Last week, we hosted a meeting in our home for the budding Board of Directors of the Hillside Farmers Cooperative. Our house, while normally messy, is in a truly embarrassing state, and I spent the meeting lying down on the couch with my bare feet draped over Ian, trying not to get too enthusiastic about anything because enthusiasm gives me contractions. The meeting's organizer, Regi Haslett-Marroquin, assured me that my condition and the state of my house would not be a problem for anyone there. He said that everyone in the co-op just needs to be themselves. I took his words to heart.
Because I could not travel, four people came to our home and spent the evening laying the foundations for a Board of Directors. The Hillside Farmers Cooperative is being designed especially to address the needs of Latino families, and much of the conversation was in Spanish, which was exciting for me. Many years ago, I was proud my Spanish, but when we started talking about the structure of a corporation and the role of investors, I had to ask for a lot of translation. Ian sat there nodding agreeably and understanding everything, as though he discussed business matters in Spanish on a daily basis. I remembered again what Regi said about everyone just being themselves, and that made it easier to speak up when I was lost.
I spent the rest of the evening remembering different aspects of the meeting and smiling. In the days that have followed, though, more fear has crept into me. Up to this point, I have been afraid to talk very much about our plans with the co-op, in part because the plans have been uncertain, and in part because I have been wrestling with many other fears. I have been very afraid of financial ruin and unnecessary stress and the disapproval of family members who think we are taking on too much.
It's time to fess up, though. We are thinking very seriously about building a chicken coop within the next year that could raise up to 1500 free-range broilers at a time, or 4500 in a season. The Hillside Farmers Cooperative would buy most of the birds, although we would sell some independently as well. Eventually, we might build other barns for broilers and branch out into egg production.
I accidentally discovered that I wanted to work with the Hillside Co-Op last summer when I went over to Regi's house to pick up the scale I lent his wife. On a whim, I asked to see his chickens again, and he told me once more about how the birds were living chickenly lives, eating organic feed, and that his chicken business was going to help Latino families move out of poverty. Regi had told me this before, and we had considered working with him, but this time I found myself unexpectedly on the verge of tears. "I thought you had to choose between taking care of the land and taking care of the people," I said, remembering how frustrated I felt about the prices we have to charge for our chicken, just to break even.
"You don't have to choose," Regi said. "You can do both."
I knew, then, what I wanted to do. Rationally, Ian and I are impressed by the amount of work and skill that has been put into designing the Hillside Co-Op's production system and business model. We don't have the resources to do that kind of work. Also I like the idea of working as part of a larger group, of trying to address economic inequality, and building a system that actually challenges industrial farming. Ian and I both think it will be a joy to be working with Latino families.
Every week, Ian goes over to Regi's house to work on our business plan. I have not been able to meet with Regi often, but when I could, I felt a light between my shoulder blades. Last week, when I sat in worship, preparing for the meeting at our house and considering my role in the co-op, I felt that same light growing from between my shoulder blades, flowing down my arms and through my hands.
I believe that I am being prepared for service.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
No talking needed
When I was 17 years old, I spent the summer working on a dairy farm. My mother's friend Kurt had invited me to help out there because his brother was away for the season. I cut the grass, threw hay bales, put away dishes, cleaned out the bulk tank every day, and dipped teats in iodine before milking. I could not have been more content.
The house where I lived with Kurt's elderly parents was a big white four-square with a red roof. Ever since I was a tiny child, I had evaluated farmhouses, deciding which one I would live in when I grew up. After long consideration, I had decided that my house would be white, and it would have a red roof. For that summer, I lived in the home I had been imagining for years, without even realizing it. The house, where Kurt had grown up with his five brothers and sisters, was old and quiet except for the midday meal, when its spacious old dining room filled with people and food. As I climbed the dark wooden stairs to go to bed each night, I felt the walls around me embrace a deep stillness as well as a wild clamor of life, and I wanted that house to teach me to carry both of those qualities within myself.
Today, I have been imagining myself in the yellow kitchen of that house, sitting at the kitchen table and looking out towards the red barn. There are cookies on the counter, and nobody ever worries about how many a person might eat. There is butter on the table, softening in the growing heat, and my eyes light on it as I search for something to say to Kurt's father, who is sitting quietly at the kitchen table with me. Kurt's father has a deep, warm presence just like the farm itself, but he also as quiet as the fields. I want so much to connect with him, and so in my rather awkward way, I tell him that the soft butter will be easy to spread on toast. He agrees with gentle good humor, and the silence reigns again as I scan the room for something else we can talk about together.
In the way of many old farmers, Kurt's father would have been happy to sit in friendly silence together. He did not need to be talking to feel a connection with the people around him. At the time, I was not proficient in that silent language of companionship, and so we limped affectionately through many short discussions of household objects.
Yesterday was the funeral for Kurt's father, and of course I could not go. The white house with a red roof sits locked and empty because Kurt's mother now lives in assisted living. I was grateful that I could sit outside for a long time this morning, listening to the wind in the Maple trees, and feeling the presence of that dear man in the quiet of the fields.
The house where I lived with Kurt's elderly parents was a big white four-square with a red roof. Ever since I was a tiny child, I had evaluated farmhouses, deciding which one I would live in when I grew up. After long consideration, I had decided that my house would be white, and it would have a red roof. For that summer, I lived in the home I had been imagining for years, without even realizing it. The house, where Kurt had grown up with his five brothers and sisters, was old and quiet except for the midday meal, when its spacious old dining room filled with people and food. As I climbed the dark wooden stairs to go to bed each night, I felt the walls around me embrace a deep stillness as well as a wild clamor of life, and I wanted that house to teach me to carry both of those qualities within myself.
Today, I have been imagining myself in the yellow kitchen of that house, sitting at the kitchen table and looking out towards the red barn. There are cookies on the counter, and nobody ever worries about how many a person might eat. There is butter on the table, softening in the growing heat, and my eyes light on it as I search for something to say to Kurt's father, who is sitting quietly at the kitchen table with me. Kurt's father has a deep, warm presence just like the farm itself, but he also as quiet as the fields. I want so much to connect with him, and so in my rather awkward way, I tell him that the soft butter will be easy to spread on toast. He agrees with gentle good humor, and the silence reigns again as I scan the room for something else we can talk about together.
In the way of many old farmers, Kurt's father would have been happy to sit in friendly silence together. He did not need to be talking to feel a connection with the people around him. At the time, I was not proficient in that silent language of companionship, and so we limped affectionately through many short discussions of household objects.
Yesterday was the funeral for Kurt's father, and of course I could not go. The white house with a red roof sits locked and empty because Kurt's mother now lives in assisted living. I was grateful that I could sit outside for a long time this morning, listening to the wind in the Maple trees, and feeling the presence of that dear man in the quiet of the fields.
Friday, July 15, 2011
A bird returns
Last weekend, our only remaining Guinea fowl started calling in the evening. At first, I thought one of our chickens was in terrible distress as I heard a two-noted squawk that was repeated so often it grew a little bit hoarse. It sounded like the bird was calling, "Go back! Go back!" At the time I noticed it, Ian was marching in the direction of our chicken house with a shovel, and I assumed that something dreadful had happened and that I would hear about it later. Nothing dreadful happened, though. It was just our poor little bird calling its mates. I could hardly stand to sit on the deck listening to this, and I planned to call up my friend Molly and ask if our Guinea fowl could join her menagerie of free range chickens and turkeys. Maybe the lonely bird would be comforted by the company of Molly’s laying hens. I could appreciate that an animal born to live in a flock would feel miserable on its own.
I had not called my friend yet when Ian reported that a second Guinea hen had joined our lonely bird. It was sitting on the top of the calf hutch. Ian let the other bird inside, and the two of them stayed in the calf hutch for several days, both of them calling "Go back! Go back!" in the evenings. I expect they were trying to call the rest of the flock, but they were unsuccessful.
Then, one day, the hutch was empty. For couple of days, we did not see the birds, but I listened to unusual squawks in the trees around our house and thought that the pair had stayed close by. Later, Ian spotted two birds with long necks peeking out of the tall grass by the edge of the soybean field. They commented loudly on his presence, and he reported that he was very happy to see them. I got to see the birds today when the same striped cat that scared most of them way in the first place flushed them out of some tall grass by our garage. They flew in separate directions and landed maybe 20 feet up in trees. I could clearly see one of the beautiful white birds up in the maple, looking like something tropical. I worried for a moment that they might have a hard time finding each other again after flying in separate directions like that, but then I put that concern to rest. They have powerful voices.
I scolded our striped cat who rubbed against me adoringly as he always does. He didn't chase the chickens or the ducks, but apparently Guinea fowl are another matter. I do not always understand the logic of felines, and I wish that the striped cat was not such a beloved friend of mine. He is though, and I am once again bewildered about how to proceed.
I had not called my friend yet when Ian reported that a second Guinea hen had joined our lonely bird. It was sitting on the top of the calf hutch. Ian let the other bird inside, and the two of them stayed in the calf hutch for several days, both of them calling "Go back! Go back!" in the evenings. I expect they were trying to call the rest of the flock, but they were unsuccessful.
Then, one day, the hutch was empty. For couple of days, we did not see the birds, but I listened to unusual squawks in the trees around our house and thought that the pair had stayed close by. Later, Ian spotted two birds with long necks peeking out of the tall grass by the edge of the soybean field. They commented loudly on his presence, and he reported that he was very happy to see them. I got to see the birds today when the same striped cat that scared most of them way in the first place flushed them out of some tall grass by our garage. They flew in separate directions and landed maybe 20 feet up in trees. I could clearly see one of the beautiful white birds up in the maple, looking like something tropical. I worried for a moment that they might have a hard time finding each other again after flying in separate directions like that, but then I put that concern to rest. They have powerful voices.
I scolded our striped cat who rubbed against me adoringly as he always does. He didn't chase the chickens or the ducks, but apparently Guinea fowl are another matter. I do not always understand the logic of felines, and I wish that the striped cat was not such a beloved friend of mine. He is though, and I am once again bewildered about how to proceed.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Cursing and praying
I have been lying on my side for the past several days, devising plans to make our household less chaotic. Because we have been doing so much work on our house, relying almost entirely on Ian's labor, our upstairs hallway is full of stacked hardwood flooring, and only two of our four bedrooms are usable because the other two are torn up. This week, when we randomly told our midwife that our upstairs bathroom smells like bat poop, she grew quite concerned because it apparently causes some dreaded disease for pregnant women. Ian uncovered a rich source of the nasty stuff last summer when he repaired some windows to stop rain from pouring inside. He stopped the rain, but did not have time for the unplanned project and sealed the whole thing up with plastic until he could return to the job.
In our main bathroom, we have no toilet paper holder and only one towel rack, which is supposed to hold bath towels, hand towels and wash cloths for a family of four. Most of the time we give up on the rack entirely and it sits empty, with a hand towel crumpled forlornly on the floor beneath it. This morning, I was talking with Ian about making space to hang wash cloths. It should be noted that Ian has been teaching, raising the chickens, running the household, and caring for me while getting less than six hours of sleep every night. This morning while we talked about wash cloths, he was trying to make breakfast for both of us, clean himself up, and get out the door in time for work. His responses to me were unwaveringly friendly, if a little distracted, but he did not share all of my opinions. Our talk became a conversation about the nature of washcloths, and their role in our lives both now and historically. I felt my impatience rising, but I wanted so much to keep my conversation with Ian on the cheerful side.
"Jesus H Christ!" I exclaimed in my head sounding like an echo of my late father, but unlike my father, I feel very uneasy saying those kinds of things, even silently, so I pretended I wasn't done with my sentence. "Thank you for the caring presence of my beloved husband. Thank you so much for giving me such an easy life that I have time and energy to spend worrying about where we will hang our washcloths." My prayer seemed to help a little bit, and we finished our discussion about washcloths without incident.
I still felt impatient, though. All morning, I cursed up a storm in my head. Each time, I pretended unconvincingly that I was just starting a quick prayer, and I prayed earnestly and briefly. The morning taught me again that God can be found tangled in frustration and in weird conversations about washcloths and in the infuriating gap between who we are and who we hope to be. Sometimes God’s presence does not even feel particularly gratifying, but it is there, whether we curse or pray or do both at the same time.
In our main bathroom, we have no toilet paper holder and only one towel rack, which is supposed to hold bath towels, hand towels and wash cloths for a family of four. Most of the time we give up on the rack entirely and it sits empty, with a hand towel crumpled forlornly on the floor beneath it. This morning, I was talking with Ian about making space to hang wash cloths. It should be noted that Ian has been teaching, raising the chickens, running the household, and caring for me while getting less than six hours of sleep every night. This morning while we talked about wash cloths, he was trying to make breakfast for both of us, clean himself up, and get out the door in time for work. His responses to me were unwaveringly friendly, if a little distracted, but he did not share all of my opinions. Our talk became a conversation about the nature of washcloths, and their role in our lives both now and historically. I felt my impatience rising, but I wanted so much to keep my conversation with Ian on the cheerful side.
"Jesus H Christ!" I exclaimed in my head sounding like an echo of my late father, but unlike my father, I feel very uneasy saying those kinds of things, even silently, so I pretended I wasn't done with my sentence. "Thank you for the caring presence of my beloved husband. Thank you so much for giving me such an easy life that I have time and energy to spend worrying about where we will hang our washcloths." My prayer seemed to help a little bit, and we finished our discussion about washcloths without incident.
I still felt impatient, though. All morning, I cursed up a storm in my head. Each time, I pretended unconvincingly that I was just starting a quick prayer, and I prayed earnestly and briefly. The morning taught me again that God can be found tangled in frustration and in weird conversations about washcloths and in the infuriating gap between who we are and who we hope to be. Sometimes God’s presence does not even feel particularly gratifying, but it is there, whether we curse or pray or do both at the same time.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Independence Day
We bought some guinea fowl about a month and a half ago, with the intention that they would keep down the sizable tick population and protect us from Lyme's disease. They are amazing little birds that could leap to stupendous heights even when they were tiny fluff balls. Because I'm not getting out much, I've mostly heard stories about them from Ian and children, and I have peeked out the window at our makeshift brooder which glows red at night because of the red heat lamp inside. It looks like a squat, round spaceship has landed toward the back of our garage.
I have spent some of my favorite times of the summer sitting in front of the white plastic calf hutch. On Memorial Day weekend, when Ian was converting the hutch, I sat there in the shade of the maples while my seven-year-old son assembled screws and nuts from Ian's toolbox into impressive fake fingers. I had every intention of being productive, trying to plan something with Ian while he worked with his hands, but he had to leave me frequently to get more supplies. My boy and I sat in the dappled shade, feeling time and the green world stretching out forever around us. I have not felt that way since I was a child myself, but I recognized the feeling immediately.
Ian and I sat in front of the hutch again yesterday, Independence Day. It was a long walk for me, but I made it. Ian opened the door to the structure so that the birds could leave it and begin to explore the world for the first time, and we made ourselves comfortable in the grass nearby so we could see what happened next. The birds were fascinating, like little dinosaurs with ancient faces that they were always moving and tilting to get a better glimpse at us. Even though their world was small in their little brooder, it seemed lively. Together, they all decided to preen themselves on their roost, and then it was time to hop down suddenly and hunt for bugs. A few of them jumped up onto their feeder and tilted their strange faces to get a better look at the sky through their open door, but none of them seemed interested in hopping out. With Ian sitting warm beside me, holding my hand, I felt like we were a new item watching a movie together instead of a long-married couple, sitting in the grass peering into a calf hutch. I was completely content.
We finally went back inside for lunch, but a couple of hours later, Ian asked me to look out the window at the little group of birds making its way tentatively across the lawn. I think that was the golden moment of guinea fowl on our property. Pretty soon, one of the cats stalked the birds and lept into their midst. About half of them fled up into the trees, and the rest ran around in a panic. The cat never caught any of them, but he apparently convinced them that they are in an unsafe place. The only one that seems to be here still is a little guy that apparently was not brave enough to follow the rest of the flock out into the world. Last I heard, he was alone in the calf hutch, honking to his friends. Maybe he will convince them to come back.
I have spent some of my favorite times of the summer sitting in front of the white plastic calf hutch. On Memorial Day weekend, when Ian was converting the hutch, I sat there in the shade of the maples while my seven-year-old son assembled screws and nuts from Ian's toolbox into impressive fake fingers. I had every intention of being productive, trying to plan something with Ian while he worked with his hands, but he had to leave me frequently to get more supplies. My boy and I sat in the dappled shade, feeling time and the green world stretching out forever around us. I have not felt that way since I was a child myself, but I recognized the feeling immediately.
Ian and I sat in front of the hutch again yesterday, Independence Day. It was a long walk for me, but I made it. Ian opened the door to the structure so that the birds could leave it and begin to explore the world for the first time, and we made ourselves comfortable in the grass nearby so we could see what happened next. The birds were fascinating, like little dinosaurs with ancient faces that they were always moving and tilting to get a better glimpse at us. Even though their world was small in their little brooder, it seemed lively. Together, they all decided to preen themselves on their roost, and then it was time to hop down suddenly and hunt for bugs. A few of them jumped up onto their feeder and tilted their strange faces to get a better look at the sky through their open door, but none of them seemed interested in hopping out. With Ian sitting warm beside me, holding my hand, I felt like we were a new item watching a movie together instead of a long-married couple, sitting in the grass peering into a calf hutch. I was completely content.
We finally went back inside for lunch, but a couple of hours later, Ian asked me to look out the window at the little group of birds making its way tentatively across the lawn. I think that was the golden moment of guinea fowl on our property. Pretty soon, one of the cats stalked the birds and lept into their midst. About half of them fled up into the trees, and the rest ran around in a panic. The cat never caught any of them, but he apparently convinced them that they are in an unsafe place. The only one that seems to be here still is a little guy that apparently was not brave enough to follow the rest of the flock out into the world. Last I heard, he was alone in the calf hutch, honking to his friends. Maybe he will convince them to come back.
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