Mo Bloggin'

A little o' this, a little o' that

Rain and reflections

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Watching the rain fall.

It’s been raining all day today and it’s wonderful. I can’t even believe I am saying that, but it’s funny how weather excesses or extremes, especially out of season excesses, can make you long for the opposite, and even make you anxious.

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Wet bee yard; the package bees (left hive) are still out flying – I love how gnarly they are!

For us here in the PNW, rain in November is relentless and pummels the house and the property. It’s often a little frightening at times for this Chicken Little, as the water sluices down the hillside, the ground turns to muck, and the river in the valley nearby overflows its banks (making the commute home from work worrisome).  As I listened to the music of the rain on the roof this morning I was reflecting at how in November, December, or January, I actually get a little scared when it rains this hard and steadily for hours. It’s not sweet music then, but an ominous wintertime soundtrack.  Today it was calming and comforting.

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Gorgeous blue sky on the last mile of my evening commute home.

If you’ve followed my blog for long, you know that I adore the sun and blue sky.  I realize more and more that I want to see more sky, more openness.  I love the trees, but it gets so claustrophobic sometimes, and especially at this time of year (I’ve spoken of this before), when the jungle-like growth begins to feel like it’s closing in.  And all winter long the constant rain and dark, cloudy skies, combined with the short daylight hours, feels oppressive and beyond dismal, day after day. The weather almost becomes the enemy, something to be fought and/or feared.

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Soggy with rain, the pool refilling with rainwater after last week’s heat.

Now we’ve had a spring unlike any I can remember, with drought-like conditions and record-breaking heat (90+ degrees in April – where the hell am I, anyway?).  This after a previous year of record-breaking weather patterns (2015’s dry spring and summer and record-breaking summer temps, followed by the wettest winter on record) and again I get anxious.  What does this mean for me, my animals, my bees, my planet? So you can see why the rain and cool temps—typical weather for a northwest May (and something to grumble about in a normal year)—was soothing today.

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Rain all day long, yet I’m totally okay with it.

The rain slowed later in the day and I let the sheep out to graze.  I assured them the rain was a good thing for the grass and browse they love, but still they wanted out. Noisy C-Kerry led the chorus of:  “We don’t care if we get wet, we’re sheep!  Just let us out!” The trees and under story are heavy with the rain, and branches are low to the ground with the weight of water. There was even a downed maple branch over the lower fence.  They are enjoying the heck out of it all, pruning and munching on the delicious green growth they love.

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Shearing day last week; one of these is not like the others.

I watch them and am reminded how much I love them. Well, maybe not so much when they’re gobbling up my hops vines, comfrey, or horseradish plants, or the beautiful woodland ferns and other plants (my wonderful Devil’s club!) out back, or peeling the bark off my fruit trees. I’ve learned to monitor them better, but still like to let them out to keep the grass mowed around the house, stretch the feed bill, and ease the pressure on their pasture.  And I reflected on them and my relationship to them—to all my animals—and not only what they mean to me, but what do I mean to them? How do they see me? (A few of the flock must see me with a scythe and hooded robe, judging by how they react to me every. single. time. they see me. Maybe there are hallucinogens in the hay I feed?)

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Eloise at the top of the corner post in the chicken run.

I am reflecting on all of this after reading a blog post by a fellow blogger, also a woman, also a farmer (though she, lucky girl, is able to do it full time).  Like many bloggers (can you believe I’ve been blogging for over 7 years now?) I like to follow other bloggers, especially those who are doing things similar to me: solo homesteaders like Belle Manor Farms and Morris Brook Farm, sheep raisers like Canfield Farm, just a few miles away, beekeepers, nature lovers and wildlife advocates. I’ve been following Celi and her Kitchens Garden blog for at least 4 years now, maybe longer, and I find it a delightful day-to-day account of what she’s doing. Sometimes the animals take center stage, sometimes the hard work of farming, sometimes the garden harvest and cooking of same, and sometimes we go on vacation with her (there are over 5,000 people who follow her blog – !!) – all this with great photos of her farm (by “Camera House” – even her camera has a name and entity – I love this woman!), her animals (spring babies!) and scenery on her travels.  She posts every single day, for which I am very envious, and she has copious numbers of commenters (the Fellowship), which she calls the Lounge of Commenters.  Isn’t that delightful?

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Salal blossoms.

At any rate, Celi had a wonderful post the other day.  Sometimes she just riffs on a thought and it can be profound, with observations as keen and insightful as any philosopher’s, as this one was. It was called A Chair of My Own.

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A recent bee convention over some old honeycomb I had. I got several species of bumblebee, as well as the honey bees and even a yellowjacket or two.

Many of the comments added to the conversation and further enlightenment, as they often do.  And I reflected on my own situation, with my own self-imposed cage(s), and then on to my own animals and their habits. How DO the sheep see me? Little Trixie and her brother Mungo seem to love me, with Mungo especially coming at a run and staying with me for as long as I’ll scratch his chin, even when the rest of the flock has run off to the ecstasy of release to fresh grass.  It warms my heart that the two of them, and their mother sometimes, would rather be with me than with the other sheep. Is it intentional? Do they know that this will keep them from the freezer permanently? Those feral ones who behave as if I’m coming with a noose when I’m just bringing them dinner…well, they are creating their own reality, as I will be reviewing this year’s shearing and making some decisions based on their fleeces (my freezer is almost empty and I’m beginning to really enjoy mutton).  And just that has me reeling with recognition.  I struggle with my own choices in life (mostly related to job/income) and how my perception of things colors my reality: the fear/s that keep me where I am, instead of where I want to go, who I want to be and what I want to accomplish before this gig is up.

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The bird dogs covering the driveway action: squirrels at one end, cars and motorcycles at the other, and croaking (teasing) ravens overhead.

And what do the dogs think of me, and our life here?  Or of the dog park of their life on the farm, but confining in its own way as well.  I think they know the oasis they provide for me (I tell them, and thank them, often), and hopefully know how profoundly grateful I am to them for keeping me afloat emotionally, mentally, and every other way there is.  I cannot repay them for all they give me, which is why I am so “lenient” on them with regards to making them behave. I sing to them as I make them dinner, or when I come home to their unbridled joy at seeing me (and me them!).  I make up the songs as I go, usually sung to an old, well-known tune, and I know it makes them happy when I sing (because they know I sing when I’m happy).  I also know they love it when I laugh, and I see how hard they work to keep me happy and laughing.  I joke that they have me very well trained (when I buy 10 boxes of biscuits at a time the clerks always ask me about it; we go through at least 3 (1-pound) boxes a week here).  But who am I to these creatures that mean so much to me?  Is it as profound to them as it is to me? I think of each of them and how they came to me, the obstacles they overcame to reach me, or for me to find them.  Is it just me, or is this as profound for everyone here?  I think of finding my first sheep, the serendipity around all of it…though I think it’s more than just chance, or coincidence.  Do they think that too?  How about you, and the animals in your life?

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Gratuitous cuteness: the old guy, traipsing into the house with his swamp legs after a dip in the swampy little pond-ette on a hot spring evening.

Bees please

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Honeybee swarm; about the size of a football.

One Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, as I was crunching through a gnarly document at work and trying to get things buttoned up for a planned couple days off work, a coworker who knows I keep bees sent me an IM asking if I knew anyone who could come get a bee swarm at her brother’s house. Um, yeah! I quickly responded: ME! She sent me a photo and details: her brother lived a couple towns over, about 15 miles from my home, and the swarm was only 6 feet off the ground, according to her SIL. I had been planning to stay late and work on the document from hell, but even if I stayed four more hours, it wouldn’t make much difference with this doc.  So I left at 5:30 and rushed home to get my bee gear.

I put my 6-foot ladder in the car, a cardboard box, some duct tape, some bungie cords, baling twine, a hive box and lid (in case I could just dump them directly in), some lemongrass oil, my bee veil, and my Rottweiler (Daisy wasn’t about to be left behind!). I got there just as it was getting dark, and went back to look. It was a nice size cluster – not too large – and only about 6 feet up on a branch I could easily snip with my pruners. No need for most of the stuff I’d brought, but that’s okay. I didn’t even suit up; I just positioned the cardboard box under the swarm, and snipped. Done. I should have suited up. I got dinged in the nose, and a few very angry bees flew around me as I got the lid on the box and started taping. It seemed they were finding a hole out, so I kept going with the duct tape until finally they were secure. I’m sure my coworker’s brother thought I was a little nuts as I taped and taped and taped and taped. They were bees, not wolverines. The nose sting wasn’t too horrible, but as I drove home I could feel that one must have gotten me on the ear, too. Ah well.

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Installing the swarm into the hive box.

It was after dark when I got home, so I left them in the box for the night, on top of the hay bales in the garage. In the morning (thankfully I’d already planned to take the day off!) I got everything set up and dumped them in. (This time I did put my bee veil/jacket on.)  It wasn’t as easy as a bee package install, but went pretty well nonetheless. The branch I’d snipped went into the hive box with them (they were still clustered on it) and I put everything back together as soon as I got the bulk of them secured into the hive. Then it was time to sit back and wait, with fingers crossed that they liked the hive and would stay.

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Now for everyone to settle down and figure out where to go (and hopefully Queenie’s inside the hive!).

Later that afternoon the sun was out and they looked happy, flying in and out and getting acquainted with their surroundings. And three days later, it looked like they planned to stay and were setting up house! I was thrilled! After five years of beekeeping, I feel like a real beekeeper now, having caught my first swarm. It had to be the easiest swarm catch on record but you just never know.

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Package bees on their way home with me.

This past Wednesday I picked up my package bees. I’d ordered them before I’d heard about the swarm, and briefly thought about cancelling the order to save money, and to avoid contributing to the practice of buying package bees (I saw a YouTube video once of how they are packaged, and it’s brutal), but I really want two hives going, and with any luck this year is the year I’ll learn how to split a hive, and not be so dependent on buying bees from others who raise them.

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Just about ready to open it up and get them installed.  There are a LOT of bees in there – probably the largest package of bees I’ve ever gotten.

I got the package after work, so it was 7 p.m. before I got things ready for them. I half thought of waiting until the next day to install, but decided to go ahead with it. The sooner they’re in a hive the better for them. I put on my bee jacket (with netted hat or veil to protect my head (face and eyes!) from bee stings), even though package bees are notoriously docile (so are swarms – ha!) and dumped them in the hive. I got these bees from a local hardware store only a mile and a half from my house (so no half hour drive with 15,000 bees in the car with me) and when I talked to the owner, himself a beekeeper, he said they would be 4 pound packages.  I figured he meant 3 pound, which is the norm, and indeed, my receipt when I paid for them said “3# package bees,” but I have to say, there were a LOT of bees in that box.  Maybe it was because they were obviously so much healthier than last year’s package, which, frankly, was half dead when I got it (and had an unusual amount of fully dead bees in there).  This year it seemed like the cage was magic, I kept pouring them out and it seemed like they just never stopped. It was wonderful!  Finally, as civil twilight moved into nautical twilight, I had all of them out of there that I could get out, and the queen in her cage attached to a frame inside the hive. There were a few small clusters still hanging onto the inside of the box, so I just put the box on top of the hive for the night.  They were still there in the morning, but by the time I got home from work that night, the cage was empty (and not a single dead bee to be seen!).

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They settled immediately and seemed to know they were home.

The first couple of days after installation were chilly and wet, but they were still out flying more than I expected.  I let the queen out of her cage the second night and she is beautiful. I’d waited, due to last year’s fiasco. I was never sure what happened, but on my first inspection of that hive, a week or so after installation, I saw queen cells. Meaning, the bees were already replacing the queen that came with them. Not good. I’d done the old “candy plug” in the queen cage when I installed that one, replacing the cork with a piece of marshmallow. The theory is that by the time the bees eat through the candy, they’re bonded with the queen. The plug had fallen out before I finished installing them, so she was loose immediately. Which, frankly, shouldn’t be a problem. The bees love their queen. My guess is she was one of the half dead bees in that package (probably due to overheating – hundreds of packages are hauled up from California in a trailer, and it was hot that week…).  She obviously lived long enough to lay some eggs, and the hive replaced her as soon as they could. But that put us back another month, with regard to the new queen maturing to a laying queen, and then we headed into a drought summer, which made for some hard work to find flowers and nectar. A lot of area beekeepers had bad losses this year. When I realized my hive was dead in early spring (and I’m pretty sure they were probably dead by December) there was a shockingly small amount of honey left in the hive. It hadn’t been robbed, either.

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“Are you my mama?”  I’d released the queen inside the hive, but these guys wouldn’t give up the cage, where her scent still lingered.

I plan to take better care of these hives, monitoring better and getting the hives better protected.  I’ve taken steps towards the second – I’ve moved the bee yard to the garden area (fallow again this year) and closer to the house.  I also have them up off the ground.  They’re temporarily set up on top of dog crates (truly the Swiss Army knife of dog equipment) and I’m trying to figure out how I’ll set them up permanently – benches, picnic table, bee barn…I’ll be doing some Google searches on this topic to see what will work (and that I am capable of building by myself) and get something together in the next month or so.

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My little bee  yard amongst the nettles and on makeshift hive stands.  It will be a lot cuter in another month or two.

I tend to be somewhat lackadaisical about regular inspections. It’s so disruptive to the bees, and I hate opening up their house just so I can see if they have brood and honey stores. But maybe if I’d done so with last year’s hive, I’d have realized they didn’t have much in the way of honey stores. I don’t know that feeding them would have helped, as it was a challenged hive from the beginning, but I only did about three abbreviated inspections in total, which isn’t enough.

20160430_113959This past weekend the weather was picture perfect, warm and sunny and true bee weather.  And both hives are loving it.  The swarm hive is doing well; they are making a lot of honey already and while it seems like they aren’t drawing out much comb, I have to remember how small they were to start. This was obvious when I got the package bees, which had probably four times the number of bees to start (and the package bees are guzzling the sugar syrup I’m giving them – a quart a day compared to the swarm hive’s half pint or so).  The swarm hive is healthy, and even if I haven’t seen the queen (I rarely do) I see larvae, and they are doing what they should be doing.  Happy bees = happy beekeeper.

 

Spring Harvesting {or, An Ode to Stinging Nettle}

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Future cherries.

We’re enjoying a sunny spring weekend here in the PNW, and the wild harvests are beginning to add up.  Of course the Queen of Spring is the stinging nettle (I was going to say King of Spring for the alliteration, but nettle just isn’t masculine in energy), especially on this soggy little hillside.  Nettle season is winding down now, as the plants grow large and head towards flowering, and though I normally pick and enjoy some of it every spring, I’ve gone a little crazy with the harvest this year.  I feel like Forrest and Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump (and really, was there ever such an unlikely and delightful movie ever made? Sweet, sad, poignant, funny, preposterous and believable all at once.) listing all the things one could make with shrimp, but instead I’m using stinging nettles:  Nettle soufflé, nettle soup, nettle scrambled with eggs (think Florentine), nettle omelet, nettle pesto, nettles in tomato sauce, nettle stir fry, dried nettle, nettle tea…  I don’t think you can barbecue nettle, though I could be wrong.

I’m getting a little sick of it–it is some GREEN-ass food—but feel like I’ve done a bit to get my spring tonic, even if I didn’t make a dent in the nettle population here.  I’ve harvested bags and bags of it – a grocery sack packed full in 10 minutes is no exaggeration.  It’s not an easy harvest, other than the speed and abundance, because handling all the way to getting it in the pot must be done with care (rubber dish gloves are the best – impervious and long enough to go up past your wrists), and even then you get jabbed (usually through my jeans as I step too closely to the patch I’m harvesting). This property is prime stinging nettle habitat, even if the rest of us struggle with the damp (mud) and shade.  And this year I feel like maybe nettle is what I need for my health, to combat the dreary wet so pervasive here, and definitely helpful for my lung issues, too.

Harvesting nettle isn’t new, of course, but it still surprises when you do a little reading on it.  Another name for it is “Indian Spinach” (it’s very spinach-like in flavor and texture when cooked), though it’s not clear if this was a traditional use by Northwest tribes or something introduced by Europeans.  Euell Gibbons, the well known outdoorsman and wild foods enthusiast of the 1960s, calls this “one of the finest and most nutritious vegetables in the whole plant kingdom, a far better vegetable than many of those … [laboriously raised in a farmer’s kitchen garden].”

On Easter Sunday I enjoyed several homegrown meals, and thought I would make some nettle soup to go with my first-ever leg of lamb – I had several in the freezer from last summer’s harvest and needed to use them up.  I pulled out a cookbook of my mother’s that I thought would be a good prospect for traditional leg of lamb: an Irish cookbook, because the Irish raise a lot of sheep, called “Feasting Galore, Recipes and Food Lore from Ireland,” by Maura Laverty.  I looked in the index first and found precisely nothing under Lamb.  There was one recipe listed for mutton (a pie), but as I glanced though, the word Nettle caught my eye.  Who knew?  There were two recipes, including one for a nettle soup that was very different from the ones I was finding online.  Ms. Laverty describes “Not so long ago, if you strayed along a country road in springtime, you would find women gathering nettles, their hands and arms protected by black woolen stockings.” And mirroring what Euell Gibbons said, “For many a long year nettles were to the Irish what spinach is to other peoples. And many of us still feel that young tender nettles more than equal the best of spinach. ‘One feed of nettles in the spring will keep you healthy for the year’ is a belief which persists in country parts where the blood purifying qualities of nettles are still appreciated.” I looked in the front of the book to look up the publishing date (©1952 – so that “not so long ago” above, was more than 60 years past now) and found this:

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I knew this was here, of course, but “forgot” it too – a sweet, poignant reminder. The fact that she signed her name in it the year I was born is probably the reason I got it versus any of my siblings.

It was odd to see my name and birth year – my mother was also M. Finn for a time, but she and my father divorced when I was 6 or 7, so I didn’t know her as this for most of my life. Then remembering when she sent the book to me, with the inscription, when I first had my own household.  My Irish Maureen – she always saw her brood of five as Irishmen, and indeed, we carry 50% of that heritage along with the names.  But when I look in the mirror now all I see is the Polish/Hungarian heritage, as I look more like her every year.  Nowhere near as beautiful as she was, even in my prime, but the sweet “Little Marian” appellation by my great aunt that somewhat irritated me when I was in my 20s (not only did I not see the resemblance, this brat didn’t want to look like her mother back then), makes so much more sense now.  And now I see it and cherish it, as it’s all I have left of her, other than photos, keepsakes and cookbooks.

So I made the nettle soup to go with the lamb.  It wasn’t technically lamb – I (purposely) didn’t know which sheep I was dining on, the younger of the two taken to the abattoir that day was over about 14 months old, the older was 3 years old.  Growing up, my mother served lamb occasionally, and it was one of the few foods I didn’t like, even as an avowed carnivore from a young age. The best thing about lamb was the mint jelly served with it. But I’ve been pleased with the mildness of the Shetlands’ meat, and decided to take the plunge. I found some recipes for prepping the leg (though they all described leg of lamb as 7-8 pounds – what kind of monster lamb has a leg that’s 7 or 8 pounds?!).  My wee Shetland leg weighed in at 1 pound 12 ounces!  Laughable, but plenty for me.  I rubbed it with salt and pepper and rosemary, made small slits and inserted the slices of a couple of garlic gloves, and tucked it in the oven.  It took longer to roast than the cookbook said – partly because I like my meat more than just “rare.”  I am pleased to report it was delicious!  It went great with the yummy nettle soup I’d made, and provided a homegrown bounty that was both nutritious and delicious.

In the fall maybe I’ll tackle harvesting it for fiber, because yes, it has been traditionally used as a fiber, similar to linen.  Aaand maybe not.

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Gratuitous cuteness: Daisy watching me succumb to her charms. She throws herself down, knowing I’m hopeless to resist her. Heart this dog!

Speaking up and participating in the process

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Healthy spring moss crop, hanging from a tree limb.

It’s not every day that I can say this: I did something this past Saturday that I’ve never done before (note to self: change this so you can say it more often!).  Oh, I don’t mean I changed my daily routine or did my errands in a different order, or even tried a new restaurant, shopped in a new store, or visited a new town.  No, this was one of those things you always hear about but don’t do.  I caucused!  That is, participated, for real, in my state’s democratic caucus.  I had no idea what to expect, but feel so strongly about this election (upcoming U.S. presidential election) that I couldn’t not.  The past two decades have been a bit of a roller coaster politically in the U.S., and I feel very emphatic that our future is on the line (well, it always is, but it’s easier to ignore how important these things are when life seems more peaches and cream).  I will state up front that I am cynical about the process, enough to believe that there’s a lot of it that’s just plain rigged, and I don’t believe it’s at all fair or equal in how votes/voices are heard and tallied.  Some carry more weight than others (superdelegates, for one example), and that right there is just wrong.  But still I went, because not to go at all felt like giving up on being heard, and I am so glad I did.  I think the “energy,” if you will, of participating, joining in, for speaking up about who and what I believe in, is what is most important.  The energy of my beliefs is added to the energy of others’ and grows exponentially.  I sent my order in to the ol’ cosmic kitchen, and the burners are hot! Or should I say Berners?  Because let’s not be coy here – I am firmly, emphatically, completely supporting candidate Bernie Sanders, with my vote, with my wallet, and with my voice. While I’ve admired him for many years, this is the first chance I’ve ever had to vote for him and I wasn’t going to pass it up.

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I left the garage door open one afternoon, and the chickens helpfully spread the straw all over the floor.

The caucus process was interesting to this newbie (five decades on the planet, with all of my voting years in this state, and I’ve never done this before). A few people who’d done it before knew the ropes, but I got the feeling I wasn’t the only newbie there.  The Washington State Democratic party was telling people to get to our caucus location (mine was the elementary school down the street) at 9:00 a.m., though the caucus wouldn’t start until 10:30, as there was a concern for expected crowds and the desire to avoid something like what happened in the Arizona primary a couple of weeks ago.

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I left the door open again a few days later and they finished the job.

We were able to start gathering by precinct at 10:00, and sitting with others in my area, we chatted about this and that, learning more about each other (of course I struck up a conversation with a young woman who had a border collie mix she’d trained to herd sheep…we knew some of the same people, and were able to share dog and sheep stories).  About a half hour in they moved three of the precincts, mine included, from the cafeteria to the school library.  We gathered in our groups and chatted some more.  At 10:30, the caucus official came in to explain the process and get us started, first leading us in a pledge of allegiance.  I can’t remember the last time I said this, and hand over heart (looking for a flag the room), I recited with the others.

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In the garden, eating up all the chickweed, plus plenty of grass, buttercup, bugs and worms.  Happy hens.

Then we got started.  A young man read the procedures to our group, while a volunteer secretary made sure he covered all the pertinent points (via a checklist provided by the State Democrats).  Our caucus sign-in sheets were collected and tallied.  This is the form you use to list your preference – there’s a box for “at sign-in” and a second box for “final, if changed.”  Then we were asked if we would like to speak on behalf of our candidate.  There were four volunteers to start (two for Hillary Clinton, and two for Bernie Sanders) and each spoke eloquently and respectfully of others, even in the “rebuttal” portion (not official, but there was a little back and forth here – a good thing!), where several more people spoke up.  We each felt passionately about our candidate, yet respected the process and each other.

20160319_181651Daisy appreciated the chooks’ work in the garage.

I was most impressed by a young man, maybe late 20s/early 30s, there with his wife and  adorable baby girl, speaking for my chosen candidate.  He hadn’t intended to speak, he said, but he spoke well, and eloquently, about Senator Sanders.  One thing he spoke to, and something I’ve found interesting in this election, is the near-universal statement by Hillary Clinton supporters that they like Bernie, but feel she’s the more pragmatic choice (generalizing) – more likely to get the nomination, the establishment name, etc.  They like Bernie but don’t feel he’s electable so are supporting someone who they feel is electable, because she’s more middle of the road, willing to work with the other party, etc.  So rather than support one candidate’s ideals and progressive visions for our country, it’s better to take the safe route and vote for the one who can play the game (this term was used more than once).  While a part of me understands this, the young man responded to this notion in such a way that I almost wanted to cheer, telling us (I’m paraphrasing) if we started out the process by compromising our vote and our beliefs, why do this at all?

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My favorite little sheep, Trixie – as friendly as a puppy – about ready for shearing.

The fellow who was the leader for the group (read instructions, etc.) spoke last, and quietly yet from the heart.  He, too, was probably in his 20s, and looked like one of the young farmers in the valley.  And what he said was exactly what I was thinking that morning, with regard to Senator Sanders.  That we have a candidate that is human in a way we haven’t seen in a long, long time.  Bernie’s entire platform is with regard to human rights, humanity, and human integrity, and what we can do as a society to help the least among us and bettering the planet at the same time.  The young man cited the bird incident at a rally in Portland a couple days prior, where a small wild finch, stuck inside the arena with the crowd, flew down and landed on Senator Sanders’ podium as he was speaking to the crowd – the audience went wild, but it was the look on Bernie Sanders face as he stopped, smiling at the little bird…  If I didn’t already believe in his vision for what our country can be, this would have convinced me – this is the human being I want leading my country.

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Farley and a friend, waiting for dinner.

 

Four times a charm?

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Moss season.

That’s how many times I’ve tried to compose this post into something coherent and cohesive, either starting anew or adding to the draft in progress. While the likelihood is high that I may fail again, I’m determined to try. It often seems to be a war between what might be my true self—the whiny, bitchy, judgmental, negative, stress puppy that I try to keep in check—and the person I see myself as, the person I strive to be: someone who lets things roll off her back, who doesn’t judge others, who has a positive attitude that infuses all areas of her life. Sigh. Lately it’s been mostly that old, small-self me, and mostly due to stress that I still haven’t gotten a handle on, that I MUST get under control if I’m ever going to get any better. Instead, it’s ramped up to levels I haven’t encountered for several years, mainly due to the day job and trying to do the work of three people at the office while people are out. This has been hugely frustrating to me, and I feel like no matter what I do, there’s no relief. I try to cover work for people who are absent, in addition to my own work, and all of it suffers. My own work is done with less care, the coverage of others’ tasks is haphazard (there was little to no training on most of the tasks I was expected to take on – most of which were unknown to me). If I speak up about the state of things I sound like I’m just making excuses (even to my own ear) yet the impossibility of the situation remains. All this at a time when I’m trying to heal and make time for relaxing and meditating. Instead it’s been triage-mode, and my health has suffered. I am so frustrated with myself for allowing this to happen, for getting so stressed about it that it’s run my internal dialogue all weekend long, with work brought home (to try and catch up on last week and hopefully get ahead for the coming week) hanging over my head all weekend along with my regular chores and work I’d like to do for myself.

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I kind of know just how this hammer must feel, if hammers feel.  I found it out in the woods when I was picking up tree limbs and other winter detritus. It’s been sitting there a little while, I’d say. Nature won this round.

Spending 60 minutes to create a blog post seems indulgent right now, but rather than wait until I have time, or worse, wait until I have time to pretend all is well and that I’m making progress in my journey to good health, I figured I’d let the reality of life write the post this week, however dreary. It’s often part of the reason the gaps between posts go so long, frankly, as I don’t like writing about or dwelling on the negative (even though this comes through regularly), yet getting to a good frame of mind to write positively isn’t always achievable in the free time I have. A friend recently reminded me, as I lamented (before the recent work burdens) about wishing I could have a month off to get caught up with life and to write, that writers just write. They put their writing first, carving out the time above all else—before chores, before work, before leisure – and how it’s not a waiting for the right time to come along. I do get that. I find I need a little more breathing room (ha! A pun!) around it, or else what comes out is a lot of stuff like this. I’ve done morning pages (writing first thing, every day, no matter what), and while it’s been over a decade since I engaged this practice, I remember having to force myself to stop, because I found that the stuff that came out was a lot of internal “yuck” and it became a horrible way to start the day. Perhaps if I stuck with it longer I’d have made a breakthrough and found my way to a higher place. As it was, I was taking a perfectly good morning and ruining it, coloring my entire day with the stuff that got dredged up—feeling bad about myself, about who I was/am, how I move in the world compared to those I admire, my talents being not as good, etc. Still, making time for things that are important to me—my writing among them—is also a key to improving my life wholesale.

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Stinging nettles love it here; their early spring growth is a great spring tonic vegetable – loaded with vitamins and wild good-for-you-ness…once you neutralize the stinging part (by cooking or drying).

So to circle back to the revelations I was making a month ago, with regard to my health and healing, I realized my ability to handle stress is sub par (understatement) – something I’ve known but thought I had handled better than I do. And I am trying to change how I view the world by changing how my brain works. I have to say when you’re sick it’s really, really, really hard to turn the ship around. To replace the fear and worry with positive affirmations is not only difficult but when you are able to do it, it frequently feels false and trite. Sure, my lungs are “strong and healthy, and breathing is easier every day” as I try and catch my breath after walking a half block with a 4% grade incline, stopping to gasp and let my heartbeat calm down. Trying to jog-trot a few dozen yards to make a crosswalk light leaves me huffing and puffing like I just ran a 6-minute mile. And I’ve stopped taking the stairs at work. The one flight up between floors–even taken very slowly—has me puffing enough that our receptionist says “geez, did you run up the stairs?” Perhaps this is dwelling on the negative, but these are also the current realities of my life, and trying to revise the thought process from woe-is-me to a healthy, healing, positive frame of mind, has been and is my challenge.

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While my days of week-long backpacking trips (hauling a pack nearly 1/3 my weight) are behind me, I do plan that I’ll once again be able to go on day hikes with the dogs.

Next post (hopefully sooner than one month out) I’ll talk about some of the very cool books and tools I’ve found that are helping me to slowly turn things around. I’ve had to slow the pace a bit, unfortunately, as the exciting incoming information became overwhelming and I ended up having to disengage from all of it. I know part of this is due to my health in general—the ability to concentrate seems to be another thing that’s in short supply with this condition. A recent long day at work meant that once I got home, after chores and feeding and caring for my very patient animals, that I literally didn’t sit down until 10 p.m. Hitting the books after a day like that isn’t going to happen, and a meditation session will just put me to sleep. So the process has been slow, especially for the past few weeks, when it really needs to be in high gear, or better yet, already set in place. Baby steps.

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Gratuitous cuteness: Daisy snuggled up on a winter’s evening, waiting for momdog (me).

They say stress will kill you

I started this post over three months ago, and have been tinkering with it ever since, trying to find a single theme or focus and a way to wrap it up tidily. Instead it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. So I think it’s just going to be another multi-part post. Because I’ve got a blog and I’ve got something to say. Let’s get started.

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The promise of spring on a chilly midwinter day. Don’t worry, I’m on my way, she whispers. 

They say stress will kill you, given enough time and enough stress. I’ve always considered myself to be a low anxiety, low key type of person, not easily ruffled, and nowhere near the stereotypical Type A personality one associates with chronic stress. And all of that is still mostly true, but I’m finding the stress is there, and yeah, it’s not the healthiest condition. I’ve been feeling lately like I’m turning into my mother, who was also a low key person, but as she aged, became someone whose anxiety could derail her. It was upsetting to hear during a phone conversation (she lived across the country from me), and not be able to help, or to see (during a visit) and become frustrated at her immediate redlining of anxiety and/or anger over seemingly minor things. Now I wonder if that these kinds of things aren’t totally under one’s control, and the aging process is a right bitch you have to get a handle on and ride to the end. But wait…

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Several days of frost build up during a recent cold snap.

So I’ve been having a few epiphanies about stress and its role in my life. Until the past year, hell, until the past few months, I would have told you that I have little to no stress, am not the stressy sort, and other than a frustration or two during my day (say, a particularly crappy commute), I have no lasting stressors in my life and am not an anxious or tension-filled person. I am learning, via several avenues recently—epiphanies and research both—that I’ve been wrong for a long time. Maybe my whole life. Yes, I’m good at stuffing things, and keeping a calm demeanor. I am okay at letting some things roll off my back (or like to think I am). But still waters run deep, as they say. For many years (most of my life?) I’ve felt this could be my motto. I tend to run calm, stuffing stuffing stuffing, with the occasional acid-tongued blurt or outburst (which I regret nearly every time), until suddenly I don’t. Not healthy on any level.

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I spy with my little eye.  Best destressor ever.  I adore this dog . {just throw it}

The constant undercurrent of anxiety has been detrimental to my health, as I found out last year. And a December visit to the pulmonologist and my breathing tests are all running at the same less than stellar numbers as they were a year ago, some even a little worse. The test is stressful for me, so I wonder if that alone affects how well I do, but the visits to the doctor are stressful as well. After the last visit, where we discussed my test results and the recommendations for treatment, I realized that this doctor has zero interest in my well being. It was obvious before—I’ve joked that she only sees me as a pair of lungs, and not even very interesting lungs—but for some reason you keep on expecting something. Or hoping for something. As she told me about the gnarly drugs used to treat sarcoidosis, and my options therein, I broke down a little. I bowed my head to collect myself, and when I rose it to speak, voice quavering a bit, the doctor’s face was a blank wall. There wasn’t an ounce of compassion or caring there, just a clinical detachment and, as a result of this blank wall, the gift of my Aha moment – if your doctor doesn’t care about you, then stop going to see him or her. (Note: I didn’t expect anything special over my being upset, just an acknowledgement that it was affecting me.)

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Zombie sheep, waiting for me to feed them one evening after work. Will my eyes glow like this if I go on the sarcoidosis drug?

I took the 15 page printout she gave me about the medications she discussed home with me to read over. I’ve tried to read it all objectively, since I am not really interested in going on a chemotherapy drug (though at much lower doses than for cancer patients) that requires regular blood testing to make sure my liver isn’t being damaged by it, nor having every vaccine known given or boosted (because my immune system will be shut down by the drug). And because I’m not feeling at all confident in this doctor’s interest in my health (and will not continue with her regardless) and can’t imagine being on such a hardcore treatment under her supervision, I’ve kind of gone off the rails. Just so it’s clear, I believe the doctor’s knowledge, experience, and treatment protocol are solid, but I just can’t continue with a doctor who has repeatedly shown me she doesn’t care about me. Sorry. I know I sound like a big baby, but there are statistics to back up my feelings (more on this later). There really isn’t any gentle treatment for sarcoidosis, and most treatments involve steroids or chemotherapy drugs or anti-malarial drugs. And running in the background is the “ it often goes away by itself” noted on nearly every website search I’ve done (and indeed, was told this by my doctor early in the diagnosis process). What to do, what to do.

And lo, the path appeared. I happened upon a book whose title has been on a stickynote sitting on my nightstand for months (close to a year?). Something else I was reading at some point brought this title to my attention and it sounded interesting so I wrote it down. Finally, while doing some cleaning I saw it again, sticking out from under my alarm clock, and sat down on the bed and ordered up an ebook version from the library. Within the first 10 pages I realized I found something special, and maybe even the key to getting on track with real healing, not just treating to abate symptoms.

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Pretty much.

And this book led to another book. And then another couple of books came across my radar, and another, and suddenly I’m awash in research, none of it about sarcoidosis specifically, but about healing in general and healing myself in particular. And when I say healing myself, I’m not just talking about the sarc. I’m going down the rabbit hole to figure this stuff out once and for all. Because I can’t spend the rest of my life in a slow decline, feeling bad about myself, becoming smaller instead of better, and worst of all, never becoming who I’m meant to become. Never doing what I’m meant to do as I stay “safe” and afraid. This shit is real, and I’m diving in. Hang on! Because: IMG_20160103_183753

 

Giving thanks

IMG_20151108_163736Again with the blog-break! Oy! Seriously, there’s always a reason (excuse?), and though I’ve written several posts that haven’t made it here yet, whether due to time or health or time or mood or time, my hope is to get more regular in the coming new year. I was working on a post recently that, while important, was bringing me down a bit. That one is regarding an an issue I still need to come to terms with, and will likely continue working on the draft for a future post, but I found that it was clogging the works and not serving me well with regard to getting something out.

So instead I’m turning my thoughts to things that make me happy. On top of the winter solstice holidays (Yule, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Eid al-Fitr, St.Lucia Day, or whatever your celebration) going on, we in the U.S. recently celebrated our Thanksgiving holiday, held the fourth Thursday in November. It’s one of my favorite holidays, though it’s slowly being swallowed by the juggernaut of an ever expanding Christmas season, and aside from the myth we were fed as schoolchildren about the origins of the holiday, I choose to celebrate it in the exact interpretation of its name, giving thanks. So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and of the winter solstice (the return of the light – hallelujah, indeed!) and the coming turn to a new calendar year, here are just a few of the things I give thanks for daily:

Look out, 2016!

Hello, Fall

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Leaves covering the sidewalk on a recent walk with Daisy.

I seem to have taken my annual blogging hiatus. A full three months this time. In past years it was due to a busy time with garden harvesting but no such excuse this time, since I didn’t grow a garden. We had a super hot and dry summer, so it would have been a great year to grow a veggie garden (aside from the near constant watering it would have required). The divas like tomatoes (which I won’t even plant anymore) or heat-loving melons would have been happy this year. We still had our nighttime temperature drop, due to the maritime influences of Puget Sound, which made me happy. Not only for the fact that it helped to cool down the house every night, but also for easing the unsettling effect caused by the unusual, extended heat and near-daily temperature records being broken. It was like baseball stats by August: the most days over XX degrees, most consecutive days over XX degrees, highest temp ever on XX date, least rainfall ever for XX time period, etcetera, etcetera. The local weather guru doesn’t/won’t blame global warming or climate change, even though we had all these records falling like autumn leaves. It was some blob of high pressure out on the Pacific Ocean that was causing this unusually long pattern of heat, and the meteorologists were all calling it The Blob. I wonder why that blob formed and why it stayed so long. Wouldn’t that be climate change? Hmm.

The last, luscious days of an incredible summer.

The last, luscious days of an incredible summer.

Suffice it to say I enjoyed the heck out of the summer heat. It was delicious and warm day after day, and weekends were wonderful, languid days enjoying the sunshine. I didn’t get much done (it was too hot! Ha!), including any blog posts, but relaxing and enjoying it was plenty. Now that fall is here, and even though it’s been mild so far (not too chilly, not too much rain yet) I’m already missing the sun and the heat. The past weekend was overcast but not too cool. My personal barometer is if the bees are out and flying, then it’s not too chilly.

A few of my favorite things on a mild fall morning. The bees, Pal (watching the pasture for any wandering pheasant), and the sheep grazing among (and on) the fallen leaves.

A few of my favorite things on a mild fall morning. The bees, Pal (watching the pasture for any wandering pheasant), and the sheep grazing among (and on) the fallen leaves.

So I worked outside some, filling the yard waste bin but not having the energy to work in the sheep shed like I should have. I am nearly done with the clean out of the shed and pen. Only another 10 wheelbarrow loads of mucky hay on the pen-side of the feeder (exposed to rain and weather), but the shed itself is done. That was a HUGE job, as I’d leaned heavily (too heavily) on the deep litter method through last winter during my bout of poor health. It was nearly 14 inches deep in some areas, and though the sheep were never standing in muck because I kept adding thick layers of straw bedding, it compacted to a thick, hard block of anaerobic manure/straw. It was like cutting peat to get through it, though I imagine peat is softer (but I could be wrong).

One of many. And believe me, it's much heavier than it looks.

One of many. And believe me, it’s much heavier than it looks.

 

Hard labor, but the results are great!

Hard labor, but the results are great!

I’ve been keeping the sheep on the pasture until I could finish it, but put them in the pen when the weather report sounds like we’ll get a fair amount of rain in the next 12 hours. They’re fine in the rain, but there’s no shelter in the pasture now that the leaves are mostly off the maples, and I feel bad for them. Plus I’m seeing what seems to be some sort of wool rot on Mungo, probably due to rain (though we haven’t had that much). It’s a bummer because he has one of the nicest fleeces out there, but right now the stuff along his back is gone (I pulled it off by the handful). The rest of the fleece seems okay, and his skin is fine (no sores) but we’ll see.

Gratuitous cuteness: My saucy little Pebbles, a favorite in the flock.

Gratuitous cuteness: My saucy little Pebbles, a favorite in the flock.

{Summa summa summa time*}

Two of 20 or 30 mature Big Leaf Maples; these are in the sheep pasture.

Two of 30 or so mature big leaf maples on the property; these are in the sheep pasture.

So those trees I was grumbling about back in April? Yeah, I’m full of gratitude for them right now. In a spring and summer of weird weather in North America, the Pacific Northwest has been unusually hot and dry since early May. We normally have a pretty soggy spring, with June usually being gray, if not wet, and June Gloom, or Juneuary being common descriptors for the wet, and often cold, weather. This year, though, summer arrived a full month early and has been setting records all the way. We’ve been roasting since June, and I’m enjoying the heck out of it. And, yes, the shade from the trees has been welcome. My roast chicken fetish has suffered a bit (hard to muster the resolve to fire up the oven to 400 degrees for 90 minutes—the house is like a little hot box from about 4 p.m. on), but I’m still chowing on the watermelons.

Sheep at dusk.

Sheep at dusk.

The beasts are doing well in the heat, what with plenty of shade to hang out in. And even if I didn’t have too much shade (per my lament for grass growing back in April), the property is dried up and the grass has turned brown due to lack of moisture. I’ve been watering some, but it’s a battle lost long ago (the paradox being that within two weeks of no rain, the ground is dried up and rock hard) and I mostly do it to help cool the place in the evenings. I have to be careful with the watering so I don’t run the well tank dry. I accidentally do this a few times every year and it freaks me out every time. The first time I did it, the first summer I was here, I thought the well had run dry (or the pump had broken down) and was cobbling together a plan before I called the well repair guy to come take a look (it was late on a Sunday night). I turned off the faucet to the sprinkler I had going (mostly to cool things off rather than water the dead grass) and within 15 minutes the water was running in the house again. Lesson learned. I’ve done it a few times since, and it’s always a 3-second panic before I remember. Now I set a timer for watering; I time the watering AND the recharging period, so I’m not overtaxing the system.

Bees drinking from the pond. It's perfect for them; with all the slop and vege growing in it, they can drink safe from drowning.

Bees drinking from the pond. It’s perfect for them; with all the slop and vege growing in it, they can drink safe from drowning.

I keep the little slop pond filled; it’s the main source of water for my bees, and of course the dogs’ constant slopping in there to cool off. Pal will lie down and roll to his side to get good and wet, then go roll in ecstasy in the pile of hog fuel. Nice. I also keep a little kiddie pool scrubbed and filled for the dogs (basically a giant water bowl for them, 031the chickens, and the sheep—you’d think it was the only water around for miles, given its popularity as a trough). I stepped in when it was clean and full recently and yelped with the cold. It was obvious that this water was fresh from the subterranean Snoqualmie Valley.

A recent day trip took me to the San Juan Islands.  This is Mount Baker seen from the ferry on the way home.

A recent day trip took me to the San Juan Islands. This is Mount Baker seen from the ferry on the way home, and had me feeling blessed to live in such a paradise.

Not much is getting done in the way of chores – too hot for housework is one of my favorite excuses – but thankfully, being in a maritime climate, it does cool down at night. I open the doors and windows, and employ a fan, and by midnight or so, the house has cooled nicely. I’m leaving the back door open all night (with a baby gate to keep the dogs in—otherwise they would be out barking at snipes all night long), and do the same with the chicken coop, so the hens have a chance to cool down. But for the most part all the critters are doing well. The sheep stay in the shade, and drink plenty of water, and the chickens take dust baths in the hot sun and go through gallons of water. The dogs and cats lay around all day, for the most part. The Setter boys being a skootch more active than Daisy, who just lounges in one of her many dirt pits. Pal runs after birds, and Farley insists I throw his ball for him, though he paces himself with regards to returning it for another toss.

Eloise complaining about her captivity from my office (behind glass paneled door).

Eloise complaining about her captivity from my office (behind glass paneled door).

The only problem, honestly, has been the cats. The two youngsters, and especially Madeline, are quite the hunters, and keeping them inside once I open the doors to cool the house requires locking them in my office. For the entire night. That’s not really that big of a deal (Eloise would argue otherwise, and has shredded paperwork I’ve left on my desk), but it does require some management. Now that the birds are no longer singing (sniff – I miss my Swainson’s seranades in the evenings), and the nesting season winding up, I’ve relented and let them outside. Madeline is impossible to get back inside, as her feral nature takes over once she crosses the threshold. She stays out all night, and sometimes for a full 24 or 36 hours. I find dead mice scattered around in the morning (the chickens love these) and a dead bat recently, too. This saddened me even as it gave me the willies. It was a tiny little thing, no bigger than the tip of my thumb, with tiny needles for teeth. And this afternoon I found a dead towhee in the front yard, which upset me nearly to tears, and I cursed myself for not locking Madeleine up permanently. When it rains at night she’ll come in readily, but in that case it will be another month. I will hopefully get her inside tonight (we’re coming up on 36 hours out now) and am locking her up in a dog crate if I have to.

Happy hive.

Happy hive.

The bees are happy, and I’m pleased with the front-of-hive activity I’m seeing. I opened it up for an inspection a few weekends ago and was pleased to see plenty of brood in the few frames I looked at. The bees were very docile—unusually so—and I kept it very brief. As soon as I saw the brood, I pretty much stopped. I’m always so paranoid about squishing the queen by accident, and it was hot, so I just plopped on another hive box so they could build up, and will wait for a cooler day to do a more thorough inspection. I want to do a split – start a new hive by moving some frames of brood into a new hive, but am squeamish about it. I don’t trust that they’ll figure out how to make a queen, so will probably buy a queen to put in there. If I do it. I’ll have to feed all winter too, with it being so late in the season (and the drought taking its toll on flowering plants of all kinds). We shall see.

*Summertime

Gratuitous cuteness: Daisy relaxing in one of her more elaborate dirt pits.  Happy dog.

Gratuitous cuteness: Daisy relaxing in one of her more elaborate dirt pits, dug into the hillside. Happy dog. Heart her!

Waiting for Friday

Mungo's Monday morning bed head.

Mungo’s Monday morning bed head.

Another week has begun and the cycle starts anew. Waiting for the weekend. Those two days always have so much promise on Friday, no matter what the weather, plans or lack thereof. If you work for a living in the 9-5 world, wishing your life away becomes part of your routine, your being. Because that’s what we do when we look so forward to two days off that the rest of the week becomes little more than something to get through so you can have those two days. And you cram so much life into those two days! The Friday-eve list of things I want to do—everything from housework/chores and household projects, errands and needed shopping, to side trips, socializing, and entertainment—is usually more stuff than I could do in a week, never mind two measly days.

The cherry tree is going crazy this year!

The cherry tree is going crazy this year!

It’s always been a struggle for me, this bizarre mad rush we all do, clogging the roads to get to a building where we (usually) sit all day in cubeland, in front of a computer, or in meetings to discuss and plan what we’ll do on said computer, then rush back to the sanctuary of home at the end of the day. A twice daily migration, if you will. How did hunting and gathering devolve into this? But for a reason I’ve not been able to bust out of yet, I find this awful pattern, doing work for another in exchange for a paycheck, and being accountable to that other, easier than being accountable to myself. When I have the time off, instead of working toward my own success, I tend to waste a lot of time. I’m really good at telling myself this story – that I’m a Supreme Waster of Time, that the time I spend at R&R is necessary (it is, yes, but not to the detriment of my own success), that my dreams require hard work and financial freedom following those dreams is unattainable without a bankroll to start. It’s insidious.

Daisy hard at work to make me smile.

Daisy hard at work to make me smile.

I come home on weekdays wiped out emotionally and physically. After an arduous (I’m being a wee bit dramatic, sure) commute to work, 7 long hours of word processing work, and a frustrating, sometimes tear-inducing commute home (tears of frustration at everything I’m doing, including being (i.e., allowing myself to be) stuck in rush hour traffic with people who can’t seem to find their gas pedals), I’m instantly buoyed the moment I open the door to the house. The greeting, the warmth, the joy that surrounds my arrival lifts me up and centers me. The grim frown and slow, tired steps are replaced by a beaming smile and lightened heart, the weariness infused with the infectious ebullience of the dogs and cats, sheep and chickens. Sure, most of them are only glad to see me in an associative way – I let them out of their pen and/or feed them (sheep and chickens), but it’s still meaningful. I represent something positive to them, and they are happy to see me. I can’t say the same about the job I go to all day, leaving them—it’s like tearing off a Band-aid every time I leave them for work—to pay for the roof over our heads, the land we live on, the food I feed them, and it’s coming to some sort of a head for me. While I’m grateful for my job, it’s also leaving me with little more satisfaction other than the paycheck every two weeks. And that’s not really enough anymore.

It's been a very warm spring this year. Farley cools off after a round of fetch.

It’s been a very warm spring this year. Farley cools off after a round of fetch (squinty-eyed because I asked him to stay for a minute while I took the photo).

I know my recent health concerns have brought this to a point, as the days’ stresses and unhappiness compound to continue to affect my health adversely, and the overall structure has me struggling with all the existential questions in life. Recent losses by friends’ (mother, sister, beloved aunt) and my own (friend and mentor) add to the ticking clock of “are you just going to talk about it and wish, or are you going to actually do it?” I pulled in the driveway one evening, glum and spent with the day’s travails (woe is me, First World problems to be sure), and picked up the mail before opening the gate to drive in. And found a check for an article I wrote two months ago and sent to the editor. Last I heard, the magazine was maybe not going to be published, but I never heard anything more, and frankly, didn’t expect to. The editor I was working with left her position to be a full time mother while her children are young, and I hadn’t heard from a replacement editor (though wrote to the contact name she had given me in her farewell email – no response). It was one of those days where I felt emotionally bleak, wondering what the heck I was doing and how I could break the bonds and do what I wanted while also being financially safe, with an abundant income to live on.

Part I – on the cover!

Part II.  Check out that sweet byline!

Part II. Check out that sweet byline!

As I opened the envelope, realizing what it was, I knew, as I always have, that this was my answer. Writing the article took less than 6 hours of work, without a crappy commute on either end of it. It paid the equivalent of more than 1½ times what I make (hourly) at the office job – in a position/with a company I’ve been in for 10 years now, and not including a commute (yes, this is a BIG issue for me). Why, then, do I continue to struggle with the reality of it? Sure, I’d have to pay for my own health care and retirement (probably all of that extra 1/2, comparatively speaking), and taxes but no commute, no money spent on parking and fuel (wait – there’s my health care money right there), no coming home at 6 p.m. to face an hour or two of chores – in the winter this is in the dark, and usually in the rain and mud. The chores (caring for my livestock, pets, home and property) that don’t feel like chores on the weekends, when I’m not leaving for 8 or 9 hours to go somewhere else all day, leaving everything I love best in the world. So tell me again, Maureen, why you can’t do this? What kind of monster is hiding under your bed, whispering “can’t” and “not for you” all night long as you toss and turn in your sleep, trying to find the harmony of this current set up when there really is none. The possibilities are endless, as is your talent (word processing, writing, editing), and the faucet of abundance is just waiting for you to get over yourself and turn on the tap.

Gratuitous cuteness: Five inches of healthy banana slug crossing the lawn one evening - I love these guys!

Gratuitous cuteness: Five inches of healthy banana slug crossing the lawn one evening – I love these guys!

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An American Editor

Commentary on Books, eBooks, and Editorial Matters

The Task at Hand

A Writer's On-Going Search for Just the Right Words

morrisbrookfarm

Going back...a return to rural life

ella gordon

textile maker

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

Squash Practice

A Growing Concern

Food, Farming and Faith in Snohomish County

Icelandic Fiber Farming in Cascadia

Carol Lea Benjamin on Dogs

Understanding dogs and the many roles they play in our lives

Mo Bloggin'

A little o' this, a little o' that

Hen Corner

A little bit of country life in West London...

Living Your Sacred Livelihood

Weaving the Wisdom in Nature with Possibility Practices

Chris Morgan's Wildnotes

A BLOG of pictures and thoughts from the field

Denise Fenzi

a professional dog trainer specializing in relationship-building in competitive dog sport teams

thekitchensgarden

farming, gardens, cows, goats, chickens, food, organic, sustainable, photography,

Black Sheep Creamery

Artisan Sheep Cheese, Wool and Lambs

Woolyadventures's Blog

Just another WordPress.com site

flippity felts

Needle felt designs and tutorials by Gabby Dexter

Single Life, With Puppy

Suddenly single at 55; what to do but get a puppy?

Eat, Play, Love

making memories through food, wine and travel

Pam Grout

#1 New York Times best-selling author

Karen Maezen Miller's Cheerio Road

paradise in plain sight

CATHERINE RYAN HOWARD

She turns coffee into books so she can afford to buy more coffee. And more books.

Lorelle on WordPress

Helping you learn more and do more with WordPress

Adventures in Natural Beekeeping

Bees, Hives, Swarms, and Everything under the Sun

CARROT QUINN

dispatches from the wild

The KiltLander's Blog

JP's Outlander Recaps and other perspectives from the Dirk Side

Great Scot!

Cultural Musings of An Outlandish Nature

Fringe Association

Knitting ideas, inspiration and free patterns, plus crochet, weaving, and more

The Outlander Podcast™

Chatting about All Things Outlander

The Year of Living Englishly

Coming Home to Crich, Cows, Cryptic Crosswords, and a Cambridge Don . . . and back in Boston

FeltUnited

Uniting the world wide felt community

Ask-a-Vet Sheep

A collection of sheep & goat related questions answered.

Fiber Art Now

Fiber Arts & Textiles Magazine

Jared Gulian

Author of 'Moon Over Martinborough: How an American city boy became a Kiwi farmer'

Romancing the Bee

Beautiful Beekeeping, English Cottage Gardening, and Cooking with Honey

LIVING FELT Blog!

Felting Friends Blog ~ Sharing Inspiration, Ideas & Support

shetlandhandknitter

Notes from a Shetlander who loves to knit using pure Shetland wool. Here I plan to share some of my latest creations.

Web Editors

Bringing you news and information about Web editing as well as discussing current issues, strategies, and techniques to improve your profession.

The Unexamined Dog

Language, literacy and learning for dog people, or any people.

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