by lightning. A whole bunch of people walked around following a big tractor, and that tractor sometimes changed direction unexpectedly. This was alarming for the children, who did not like the idea of being in front of the tractor, even if it was quite far away. That afternoon, children were scolded for climbing into the back of our pickup, and we all used an impressively smelly latrine.
The farm with all the ducklings also left a deep impression on the kids. They remember a huge and rather scary male turkey on the loose, along with many beautiful birds. The children were worried for a while because they lost track of us, but they found us again. My son admired a smashed up truck, and my daughter was licked by a calf. There was a potluck full of food my kids did not like. (I and everyone else thought the food was amazingly delicious. It was home grown, and organic. Our contribution was potato chips we bought at a gas station, and nobody else touched it. I have felt ashamed every time I thought of that potluck, and I am relieved to have a different way of remembering it.)
Another farm, which my family visited without me, apparently has an on-farm store. My daughter remembered vividly a large, empty room with two people standing behind a counter. A door led from that room into a “normal” bathroom. “I always remember the bathrooms,” my daughter said.
I’m not sure I want to know what visiting children remember from our farm.
“Was that the farm with the pigs in the silo?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said.
“Was it the one where there were all those ducklings crossing the driveway?” my son asked.
“No,” I said, realizing that as I have been taking educational farm tours and trying to learn about farming methods, my children have been having dream-like adventures.
We finally identified the farm where the watermelon was grown. According to my kids, it was a farm that had a swing hanging from an impressive tree that had been struck by lightning. A whole bunch of people walked around following a big tractor, and that tractor sometimes changed direction unexpectedly. This was alarming for the children, who did not like the idea of being in front of the tractor, even if it was quite far away. That afternoon, children were scolded for climbing into the back of our pickup, and we all used an impressively smelly latrine.
The farm with all the ducklings also left a deep impression on the kids. They remember a huge and rather scary male turkey on the loose, along with many beautiful birds. The children were worried for a while because they lost track of us, but they found us again. My son admired a smashed up truck, and my daughter was licked by a calf. There was a potluck full of food my kids did not like. (I and everyone else thought the food was amazingly delicious. It was home grown, and organic. Our contribution was potato chips we bought at a gas station, and nobody else touched it. I have felt ashamed every time I thought of that potluck, and I am relieved to have a different way of remembering it.)
Another farm, which my family visited without me, apparently has an on-farm store. My daughter remembered vividly a large, empty room with two people standing behind a counter. A door led from that room into a “normal” bathroom. “I always remember the bathrooms,” my daughter said.
I’m not sure I want to know what visiting children remember from our farm.
Monday, August 9, 2010
hot birds
It is hot, and the chickens are hot. They open their beaks to pant like dogs and their little necks wiggle with each breath. They hold their wings slightly away from their sides to let the cool air next to their bodies, which makes them look large and proud, and would give them an air of grandeur if they did not also look uncomfortable. This afternoon, I watched one little chick purposefully scratch the ground, then the sink down onto it, and I imagined that the soil felt cool and damp on her hot little belly. I almost felt cooler just watching her. She kept panting, though, and I decided the chickens could use some help.
I walked back to the house and turned on the hose, knowing that many chicken farmers spray their chickens with a gentle mist of water to cool them on the very hot afternoons. My husband has done this several times, but it was my first time. I could not shake the idea that I was causing some kind of mischief, and I tried to make the water come out slowly, gently, and soothingly. The water burst out from the hose in a big, wide mist, and the chickens peeped with surprise and fled to the other side of their shelter. I sprayed them as though they were plants, and when they were all damp, I turned around made sure that those in the yard were not left out. As soon as the water stopped they settled down quickly. None of them were panting. Either they were cooler, or they were too surprised to pant.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Cats
As we thought about moving to the country and starting a farm, there were many things that worried me, but I never once worried about cats. That just goes to show how little I knew about living in the country. Cats show up here, and if I were a regular farmer, like those I knew growing up, I would probably put out some cat chow and let them live their lives without much interference. I cannot imagine doing that. Ever since I was a child, cats have filled me with delight. They feel like friends, and I want to love them up and keep them safe. That is a tall order here.
When we moved in last year, six cats lived in the garage – a mother and her five untamed kittens. Soon the mother got hit by a car right in front of our house, and I tearfully called my friends, trying to figure out what to do. First, I trapped the wild, six-week-old kittens in a rolled up piece of carpet and moved them into my bathroom thinking I could socialize them. Within hours, I changed my mind because the kittens wheezed, and I worried that they would make my old cats sick. The kittens were too wild to lift, so I made ramps from an old trellis and a piece of wood paneling that allowed them to escape through the open window.
My daughter and I spent hours sitting on an old loveseat in the garage that summer, taming them. It worked. We also shelled out hundreds of dollars, which we did not feel we could really afford, to have them neutered. When fall came, one of the outside kittens followed us around the house, pressing his face against the screens to peep in at us with a plaintive look on its face. We gave in, and let it and its sister become house cats.
One kitten disappeared without a trace, so we were left with two outside cats. The orange and white one captured my heart completely. Every evening, it put its front paws around my neck like a hug, nestled its soft head under my chin, and purred with delight. My heart lit up. This spring, when another batch of kittens was born in the shelter by our porch, that cat never showed impatience with them, but snuggled with them. He was a lovely soul. I spent my Christmas money from my mother-in-law to buy him a heated bed for the cold winter because I could feel him shivering.
We have not seen him for over a week, and the neighbor said that while working the fields on the border of our property, he scared up a coyote that had just killed a young pheasant. I am struggling against picturing what happened to my friend. Its brother was hit by a car earlier this summer, so of the six cats that originally lived here, the two survivors live inside.
Two cats other live outside our house now – a gray female that showed up in the wintertime and had kittens before she was tame enough to neuter, and one of her offspring. They, too, are lovely cats, which purr mightily. I cannot imagine a nicer sound then loud purring mixed with the trills of crickets.
I am giving these cats good advice every night: Stay close to home, and don’t go near the road. Beyond that, I feel there is little that I can do to keep them safe. It grieves me to be reminded of how little protection I can give to all the things I love.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Rip van Winkle
I came back from a short trip to Iowa yesterday and found that things had changed here. Ian had arrived ome a couple days early to take the big chickens to the processor, so they were gone, and in their place out in the field were the little chicks from the brooder. I feel like Rip van Winkle. An entire generation has passed while I was away for what I thought was a long weekend.
The new chicks seem quite merry in their new home. We are keeping them inside the floorless shelter for a few days so they are more likely to think of it as an inviting place to go when the rain comes. Today the chicks burst out of their shelter by pushing under some chicken wire when they saw it Ian coming towards them with a family who was visiting the farm. They suspected he was going to give them feed, and they did not want to waste a moment of time.
The ducks are so huge that they dwarf the sleds we have filled with water for them, although they use them faithfully for their morning cleaning, patiently taking turns. If they were chickens, the most prestigious birds would go first, and the downtrodden would be pecked and have to wait. Because the sleds seem inadequate, we have tried several ways of making ramps up to the lip of a small plastic swimming pool, but the ducks are still wary of going in it. Today, during the heat, several climbed up our makeshift stairway of sandbags and splashed jubilantly in the water.
The new chicks seem quite merry in their new home. We are keeping them inside the floorless shelter for a few days so they are more likely to think of it as an inviting place to go when the rain comes. Today the chicks burst out of their shelter by pushing under some chicken wire when they saw it Ian coming towards them with a family who was visiting the farm. They suspected he was going to give them feed, and they did not want to waste a moment of time.
The ducks are so huge that they dwarf the sleds we have filled with water for them, although they use them faithfully for their morning cleaning, patiently taking turns. If they were chickens, the most prestigious birds would go first, and the downtrodden would be pecked and have to wait. Because the sleds seem inadequate, we have tried several ways of making ramps up to the lip of a small plastic swimming pool, but the ducks are still wary of going in it. Today, during the heat, several climbed up our makeshift stairway of sandbags and splashed jubilantly in the water.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Wet chickens
Our elder chickens are forsaking their new home for nights spent under the stars. This has been working out all right when they are actually stars overhead, but when it rains, we have a problem. I discovered this one rainy morning when I went out to feed them and found that one of them slept outside by the feed bin. It was too cold and wet to even squawk when I picked it up, but I took it to the brooder with an almost equally wet buddy and placed them both in a box under the heat lamp. They napped in the warmth until they felt better. By the time everything was settled down, the insides of my rubber boots were so filled with rain that I made a little splash with every step. The next evening, all the chickens bedded down by their feeders outside, and I saw lightning in the West, so I carried them all into their shelter. It was a dramatic time to be outside, trying to beat an approaching storm. If I had been doing something other than carrying around a bunch of sleepy chickens, I would have felt quite archetypal and heroic.
The little yellow chicks are growing up and sprouting little white feathers on their wings. One chick has a few black feathers on its shoulder. I have inspected these several times to be sure they look healthy, and they do. The poor chick is almost getting used to being lifted and fingered. This evening, it peeped tragically at first, then calmed down so much that it actually caught a mosquito in mid air while I held it.
We have decided that we cannot keep the ducks over the winter, and we will likely butcher them within a couple weeks. Our decision made my daughter cry. We are hoping to raise more ducks next year, when we have spent some time planning how we will take care of them. I will miss them. I had no idea they were so fun.
The little yellow chicks are growing up and sprouting little white feathers on their wings. One chick has a few black feathers on its shoulder. I have inspected these several times to be sure they look healthy, and they do. The poor chick is almost getting used to being lifted and fingered. This evening, it peeped tragically at first, then calmed down so much that it actually caught a mosquito in mid air while I held it.
We have decided that we cannot keep the ducks over the winter, and we will likely butcher them within a couple weeks. Our decision made my daughter cry. We are hoping to raise more ducks next year, when we have spent some time planning how we will take care of them. I will miss them. I had no idea they were so fun.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
At the restaurant
I have sometimes looked at the Beatitudes as if it were the menu of a restaurant. I have considered all the different options that are being offered, such as being comforted, or inheriting the earth. Then, I have looked at the price of all these things, and wondered which would be the easiest for me to swing. I have almost dismissed some options because they are too expensive. For example, inheriting the kingdom of heaven sounds great, but I am not sure if I really have what it takes to be poor in spirit.
Time and time again, I scan the options and decide I want to see God. To do that, you have to have a clean heart, which sounds like a pretty tall order, and I am not completely sure what it means to have a “clean heart.” Still, I might barely be able to manage it after a lifetime of grace and determined work. I have placed my order repeatedly with God, as if God were the only waitress on duty at a packed restaurant with notoriously slow service.
Today I got an appetizer I did not order. It is just a little plastic basket with a few onion rings in it, but really, that is all I can handle right now. Today, I understood that I see God now in the sky, in the soil, the plants and animals and the people around me. It is something I do already, occasionally, and dimly, when my heart is translucent enough for the Light to enter it.
I am not going to change my order. I still want to see God, more frequently and more clearly – maybe all the time. I am going to keep sitting at my table, nibbling at these amazing onion rings, and watching the other people eat or wait for their food. I will know the condition of my heart by how much I’m able to see in the faces around me.
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
(Matthew 3-10)
Time and time again, I scan the options and decide I want to see God. To do that, you have to have a clean heart, which sounds like a pretty tall order, and I am not completely sure what it means to have a “clean heart.” Still, I might barely be able to manage it after a lifetime of grace and determined work. I have placed my order repeatedly with God, as if God were the only waitress on duty at a packed restaurant with notoriously slow service.
Today I got an appetizer I did not order. It is just a little plastic basket with a few onion rings in it, but really, that is all I can handle right now. Today, I understood that I see God now in the sky, in the soil, the plants and animals and the people around me. It is something I do already, occasionally, and dimly, when my heart is translucent enough for the Light to enter it.
I am not going to change my order. I still want to see God, more frequently and more clearly – maybe all the time. I am going to keep sitting at my table, nibbling at these amazing onion rings, and watching the other people eat or wait for their food. I will know the condition of my heart by how much I’m able to see in the faces around me.
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
(Matthew 3-10)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
corn
The corn that our neighbor planted on our land has grown so tall that we cannot see the land that dips down west of our property, where the sun sets. Instead, when we stand beside the old lilac bushes, by the huge rocks that must’ve been the foundation of a barn, we look west into a green wall that is much taller than we are. I have stood in the corn with my arms stretched up to the sky, and beside me, the corn stalks stretch taller than my fingers. My narrow, reaching arms seem to imitate the plants around me.
A couple of days ago, when some cousins came by for a visit, my children wanted to show them the wild cherry tree that grows on the south border of our property. We had to walk between two rows of corn to get there, with the wide slightly furry leaves rasping against our faces. I almost felt I had to hold my breath, and that our walk would never end, but of course it did. We admired the tight green fruits on the cherry tree, then turned back to press single file through the corn again. A baby, who made the trip in his mother’s arms, cuddled his face into his mother’s shoulder to hide it from the reaching leaves. The baby’s father called out, “it smells like corn!” I had not noticed the sweet smell because I had been so absorbed by the feeling of the leaves against me.
My daughter likes to play in the corn, but only for a little bit, if I am outside and not far away. She and my son have found rooms in the field, where no corn grew, and where they are surrounded by walls of green. They have given the rooms names such as “14 through 17” based on the number of rows they must cross before they reach the rooms. I am glad that my children play in the corn, and I am glad that they never play very long there.
A couple of days ago, when some cousins came by for a visit, my children wanted to show them the wild cherry tree that grows on the south border of our property. We had to walk between two rows of corn to get there, with the wide slightly furry leaves rasping against our faces. I almost felt I had to hold my breath, and that our walk would never end, but of course it did. We admired the tight green fruits on the cherry tree, then turned back to press single file through the corn again. A baby, who made the trip in his mother’s arms, cuddled his face into his mother’s shoulder to hide it from the reaching leaves. The baby’s father called out, “it smells like corn!” I had not noticed the sweet smell because I had been so absorbed by the feeling of the leaves against me.
My daughter likes to play in the corn, but only for a little bit, if I am outside and not far away. She and my son have found rooms in the field, where no corn grew, and where they are surrounded by walls of green. They have given the rooms names such as “14 through 17” based on the number of rows they must cross before they reach the rooms. I am glad that my children play in the corn, and I am glad that they never play very long there.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Celebrities
We picked up a new batch of chicks at the post office, and I felt like a celebrity. The elderly gentleman behind me in line exclaimed, “I haven’t seen that in years! We used to get our chickens off the train.” He smiled, then stood with his mouth agape. The woman behind him in line said, with a tone of authority, “Yes, more and more people are getting chickens now. I read about it.” She had apparently considered keeping them herself, and we stood out in the parking lot discussing hatcheries. While settling the box of chicks on top of my children’s laps in the truck, another car pulled up beside us, and its driver greeted us with enthusiasm usually reserved for old friends. He said he had kept chickens once, and took a peek at our fluffy birds before I excused myself, saying the baby chicks needed to go home and drink water.
To make room for the new chicks, the big chickens have moved into new digs. Our more mature birds are living out in what looks like the top of a covered wagon. The advantages of this are that we don’t have to rush to put them inside at twilight to keep them safe from predators, because an electric fence, which surrounds their yard, keeps them safe. They don’t have to wait for us to let them out in the morning either. They can go right out at the crack of dawn and start browsing for food, while we are still in bed.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Evening light
Because of the chickens, I am aware of the evening light. There is a certain time in the evening, when the shadows are long and stillness settles over the fields. The chickens appreciate this, and they all go outside to peck their feed or browse through the grass like discriminating customers at an upscale grocery store. Slowly, the light fades, and the some hop inside their coop, then more join them. When the light is so dim that I am certain predators must be out and about, then two or three chickens are typically hanging around outside as if they don’t want the evening to end. On these nights, I endlessly say “Go to bed!” first to my children, and then to my birds. It is like the chorus for the long, lovely summer twilight. At some magic point in the evening, an unseen balance tips, and all the chickens go inside. I’ve been trying to tend to them immediately after this happens, and so I have been watching the light carefully.
I went to a family reunion for three nights in northwestern Minnesota while my husband took care of the birds, and when I came home it seemed as though the ducklings had grown up it turned into ducks. During my absence, they also took the following my husband around in the evening before he gives them food. He strides purposefully through the yard followed at a little distance by waddling ducks, which also have a very purposeful air about them. He says he feels a little bit like a mother duck.
Monday, July 5, 2010
As the daughter of two actors, I often see the world through the lens of theater. In the morning, when I let the young chickens out of their shelter, I feel as though I am watching a show-stopping song and dance number. The space in front of me erupts with sound, color and movement as all the chicks run through the greenery as fast as their little legs can carry them. Their little bodies shift from side to side with every step, and their wings sometimes flap for emphasis as the ensemble traces patterns of white through the green clover. They all gather into perfect lines, facing each other, with their feed troughs between them, and they keep singing as they wait for me to deliver their food. I’m never sure whether to applaud or start singing myself. Usually I don’t do either, but I consider it as I scoop their grain into their troughs.
We lost a couple of ducks to predators during the last week, which was hard. Each time, we made changes to their pen, and I think they will be safe at night now. I was talking about my ducks with someone at a Fourth of July party, and she knew just how I felt about them. “Ducks have heart,” she said with a knowing nod. We fill up a couple of the children’s sleds with water so they have a place to splash. They curve their necks and dip gracefully so that the water falls down on their backs, and then they wiggle their tails with what looks like delight. They make those old plastic sleds look almost elegant. Clearly, we are going to have to look into the possibility of selling duck eggs.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
a lesson
One of our ducklings taught me a lesson with its last moments of life.
On Saturday morning, my daughter went out to care for the birds, accompanied by her dear friend who had spent the night. They came in, wide-eyed, to report that one of the ducklings was bloody and its wing was shaking. As I finished up my work inside, they went out again to assess the situation, and they found several holes in the ground next to the shelter. Apparently a predator dug its way into the ducklings’ shelter during the night. “The duckling is dying,” my daughter told me steadily. “Its whole side is covered in blood.”
At this point, it felt very important for me to get dressed and braid my hair as I prepared to euthanize the little duck. It took a long time to get myself ready, find the combination for the padlock, unlock the gun, and make all the necessary preparations. I slowly completed this intricate and measured process, then went outside.
The injured duck was resting in a little group with the other duckling. Even though it was dying, its eyes were bright, and it held up head with grace and interest. We carried it away from the rest of the ducklings and set it under a tree. Then the bullets jammed in the gun, and we had to put everything on hold while my friend teased them all out with a screwdriver. Finally, we returned to the duck waiting under the tree. Just before we ended its life, a fly buzzed near its face, probably attracted by the bird’s wound. The duckling brightened and snapped at the fly with such passion and vitality that I almost felt a twinge of envy. I am carrying this image in my heart, where it has radiance and weight. The memory will teach me more when the time is right.
On Saturday morning, my daughter went out to care for the birds, accompanied by her dear friend who had spent the night. They came in, wide-eyed, to report that one of the ducklings was bloody and its wing was shaking. As I finished up my work inside, they went out again to assess the situation, and they found several holes in the ground next to the shelter. Apparently a predator dug its way into the ducklings’ shelter during the night. “The duckling is dying,” my daughter told me steadily. “Its whole side is covered in blood.”
At this point, it felt very important for me to get dressed and braid my hair as I prepared to euthanize the little duck. It took a long time to get myself ready, find the combination for the padlock, unlock the gun, and make all the necessary preparations. I slowly completed this intricate and measured process, then went outside.
The injured duck was resting in a little group with the other duckling. Even though it was dying, its eyes were bright, and it held up head with grace and interest. We carried it away from the rest of the ducklings and set it under a tree. Then the bullets jammed in the gun, and we had to put everything on hold while my friend teased them all out with a screwdriver. Finally, we returned to the duck waiting under the tree. Just before we ended its life, a fly buzzed near its face, probably attracted by the bird’s wound. The duckling brightened and snapped at the fly with such passion and vitality that I almost felt a twinge of envy. I am carrying this image in my heart, where it has radiance and weight. The memory will teach me more when the time is right.
Monday, June 21, 2010
loudmouth
One of our chicks has a very loud peep. We first noticed that when we were driving the little flock home from the post office. As the car rolled over some railroad tracks, one chick’s voice rose from the little cardboard box of birds with shrill authority and volume. He has not lost his touch. When I am feeding them or stirring up their bedding, I am always startled by his strident voice, which seems as though it were announcing an emergency. I study the little group of chicks, expecting that one of them is being squashed by something, but this is never the case. It is just our loudmouth expressing himself.
The chicks are still balls of yellow fluff, but they are growing feathers on their wings. These birds are earthy types that are not destined for flying. When they are still so small and light, they and they flutter a little bit on their new wing feathers, flight seems almost within reach.
The ducks are amazing. They march around in a fluffy yellow herd, deciding their direction collectively. They are so vital that they vibrate as they forage for food in their little grassy yard. Soon they will be moving out of the brooder.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hearing the fields
For as long as I can remember, when I smelled the scent of grass or rain on the wind, I was overcome with longing to return to a home that had never been mine, “It almost smells like I am home” I found myself thinking. “I can almost feel myself surrounded by fields.” I puzzled over this for years, wondering if I might be longing for my childhood home, which was on the fringe of the suburbs, or for the dairy farm where I worked as a teenager. Neither of those answers brought me peace. I wondered if it was possible to inherit memories and longings from family, the way we inherit mannerisms and temperament. Maybe I was wishing for the home of my grandmother, my namesake, who died when my mother was still a child. I expect that I will never know.
Even though I could make no rational sense of it, I experienced searing beauty followed by loss almost every day. It was a heavy weight to carry. For a while, I tried to stop hearing the power of the sky and the growing things around me because I did not want the grief that followed my awareness. For a while, I stopped praying because in my prayers, I would also see the fields and then fall into sadness.
Now that I have lived in the country for a year, I still don’t know how to respond to the wild power that comes to me in the smell of grass, or to the fields that I see in my prayers. They don’t bring me grief anymore though, only uncertainty and joy.
The other night, I was trying to pray for a friend of mine who is in trouble, and in Quaker fashion, I started out in silent worship, waiting for an awareness of Christ’s love and peace. Instead of hearing God, I heard the fields to the south of my house. They were a riot of growth, covered over with the peace that accompanies most green, growing things. Expansiveness called the fields up towards the darkening sky, and the soil beneath them was alive with tiny movements.
I finally had to give up on praying for my friend and just go outside. Once I was standing in the grass, accompanied by trees, I tried again to pray. This time, I stomped my feet on the ground and sang, and let my arms go where they felt like going. Finally then, I felt the peace of Christ. I prayed for my friend, still shouting and dancing. When I was done, I stood alone in my isolated yard and had the sense that I was being watched by women. I had the sense that they were pleased.
Even though I could make no rational sense of it, I experienced searing beauty followed by loss almost every day. It was a heavy weight to carry. For a while, I tried to stop hearing the power of the sky and the growing things around me because I did not want the grief that followed my awareness. For a while, I stopped praying because in my prayers, I would also see the fields and then fall into sadness.
Now that I have lived in the country for a year, I still don’t know how to respond to the wild power that comes to me in the smell of grass, or to the fields that I see in my prayers. They don’t bring me grief anymore though, only uncertainty and joy.
The other night, I was trying to pray for a friend of mine who is in trouble, and in Quaker fashion, I started out in silent worship, waiting for an awareness of Christ’s love and peace. Instead of hearing God, I heard the fields to the south of my house. They were a riot of growth, covered over with the peace that accompanies most green, growing things. Expansiveness called the fields up towards the darkening sky, and the soil beneath them was alive with tiny movements.
I finally had to give up on praying for my friend and just go outside. Once I was standing in the grass, accompanied by trees, I tried again to pray. This time, I stomped my feet on the ground and sang, and let my arms go where they felt like going. Finally then, I felt the peace of Christ. I prayed for my friend, still shouting and dancing. When I was done, I stood alone in my isolated yard and had the sense that I was being watched by women. I had the sense that they were pleased.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Ethereal
“Ethereal chicken” is almost always an oxymoron, like “plastic silverware.” For just a day or two though, when they are tiny and completely covered in golden down, chicks can be ethereal. Our new birds are in this brief phase of their lives. When they stand under the red light of their heat lamp, they almost glow. Watching them, I remember the lightness of their little bodies as we lifted them out of the boxes on Thursday. They could almost be like little wisps of air, except their tiny little feet make the quickest little pattering sound as they dart around the brooder.
My mother-in-law helped me construct a cardboard wall across part of the brooder so that we could have a separate “room” for ducklings. The ducklings came on Thursday, the day after the chickens, and we have been amazed by them. Picking them up is a completely different experience then picking up the ethereal little chicks. The ducklings are more substantial, with a long neck, active feet, and a bit of softness cushioning their belly. Ian described them best when he called them “purposeful.” They seem driven in their pursuit of any bug that has the misfortune to wander into their part of the brooder.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Up and down
Wednesday night, for the first time since I hurt my finger, Ian said to me, “Let’s go for a walk after the children are in bed.” As we usually do, we strolled towards the western edge of our lawn, through the trees that form a shelter belt around our house, and we stood looking out over the cornfields. He loaned me his jacket because I was shivering.
After we admired the wispy clouds and the gentle rolling land, we each chose an aisle between the rows of corn, and we walked south, followed by one of our cats who also liked the idea of a companionable evening walk. I looked over at Ian and the fields behind him, and it seemed like a scene that I would see longingly while my eyes were closed in worship. I had the mildly uneasy sense that maybe I was just worshiping or dreaming. The image of Ian walking beside me like that is stamped in my heart, with colors that are almost too bright.
We circled around our garden and headed back for the house. “It is good to have you back,” Ian told me.
Thursday night I was feeling woozy again, and I lay on the couch, unable to shake the feeling that the space around my body was blinking with colors. The colors were too bright, and they were blinking too fast. I was afraid to open my eyes and look out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind, because I was afraid that they would feel menacing. I made myself look at the treetops anyway, and it was almost painfully intense to see the blinking lights as the leaves shifted front of the cloudy sky. Nothing looked menacing though, and I forced myself to keep looking. The longer I looked, the more peaceful the trees seemed.
Today, I drove to the post office to pick up 15 ducklings in a box and bring them home to our brooder. I felt spacey and disconnected with my body as I drove the car home with the ducklings peeping beside me, and I worried that I might not be the best driver. “You are in the fields,” I reminded myself, and in my peripheral vision, I could see the wide spaces of green, hemmed in sometimes with trees. I relaxed instantly. It is a feeling that I remember from early childhood, when the presence of my mother made the world safe and right.
After we admired the wispy clouds and the gentle rolling land, we each chose an aisle between the rows of corn, and we walked south, followed by one of our cats who also liked the idea of a companionable evening walk. I looked over at Ian and the fields behind him, and it seemed like a scene that I would see longingly while my eyes were closed in worship. I had the mildly uneasy sense that maybe I was just worshiping or dreaming. The image of Ian walking beside me like that is stamped in my heart, with colors that are almost too bright.
We circled around our garden and headed back for the house. “It is good to have you back,” Ian told me.
Thursday night I was feeling woozy again, and I lay on the couch, unable to shake the feeling that the space around my body was blinking with colors. The colors were too bright, and they were blinking too fast. I was afraid to open my eyes and look out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind, because I was afraid that they would feel menacing. I made myself look at the treetops anyway, and it was almost painfully intense to see the blinking lights as the leaves shifted front of the cloudy sky. Nothing looked menacing though, and I forced myself to keep looking. The longer I looked, the more peaceful the trees seemed.
Today, I drove to the post office to pick up 15 ducklings in a box and bring them home to our brooder. I felt spacey and disconnected with my body as I drove the car home with the ducklings peeping beside me, and I worried that I might not be the best driver. “You are in the fields,” I reminded myself, and in my peripheral vision, I could see the wide spaces of green, hemmed in sometimes with trees. I relaxed instantly. It is a feeling that I remember from early childhood, when the presence of my mother made the world safe and right.
Friday, June 4, 2010
It has been a quiet week
I had no idea that smashing my finger would be such a big deal. I had surgery on the finger on Wednesday, and the doctor said it went well. I am also on antibiotics as I had a fever and the doctors were worried that infection would get into the broken bone. Before I took the antibiotics, I started drifting into mild visions, which cleared up once I got on the medication. I am aware of several mystics who had their major visions while being seriously ill, but I skipped that opportunity.
“Good Lord! Of course you did!” my mother exclaims from her permanent seat in my imagination.
I am also taking pain medication. At first, I was very conservative about taking those pills, but I am now downing one every four hours on the dot. Perhaps this is why my books about farming seem especially exciting. Yesterday, I was giddy with delight as I read a rather academic chapter about the parts of flowers. “Growing Fruit in the Upper Midwest” is a must-read for anyone taking narcotics.
I have spent most of the last week in bed, and I am very grateful for friends and family who have been taking care of me and my kids.
“Good Lord! Of course you did!” my mother exclaims from her permanent seat in my imagination.
I am also taking pain medication. At first, I was very conservative about taking those pills, but I am now downing one every four hours on the dot. Perhaps this is why my books about farming seem especially exciting. Yesterday, I was giddy with delight as I read a rather academic chapter about the parts of flowers. “Growing Fruit in the Upper Midwest” is a must-read for anyone taking narcotics.
I have spent most of the last week in bed, and I am very grateful for friends and family who have been taking care of me and my kids.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Another wild Friday night at the farm
For weeks, Ian and his friend Chuck have been fixing up an old field cultivator that we were given, and last night he finally pulled it behind the tractor to prepare our garden for planting. The machinery still wasn’t working properly, so Ian asked me to come out and help. My job was to walk behind the tractor and encourage a mechanism on the field cultivator to turn as Ian went around the corner. We started out very slowly with visions of me falling down and being sliced up by the tines that were digging up the earth, but we never gave that an opportunity to happen. The first time I helped the mechanism turn, another piece of metal turned faster and came up and squashed my middle finger.
I shouted and went tearing across the field. When I got to the yard, I did not want to stop running, so I just ran in circles. I could feel something flopping off the injured hand, and I asked Ian to look at it because I was too afraid. He took one look and said, “We are going to the doctor.” This confirmed my worst fear, and it wasn’t until we were getting in the car that I found out it was not part of my finger that had been torn off, but just the nail. It was the entire nail, including the portion that usually sits under your skin.
As we drove to urgent care, I belted out hymns and folk songs and wiggled in my seat and stomped my feet because I thought that if I sat still I might throw up. The folks at the urgent care tried to stick my nail back inside my finger to give a new nail a chance to grow, but they could not do it. They said I have a week get someone to do that, and if no one can do it, then I might never have a fingernail on that finger. I am remembering this is a distinct possibility, but Ian said it sounded to him like I would probably eventually have a fingernail of some sort on that finger. It will likely be a weird looking nail –bumpy or discolored, but it will be a nail. What a shame that it is not my style to flip people the bird because I will have a unique instrument for that purpose.
The bone in my finger is also broken, and the skin is pretty sliced up. We spent so much time at the urgent care that my son had time to watch the whole Toy Story movie in the waiting room.
Back at home, I tried unsuccessfully to find a substitute for my Pilates class the next morning and then went to deal with the chicken that had been in the oven when I got hurt. The chicken was standing upright, balanced on a Coke can, just as I had left it, but in the intervening two hours it seemed to me like it had acquired more personality. I tried in vain to pull the Coke can out of its cavity, but my finger hurt too much, so I had to put it in the refrigerator as it was. It is still standing there bare naked like a cranky gnome.
I have no idea how we are going to keep up with things while my finger gets better. It hurts so much.
I shouted and went tearing across the field. When I got to the yard, I did not want to stop running, so I just ran in circles. I could feel something flopping off the injured hand, and I asked Ian to look at it because I was too afraid. He took one look and said, “We are going to the doctor.” This confirmed my worst fear, and it wasn’t until we were getting in the car that I found out it was not part of my finger that had been torn off, but just the nail. It was the entire nail, including the portion that usually sits under your skin.
As we drove to urgent care, I belted out hymns and folk songs and wiggled in my seat and stomped my feet because I thought that if I sat still I might throw up. The folks at the urgent care tried to stick my nail back inside my finger to give a new nail a chance to grow, but they could not do it. They said I have a week get someone to do that, and if no one can do it, then I might never have a fingernail on that finger. I am remembering this is a distinct possibility, but Ian said it sounded to him like I would probably eventually have a fingernail of some sort on that finger. It will likely be a weird looking nail –bumpy or discolored, but it will be a nail. What a shame that it is not my style to flip people the bird because I will have a unique instrument for that purpose.
The bone in my finger is also broken, and the skin is pretty sliced up. We spent so much time at the urgent care that my son had time to watch the whole Toy Story movie in the waiting room.
Back at home, I tried unsuccessfully to find a substitute for my Pilates class the next morning and then went to deal with the chicken that had been in the oven when I got hurt. The chicken was standing upright, balanced on a Coke can, just as I had left it, but in the intervening two hours it seemed to me like it had acquired more personality. I tried in vain to pull the Coke can out of its cavity, but my finger hurt too much, so I had to put it in the refrigerator as it was. It is still standing there bare naked like a cranky gnome.
I have no idea how we are going to keep up with things while my finger gets better. It hurts so much.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
More possum repercussions
Last week was a heavy week.
After the possum bit me on a Friday night, we were supposed to kill it, refrigerate it and then give it to the University of Minnesota so it could be tested for rabies. We did that, and on the following Monday the University called us to say they could not test the possum because its brain had turned to mush. They recommended that I get rabies shots.
I did not get the shots. The Minnesota Department of Health says that only one possum in the state has ever tested positive for rabies, and so I had a pretty low risk of exposure. Also, my wound was small and shallow, which lowers my chances of getting the disease, according to my doctor. (She strongly encouraged me to get the shots anyway.)
If that possum has given me rabies, I will die a terrible death and there will be nothing anyone can do about it. I went online to learn more and ended up looking at pictures of people and animals that were dying of the disease. It was like catching a glimpse of a demon. I think it is possible that diseases have awareness and a spiritual character much like plants do. If I were around it, I might be able to “hear” the disease, the way I “hear” the awareness of plants, but I do not want to be around it. It is an embodiment of horror. Thankfully, the chances that I will experience that horror are very low.
I was afraid of getting the shots because my osteopath said the shots might cause me more chronic sickness and pain. I believe this guy even though his advice runs contrary to other information because he has healed me when other people could not. When my repetitive stress injuries prevented me from picking up toys from the floor or washing dishes, the regular doctors gave me braces that messed up my elbows and started talking about surgery even though they said I was not a good candidate for it. The osteopath started working with my collarbone, and my arms got much better. When I experienced a low-level stomach flu for a few years, the regular doctors gave me pills that did not work. The osteopath put me on a strict diet that helped me feel like a regular person again. It seems to me like he goes to the root of the problem instead of fixing the symptom and leaving the main problem alone. (He also said that in spite of his concerns, he could not advise me to forgo the shots.)
As I considered getting the shots, it seemed like I had to choose between a very low chance of death and a fair chance of pain and disability. I have had enough pain and disability. I don’t want any more. There are so many things that I want to do with this life. Every day, I find myself panting after breathtaking beauty. I want so much to be free to dance and run after it, and to lift heavy things as I pursue it.
After the possum bit me on a Friday night, we were supposed to kill it, refrigerate it and then give it to the University of Minnesota so it could be tested for rabies. We did that, and on the following Monday the University called us to say they could not test the possum because its brain had turned to mush. They recommended that I get rabies shots.
I did not get the shots. The Minnesota Department of Health says that only one possum in the state has ever tested positive for rabies, and so I had a pretty low risk of exposure. Also, my wound was small and shallow, which lowers my chances of getting the disease, according to my doctor. (She strongly encouraged me to get the shots anyway.)
If that possum has given me rabies, I will die a terrible death and there will be nothing anyone can do about it. I went online to learn more and ended up looking at pictures of people and animals that were dying of the disease. It was like catching a glimpse of a demon. I think it is possible that diseases have awareness and a spiritual character much like plants do. If I were around it, I might be able to “hear” the disease, the way I “hear” the awareness of plants, but I do not want to be around it. It is an embodiment of horror. Thankfully, the chances that I will experience that horror are very low.
I was afraid of getting the shots because my osteopath said the shots might cause me more chronic sickness and pain. I believe this guy even though his advice runs contrary to other information because he has healed me when other people could not. When my repetitive stress injuries prevented me from picking up toys from the floor or washing dishes, the regular doctors gave me braces that messed up my elbows and started talking about surgery even though they said I was not a good candidate for it. The osteopath started working with my collarbone, and my arms got much better. When I experienced a low-level stomach flu for a few years, the regular doctors gave me pills that did not work. The osteopath put me on a strict diet that helped me feel like a regular person again. It seems to me like he goes to the root of the problem instead of fixing the symptom and leaving the main problem alone. (He also said that in spite of his concerns, he could not advise me to forgo the shots.)
As I considered getting the shots, it seemed like I had to choose between a very low chance of death and a fair chance of pain and disability. I have had enough pain and disability. I don’t want any more. There are so many things that I want to do with this life. Every day, I find myself panting after breathtaking beauty. I want so much to be free to dance and run after it, and to lift heavy things as I pursue it.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Hefty handfuls
The chickens have a new pasture now. We are letting them out the door on the east side of the coop (instead of the north side), and this is especially exciting to them because this yard includes both tall and short clover. When we mowed, we left a strip of pasture untouched, and now these plants are knee-high. The chickens love to nestle into the tall clover and munch on it or settle down next to it. We can see white faces peeking up from a green tangle of plants. Even though they enjoy the tall clover, we mow their pasture because we understand that they are able to eat more greens when the greens are shorter. When the plants are taller, the chickens tend to trample them more.
This group of birds has two more weeks to live. We will try to make sure that they are good weeks. When the birds stay out late, and I have to pick some up and put them inside their coop at night to protect them from predators, I can no longer pick up two at a time. Each chicken takes two hands, and some of the larger ones already feel like very hefty handfuls. Last evening, a little rooster was so determined to sleep outside. I must’ve put him back in the coop 5 times because he kept wandering back out as I went to fetch another wayfaring chicken from the yard. He felt huge in my hands.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Help us find homes!
We are looking for homes for four kittens. They will be ready for new homes by the end of the month. They are friendly and they have been using the litter box on the front porch. They are very cute!
We are also looking for a home for their mother, because she hunted down a chicken. (Maybe it was not her fault -- maybe the possum killed it and she ate the leftovers.) She catches mice too. The mother has lived as a barn cat but is very affectionate and strolled in through our ripped screen door. Yesterday she walked in and jumped on my lap
You know anyone who wants a kitty? Call us! 507-645-4662
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
More relaxed chickens
The chickens are finally in their clover pasture because weather has turned warmer, and they have finally feathered out. On Friday, I herded all the chickens in from their temporary yard by our garage, and Ian chained the little coop to the back of our tractor. The coop slid behind him on skids as he drove out to the pasture. Then we set up a fence for them and let them out into their new world. The chickens seem to be making up for lost time by eating lots of greens. Their yard has become a honeycomb of little paths through the clover, and near their coop, they have eaten all the leaves off the plants, leaving stiff stalks bare and pointing up at the sky. We will need to rotate their pasture much sooner than I expected.
The flock seems much more relaxed in the warmer weather. I feel relieved for them. On the first warm night this week, when their coop was still near our garage, a bunch of them bedded down in the grass, and something felt just right about that. Even so, I had to move them inside to protect them from predators, so I ended up picking up half the flock, one or two at a time, and setting them inside their coop. It was a little bit shocking. They are completely feathered out on top, but when I reached my hands around their undersides to lift them, my fingers sank very slightly into warm, soft skin. Apparently their bellies have not feathered out yet. It was not at all what I expected, and I felt surprised every time I picked up another chicken. The chickens felt surprised too. They squawked piteously, but then calmed down quickly when I set them down again. I admire how quickly chickens seem to recover from emotional upsets.
Friday, May 14, 2010
bad to worse
This evening, I went to pet the six-week old kittens that live in our garage, and I reached into their nest in the straw bales, and something bit me hard. After standing there in shock for a moment, I rearranged the straw bales to look inside the nest, and there was a possum. I had been bitten by a possum, and it broke the skin.
I went to tell my husband, who was playing soccer with the children. He told me to start washing my hands and call the nurse line, and he closed the garage so the possum could not escape. Actually there was one place where the possum might be able to escape underneath a garage door, so he posted the children there to watch. This ended up being a terrifying assignment, at least for my daughter, because the door raised up a bit while something scratched and thumped behind it. Ian thought it was probably the cats, but it seemed to my daughter that it must be the terrible possum that had bitten her mother, trying to escape under her watch.
While the children were watching the possum’s escape route, I was on the phone with the doctors, and then the Veterinary Center at the University of Minnesota. It was decided that because animal control probably does not come this far out into the country, we needed to kill the possum without damaging its head so that the University could test its brain for rabies. Then we needed to refrigerate it until we could bring it to the university for testing.
We relieved the children of their guard duty, and went to the garage armed with a flashlight, shovels and a rifle. I shone the flashlight into a hole between the hay bales, and we could see a furry body in there. I thought I could identify a black ear, and I also thought I could see a tiny pink foot sticking out from its abdomen. My husband shot a couple of times into the straw bales, and then the possum tried to get out between the straw bales and the wall of the garage. We wanted this to go as fast as it could, so he shot it a few more times, and it died there against the garage wall with its bright eyes wide open. It looked dead, but we thought we would give it a few moments before picking it up, just in case.
Flashlight in hand, I checked around for the kittens and found them curled up and sleeping near a wood burning stove someone had given us. Inside that wood burning stove, framed by its square door as if she were on a television screen, sat the grey mother cat eating something rather large. I shown my flashlight on her and saw clearly that she was chewing on the rib cage of one of our white chickens.
Again, I went to the house and picked up the phone, trying to figure out what to do. I adore cats, and I have become a good friend of this particular cat, but how can we keep an animal that eats our chickens? As I called a couple of shelters, my daughter realized that we were planning to give away the cat and her kittens, and she burst out sobbing and ran upstairs. My husband went out on the deck to discuss a plan of action, but we could not come up with anything that sounded good. The Humane Society was closed for the night anyway, so we decided to try to be useful in our indecision and go pick up the possum and put it in the refrigerator.
I grabbed a trash bag and followed my husband to the garage. The possum was still just as it was when we left. I was curious though as I remembered the pink foot sticking out from its abdomen, and I grabbed it back foot and moved it so that I could see its stomach. Possums are marsupials, and this one had seven bare pink little creatures sticking out from a wide open pouch in her belly. They were all faced in, towards her stomach, as if they were nursing.
My husband finished the job of bagging up the body while I went to the refrigerator and moved aside old leftovers, pickle relish and lemon juice to make room for the possum. When he appeared in the kitchen with a trash bag in hand, my husband surveyed my work and said he had pictured putting the possum on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, not the middle shelf, where I had made room for it. We put it on the middle shelf though, next to the eggs. After dinner, I considered where to put the leftovers, and I found room for them on the top shelf, even though it was a little crowded up there.
After dinner, we worked on moving the chickens out to the pasture, just as if nothing unusual had happened.
I went to tell my husband, who was playing soccer with the children. He told me to start washing my hands and call the nurse line, and he closed the garage so the possum could not escape. Actually there was one place where the possum might be able to escape underneath a garage door, so he posted the children there to watch. This ended up being a terrifying assignment, at least for my daughter, because the door raised up a bit while something scratched and thumped behind it. Ian thought it was probably the cats, but it seemed to my daughter that it must be the terrible possum that had bitten her mother, trying to escape under her watch.
While the children were watching the possum’s escape route, I was on the phone with the doctors, and then the Veterinary Center at the University of Minnesota. It was decided that because animal control probably does not come this far out into the country, we needed to kill the possum without damaging its head so that the University could test its brain for rabies. Then we needed to refrigerate it until we could bring it to the university for testing.
We relieved the children of their guard duty, and went to the garage armed with a flashlight, shovels and a rifle. I shone the flashlight into a hole between the hay bales, and we could see a furry body in there. I thought I could identify a black ear, and I also thought I could see a tiny pink foot sticking out from its abdomen. My husband shot a couple of times into the straw bales, and then the possum tried to get out between the straw bales and the wall of the garage. We wanted this to go as fast as it could, so he shot it a few more times, and it died there against the garage wall with its bright eyes wide open. It looked dead, but we thought we would give it a few moments before picking it up, just in case.
Flashlight in hand, I checked around for the kittens and found them curled up and sleeping near a wood burning stove someone had given us. Inside that wood burning stove, framed by its square door as if she were on a television screen, sat the grey mother cat eating something rather large. I shown my flashlight on her and saw clearly that she was chewing on the rib cage of one of our white chickens.
Again, I went to the house and picked up the phone, trying to figure out what to do. I adore cats, and I have become a good friend of this particular cat, but how can we keep an animal that eats our chickens? As I called a couple of shelters, my daughter realized that we were planning to give away the cat and her kittens, and she burst out sobbing and ran upstairs. My husband went out on the deck to discuss a plan of action, but we could not come up with anything that sounded good. The Humane Society was closed for the night anyway, so we decided to try to be useful in our indecision and go pick up the possum and put it in the refrigerator.
I grabbed a trash bag and followed my husband to the garage. The possum was still just as it was when we left. I was curious though as I remembered the pink foot sticking out from its abdomen, and I grabbed it back foot and moved it so that I could see its stomach. Possums are marsupials, and this one had seven bare pink little creatures sticking out from a wide open pouch in her belly. They were all faced in, towards her stomach, as if they were nursing.
My husband finished the job of bagging up the body while I went to the refrigerator and moved aside old leftovers, pickle relish and lemon juice to make room for the possum. When he appeared in the kitchen with a trash bag in hand, my husband surveyed my work and said he had pictured putting the possum on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, not the middle shelf, where I had made room for it. We put it on the middle shelf though, next to the eggs. After dinner, I considered where to put the leftovers, and I found room for them on the top shelf, even though it was a little crowded up there.
After dinner, we worked on moving the chickens out to the pasture, just as if nothing unusual had happened.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Staying here
While I was training to become Lamaze childbirth educator, I got the idea that spring was one of the most dangerous times to live on a farm. I read that babies who were born during certain times of the year in farm country are more likely to have birth defects because they were in a critical time of their prenatal development during the spring when the fields were being heavily sprayed. We moved to our farm in June of last year, and all year I’ve been remembering that study about the birth defects and wondering if I would be able to make it through my first spring living here.
I have a hard time with chemicals, even those that don’t bother most people. For example, half an hour after using sunblock, I feel so sick to my stomach that I have to lie down. I have given up on the stuff and am using long sleeves and hats instead. The chemicals they spray on crops are even worse. Last July, when I was in Iowa for a Quaker gathering, they were using planes to do some cropdusting nearby, and I was moderately sick for a week. For a couple of those days, I had to cancel most of my other plans and sleep. This problem embarrasses me somehow, and I want to explain that I was not always this way, and that I am not trying to be difficult or overdramatic. On a rational level, I know this explanation should not be necessary.
Given my problem, moving to a farm nestled in corn and soybean fields seemed like a bad idea. Before we moved, we did some research, and I read about studies that suggest agricultural chemicals may cause various kinds of cancer. I also read that these chemicals tend to become more concentrated inside homes, because they cannot break down the way they would outside. I vowed that I would clean our new house regularly and well, but of course I have not.
In the end, we decided to move to the farm because we could not imagine doing otherwise. On some level though, I have been worried that we would not be able to stay here. I thought that might become clear this spring.
So far, I’ve been aware only of one bout of spraying this spring. My stomach went queezy as I was caring for the chicks outside one morning, and I stepped away from the coop to look around. Down the road I saw a small group of trucks parked in the neighbor’s field. One had a tank on its back. I finished up my work and headed inside instead of tackling some of the other outside projects I had planned for the morning. I had not been inside long when a vehicle drove through the field to my tree line with its long red spray mechanisms outstretched behind it like low, enormous wings. It retreated and returned several times, its loud engine vibrating. Sometimes, throughout that day, I felt a little spacey and nauseated, but it was not a big deal.
The next day, my neighbor planted corn, and now I can see it coming up in beautiful light green rows. I’m happy to see it, but I’m also afraid because I do not know what kind of spraying will happen in that field during the next month or so. Still, it is already the middle of May, and I am doing fine, so I’m starting to believe that we will be able to keep living here.
Now a new fear is forming. I will worry that because we are staying, my children might get cancer when they are adults. I so much wish that growing food did not mean risking my health and fearing for the health of my children. It should not be that way.
I have a hard time with chemicals, even those that don’t bother most people. For example, half an hour after using sunblock, I feel so sick to my stomach that I have to lie down. I have given up on the stuff and am using long sleeves and hats instead. The chemicals they spray on crops are even worse. Last July, when I was in Iowa for a Quaker gathering, they were using planes to do some cropdusting nearby, and I was moderately sick for a week. For a couple of those days, I had to cancel most of my other plans and sleep. This problem embarrasses me somehow, and I want to explain that I was not always this way, and that I am not trying to be difficult or overdramatic. On a rational level, I know this explanation should not be necessary.
Given my problem, moving to a farm nestled in corn and soybean fields seemed like a bad idea. Before we moved, we did some research, and I read about studies that suggest agricultural chemicals may cause various kinds of cancer. I also read that these chemicals tend to become more concentrated inside homes, because they cannot break down the way they would outside. I vowed that I would clean our new house regularly and well, but of course I have not.
In the end, we decided to move to the farm because we could not imagine doing otherwise. On some level though, I have been worried that we would not be able to stay here. I thought that might become clear this spring.
So far, I’ve been aware only of one bout of spraying this spring. My stomach went queezy as I was caring for the chicks outside one morning, and I stepped away from the coop to look around. Down the road I saw a small group of trucks parked in the neighbor’s field. One had a tank on its back. I finished up my work and headed inside instead of tackling some of the other outside projects I had planned for the morning. I had not been inside long when a vehicle drove through the field to my tree line with its long red spray mechanisms outstretched behind it like low, enormous wings. It retreated and returned several times, its loud engine vibrating. Sometimes, throughout that day, I felt a little spacey and nauseated, but it was not a big deal.
The next day, my neighbor planted corn, and now I can see it coming up in beautiful light green rows. I’m happy to see it, but I’m also afraid because I do not know what kind of spraying will happen in that field during the next month or so. Still, it is already the middle of May, and I am doing fine, so I’m starting to believe that we will be able to keep living here.
Now a new fear is forming. I will worry that because we are staying, my children might get cancer when they are adults. I so much wish that growing food did not mean risking my health and fearing for the health of my children. It should not be that way.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sneezes
Have you ever heard a chicken sneeze? It is a delicate outburst, appropriate for a bird. Once in a great while, a very vigorous sneeze is accompanied by a gentle little tooting sound. During the last week, as we prepared our chickens for their life in the pasture by weaning them from their heat lamp and making them spend more time outside, they responded by starting to sneeze. Standing among them for a while, you might be able to hear several sneezes popping up from different parts of their brooder. Their eyes are bright, they are active and growing, but they are sneezing.
We decided we need to baby them a bit more, and we have returned to leaving the heat lamp on during these very cool nights. To plug in the heat lamp though, we have to keep their coop near the garage, which is delaying their move to the clover pasture. The clover is gorgeous, and so vibrant, but we will wait a few more days until they can enjoy it.
In the meantime, they have been going outside in a temporary yard near our garage, and tomorrow I will move the fencing so that they can eat down a new patch of greens. Our major accomplishment for the week is helping them learn to love the outdoors. During their first few outings, we had to herd them out and then stand in the door so they could not return to their familiar coop. Now when we open the door they all come rushing outside with a mild frenzy.
When they are feeling cool, which has been often, they like to cuddle together. When I check on them, I often find what looks like flotillas of chickens in the brooder. All these little heads pop up out of the flotilla to look at me curiously.
We decided we need to baby them a bit more, and we have returned to leaving the heat lamp on during these very cool nights. To plug in the heat lamp though, we have to keep their coop near the garage, which is delaying their move to the clover pasture. The clover is gorgeous, and so vibrant, but we will wait a few more days until they can enjoy it.
In the meantime, they have been going outside in a temporary yard near our garage, and tomorrow I will move the fencing so that they can eat down a new patch of greens. Our major accomplishment for the week is helping them learn to love the outdoors. During their first few outings, we had to herd them out and then stand in the door so they could not return to their familiar coop. Now when we open the door they all come rushing outside with a mild frenzy.
When they are feeling cool, which has been often, they like to cuddle together. When I check on them, I often find what looks like flotillas of chickens in the brooder. All these little heads pop up out of the flotilla to look at me curiously.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Love, like mist
Yesterday morning, when I was sitting in worship, I had the feeling that love was spread across the fields like a low mist. In the field south of our house, which is planted in clover, turquoise sparks leapt up into the mist, and clear lights blinked and moved The field beyond our property line, to the south, is empty of plants. Perhaps it has already been planted in corn, although I was not around at the time to see the tractor go by. I was not aware of light dancing over those empty fields, but the love that lay over them was strong.
I believe that I'm supposed to tell people about the love I saw hanging wide and whole, over the land.
Now I have told you.
I believe that I'm supposed to tell people about the love I saw hanging wide and whole, over the land.
Now I have told you.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Growing bigger
I feel both disappointed and relieved to report that the chicks have passed their cutest phase. They are no longer irresistible yellow fluff balls that I want to scoop up and rub against my cheek. Instead, they are feathering out rather awkwardly. Their tails grow a little bit every day, and the fluff on the chest and back looks clumpy as it is replaced by the narrow beginnings of what will soon be white feathers. The little birds have a new sense of themselves as well. For the first time this week, I saw two chicks go chest to chest, arching their little necks and hopping to see which one could be taller and more intimidating to the other.
They went outside for the first time this morning! Their new feathers help them stay warm, so we let them out in the morning sunshine. “Let them out” does not quite describe what we did. My husband tried to coax them out using their food as a lure, and then used a piece of cardboard to very gently herd them all out. They seemed happy enough to be outside, but getting them there took some work. We will always feed them outdoors now, and within a few days, I hope to move their coop out into the field.
While the chicks are still in the brooder, I have been spending the most time with them at about 9 AM and 9 PM – after my children have left for school, and after they have gone to bed. It has been a joy to go outside after dark every night. Earlier in the week, I saw the moon through the clumps of brand-new leaves on my maple trees. Later in the week, for two nights in a row, the moon had an enormous pale halo. This scents in the air have been growing stronger all week, and now we walk in violet clouds because the lilacs are in full bloom.
PS -- Do you know anyone who would like a kitten? A cat who adopted us last winter had five kittens in April. They are cute.
They went outside for the first time this morning! Their new feathers help them stay warm, so we let them out in the morning sunshine. “Let them out” does not quite describe what we did. My husband tried to coax them out using their food as a lure, and then used a piece of cardboard to very gently herd them all out. They seemed happy enough to be outside, but getting them there took some work. We will always feed them outdoors now, and within a few days, I hope to move their coop out into the field.
While the chicks are still in the brooder, I have been spending the most time with them at about 9 AM and 9 PM – after my children have left for school, and after they have gone to bed. It has been a joy to go outside after dark every night. Earlier in the week, I saw the moon through the clumps of brand-new leaves on my maple trees. Later in the week, for two nights in a row, the moon had an enormous pale halo. This scents in the air have been growing stronger all week, and now we walk in violet clouds because the lilacs are in full bloom.
PS -- Do you know anyone who would like a kitten? A cat who adopted us last winter had five kittens in April. They are cute.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Wild plums in bloom
The wild plums on the south border of our property are blooming. I can see them from the window as a spray of white against dark branches that are not yet hidden by leaves. Everywhere I drive now, I see wild plums in bloom, and it feels like I’m discovering secrets. I try to make mental notes of where they are, as if I were planning to go back and harvest them later, but I’m sure I won’t. I want to know where they are because wild plums are one of the ways the land laughs, and I want to hear that laughter.
The day we first found our wild plums was one of the most beautiful days of my life. Last summer, I walked along the south border of our property for no good reason on a day when the sky was thick with heavy gray clouds. There were some yellow flowers along the south fence line, mixed into in a thin border of grass between soybean fields. In that strange light before the rain, the flowers were orange lanterns that glowed from within. I went to them, and when I looked at the shrubs beside them, I saw the golden plums hanging down.
My husband and son were gone for the afternoon, so I went running barefoot through the soybeans and across our clover to find my daughter. She came to see them and she lit up, as one does in the presence of something amazing. Then the rain came. We ran to the garage and sat there on an old ragged loveseat while the rain drummed on the metal roof and sent its wonderful odor wafting through the wide open door. Kittens, which had been born in a garage before we moved in, came to sit on our laps and rub against our legs. As we talked and joked, part of me stood aside, full of sober wonder at the loveliness of my daughter.
The day we first found our wild plums was one of the most beautiful days of my life. Last summer, I walked along the south border of our property for no good reason on a day when the sky was thick with heavy gray clouds. There were some yellow flowers along the south fence line, mixed into in a thin border of grass between soybean fields. In that strange light before the rain, the flowers were orange lanterns that glowed from within. I went to them, and when I looked at the shrubs beside them, I saw the golden plums hanging down.
My husband and son were gone for the afternoon, so I went running barefoot through the soybeans and across our clover to find my daughter. She came to see them and she lit up, as one does in the presence of something amazing. Then the rain came. We ran to the garage and sat there on an old ragged loveseat while the rain drummed on the metal roof and sent its wonderful odor wafting through the wide open door. Kittens, which had been born in a garage before we moved in, came to sit on our laps and rub against our legs. As we talked and joked, part of me stood aside, full of sober wonder at the loveliness of my daughter.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Still safe in the brooder
Through my front window this week, I caught a glimpse of something large falling to the ground. I went over to the window to get a closer look, and I saw a hawk standing on top of a starling, which it had apparently just brought down to the ground. The hawk, which was only slightly larger than the bird it had captured, stared steadily at me from less than 10 feet away while the shimmering starling struggled to rise. Suddenly, the hawk lifted and flew across the street to the wood, while the starling flapped away in the other direction.
If that hawk can bring down a starling, it will certainly be after my chickens. Last year, we tied the fishing line over the chicken yard to keep away hawks, and we will probably need to do the same this year. In the meantime, the chicks are still safe in their brooder. Their bodies are still yellow fluff, but their wings are covered with white feathers now. The feathers look more like a fashion statement than an integral part of the chick.
Because we are feeding them purely organic grain, we are not giving the chicks medicated feed as many people do. Many pastured poultry producers feed their chicks raw milk occasionally to help them stay healthy, so in our refrigerator, we have a two-quart mason jar full of creamy raw milk from grass-fed cows. I will mix some of it into the chicken feed tonight. It looks like a real treat.
If that hawk can bring down a starling, it will certainly be after my chickens. Last year, we tied the fishing line over the chicken yard to keep away hawks, and we will probably need to do the same this year. In the meantime, the chicks are still safe in their brooder. Their bodies are still yellow fluff, but their wings are covered with white feathers now. The feathers look more like a fashion statement than an integral part of the chick.
Because we are feeding them purely organic grain, we are not giving the chicks medicated feed as many people do. Many pastured poultry producers feed their chicks raw milk occasionally to help them stay healthy, so in our refrigerator, we have a two-quart mason jar full of creamy raw milk from grass-fed cows. I will mix some of it into the chicken feed tonight. It looks like a real treat.
Friday, April 16, 2010
They're here!
The chicks have arrived!
We spent the last week cleaning and renovating their coop and then getting it all ready for them. On Wednesday, the day they were to leave the hatchery in Iowa, we turned the heat lamps on in their coop, and it waited for them, bright and warm-looking.
At around noon on Thursday, the post office called to say the chicks had arrived, and we frantically rushed around the chicken coop trying to seal up drafts. Then, we drove to the post office, and the minute I walked through the door, I could hear peeping. We picked up our big cardboard box full of peeping chicks, and we set it across the laps of my son and mother-in-law for the ride home. They peered through the holes of the box at the yellow fluffy shapes inside.
Back at home, all three of us sat down in the clean woodchips of the chicken coop, and as we lifted each fuzzy yellow chick out of the box, we quickly dipped its beak into water, which apparently entices them to drink. It worked well, as they were soon gathering around the little watering bowls, sipping the water, then lifting their beaks up to the sky to swallow. They are little yellow balls of fluff that fit perfectly in my palm and seem rather indifferent about being picked up. These chicks are lively, and I’m surprised at how quickly they can dark about on their little yellow feet, but they also spend a lot of time sleeping. While we watch them, one of them almost fell asleep while standing up!
During the next few days, we will be especially careful to keep them warm, adjusting the heat lamps down to provide lots of heat during the cool nights.
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