Restarting the blog habit

A recent day where the sky had so many hues of blue, and beautiful streaky mares tails (or, more sciency, cirrus uncinus) clouds – magical stuff!

So, hey. It’s been a few. I’m surprised myself that it’s been more than two years since my last post. Wow. That’s a long time! And I’m writing this hoping that it doesn’t end up like a half dozen other posts, in the Word boneyard on my ancient laptop, or stuffed on a thumb drive to be transferred to my other computer for posting. But what got me here, finally, is because a fellow shepherd friend recently contacted me about my “lung thing” (my words) from 6 years ago, and the blog posts I made back then. She has a mystery illness with some similar symptoms and has also been blogging about it occasionally (she mostly posts about her farm and animals, and cooking, knitting and travel adventures and is super regular, posting near daily, unlike yours truly). I love reading her blog, with its many interesting topics, but haven’t been happy to hear of her health struggles, remembering all too well how tough that was.

On a recent post she linked the blog posts I wrote back when I was in the thick of things and I was a little bit gobsmacked when I reread them, for a couple reasons. First, you forget the details. Those entire weekends spent curled up on the sofa except for the bare minimum of animal care, feeling like my head was splitting open (or wishing it would!), or so chilled I thought I’d never get warm. Then, suddenly, roasting hot like I was sitting inside a woodstove. My appetite gone – hungry, but absolutely nothing sounding good to eat. I was down to rice krispies and milk at the end, and even that was meh. I feel really fortunate that I found the doctor I did. I remember getting a little emotional on my last visit with her, when she said, basically, go live your life, you’re fine. And I thanked her as best I could, realizing that she kind of saved my life (I may have said exactly that). If I’d stayed with the first doctor I might still be alive, but it probably wouldn’t be much of a life.

Winter late afternoon sky

The second reason I was kind of struck is that when I reread the posts she linked (they weren’t exclusively about the lung thing), I was like, damn, that’s some kickass writing, Mo. Why aren’t you doing that anymore? Because, girlfriend, you can WRITE. I lapsed on the blog writing in late 2018, partly because 2019 was a busy year. I was writing for money that year, had also taken some classes on writing (pitching to editors), and was working on getting my homebased business launched. So circling back to write a blog post after writing for a client three nights a week just didn’t happen (time!). But towards the end of 2019 my main employer (as a freelance writer) sent me one idiot topic too many, and as I was working on launching my side business, when they stopped sending requests, I just didn’t follow up on why, or lobby to stay employed. It wasn’t terrible pay, as those things go, and I liked working with the editor, but writing about things I disagreed with (bringing your dogs shopping – what stores allowed dogs – ugh) or couldn’t comment on, was really tough.

ANYway, I’ve basically not written anything, like seriously, nothing, for a year now. It’s weird to me, and I don’t quite know why. I can posit a half dozen reasons, but most of them just sound like excuses. Which is because that’s all they are. I wasn’t moved to write is the best, and least satisfying, of them. I don’t think the pandemic year of 2020 had anything to do with it either. There were (are) a lot of stressors in that year of course, not the least of which is the monster we had as president until the election. That guy took a lot of emotional bandwidth and the daily attack of outrages were hard to bear.

But here I am, with lots to say, as always. I don’t want to promise anything about getting back in the groove or back in the saddle or whatever other metaphor you choose. I am hopeful, however, that I WILL get back in the game and start blogging regularly again. I’ve mostly stuck to Instagram – a photo or six and some pithy (or not so pithy – verbosity is still an issue) words and that desire to write, to express myself, to be heard, is fed. Let’s see if we can do better though. A lot has happened in the past couple years, yet everything’s mostly the same, and without regular posts you forget. The time slips by and this past year especially has taught us how precious time is, and how important it is to LIVE your life, not just be alive.

Working from home has many benefits.

So how are all of you? A few of my blogger friends have kept at it in the two years I’ve been gone, although a lot have gotten busy with life and slipped a little too. Everyone out there still doing okay? It’s been a heckuvayear, hasn’t it? Living through history isn’t something I anticipated. At least not to this degree. History is always being made of course, but so often it’s stuff that doesn’t affect us directly. This past year though, whew. Too much to go into here, but each of us was affected profoundly. And some in the worst way possible – losing someone to the virus. Stay safe and wear your masks! We’re almost there.

Me and the old guy, out for a wee hike a couple weeks ago.

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Rain and reflections

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?)

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Another one bites the dust…jacket

Why is it that when I sit down to write my mind goes blank?  I have all these good ideas tumbling around in my head and all I get is dead air when I open up a fresh page to write.

I recently read of another blog that’s going to be published as a book.  I’m not sure if the fellow was soliciting to publishers or if the publisher made him an offer (I’m pretty sure it’s the latter), but it does give one pause.

I will state right now that I never started this blog (four years ago last month!) with anything other than a way to keep up with the little things in life, and didn’t then nor do I now believe it’s anything more than that.  There may be a post or two that could, with minor

My adorable Farley-foo, most handsomest Setter ever!

modifications, be reprinted in a magazine, or as part of a book (how-to or memoir), but most of it is just a bit of self-centered nattering about my favorite subjects – the critters, the farm, the garden, and the work to keep all of it going.

But, that said, it does make me think a bit about it all.  Like many bloggers (and non-bloggers) I follow a dozen or so blogs from fellow bloggers.  Usually with similar interests (small farms and/or livestock) or things I’m interested in (cooking), but it’s a fun way to see what others of like minds are up to.  There’s Bliss, a fellow dog (Rottweiler) person, whose Blabs are always entertaining and often thought provoking.  Or Emily in the UK, an apprentice beekeeper who puts my beekeeping practices to shame.  Another is Donna, a fellow Shetland shepherd and mentor, whose ram, Jocko, sired my two ewes’ twin lambs (four lambs total) last year.  And there’s Michelle, another shepherd nearby whose posts are always informative and there’s generally lively discussion on the comments, too.  There are another half dozen or more I read regularly, plus the random blogs I catch here and there.  I’ve learned from other blogs, made recipes posted on them, and admire these other bloggers.

I learned of this latest blog to book deal via the host for my blog, WordPress, touting the blog and the deal.  I went to read it, with it’s romantic sounding name, and left feeling a little deflated (but not defeated!).  It’s another of those stories that make me feel envious, that my life is dull and I have no sense of adventure.  It’s written by an ex-pat living in New Zealand with his partner/husband, and the stories revolving around the 20 acres they purchased where they raise chickens, pigs, sheep and olive trees, and even bottle the olive oil for sale.  The blog posts are sometimes quite long, but usually always entertaining.   Certainly the twist of doing this as a couple of city boys from the U.S.A. in a land as beautiful as New Zealand makes it much more adventurous and appealing than someone who’s just lived her life yearning to be on a farm, surrounded by animals

The sheep hanging out last weekend.

and becoming as self-sufficient as possible while still bathing regularly and paying the power company for lights and heat.  Sure I’ve kept a small flock of chickens for most of my life now (the tipping point came a few years back, much to my wonder – it sure doesn’t seem that long…), and had a few years of dairy goat keeping back in the mid-80s, but mostly it’s just been coveting.  I still think of the property in the Okanogan that I almost went to look at; when I drove by it six months later the people who’d purchased it were doing exactly what I would have – some goats in the front yard (it was 20 or 40 acres with oodles of outbuildings and rolling hills…sigh.  (I’m ready to dash off to view some RE websites now.)

Still, it makes me think, this blog to book thing.  How can I make my blog more interesting, more readable?  And do I really want to?  I’ve been struggling to make it more succinct (not succeeding), but now I wonder.  Maybe if the story is compelling enough it doesn’t need to be shorter, and making the mundane seem, if not profound, then at least appealing and  interesting, with observations and thoughts along the way, is pretty much all we do as bloggers.  I do plenty of that, I think, but it always seems so self-absorbed and kind of icky, so I reel myself in much of the time too.  I’d like to make it more readable–more followers would be great, a real following, so to speak.  Must work on this.