Wildwood Spring

We haven't given a name to the new place yet. No Name New Place is what I use to refer to it in my journal, a way of distinguishing it from The Farm, the name I used for the old place. But in my mind I've come to think of the new place as Wildwood Spring, after an Eliza Gilkyson song by the same name. The story of Wildwood Spring in her song sums up beautifully how I feel about where we live now. It seems the lives we live and the work we do are largely about slowing down enough to pay attention to the world around us, to where our food comes from, to the amazing activity of the many lives, however tiny they may be, that surround us, to each other. It's about daring to live out values that in many ways run contrary to the culture in which we live and that come with a sense of urgency that, at times, turns us into evangelists of sorts.

But our lives are not all sober and serious and completely oriented to the fulfillment of some higher good. A few nights ago we watched the llama play "king of the hill" on a mound of dirt in the night yard. He playfully bounded up and down the hill, chasing any sheep or goats who dared to ascend the mound.

There is a deep sense of pleasure and joy and satisfaction in this place. I experience love here at depths that have eluded me most of life, largely because I wasn't open to it. This place breaks me open, sometimes leaving me vulnerable to the point I fear my heart will never be protected again. But it's only a momentary fear, one that occasionally takes my breath away for a moment when I stop to think about all that I've let in. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. I'm so grateful to be here.

There is a steady breeze blowing through the trees that stand tall against a sky that is moderating the light it will let in this morning. Clouds are scattered about, the last signs of the thunderstorm that passed by us earlier. The sun is shyly rising behind them, like a school girl trying to stay covered in the locker room during gym. Soon it will find some boldness and break through, rising higher in the sky and bringing a brighter hue to the world out here, but until then, I relish in the gentleness of a morning that starts this way. It matches the quiet, reflective mood I'm in and makes me want to walk the woods or write or just sit on a rock by the pond and watch the waves dance across the water like fireworks in a 4th of July sky.

I'm grateful for my life. Truly grateful. Grateful for the sense of revival that has come from the choices I've made over the past few years.

Is anybody out there?

Testing. Testing. Is anyone still out there?

Ah, it doesn't matter anyway. I spent my first night on the new farm (boy, we really need to come up with a name for it!) last night. Lisa and I now live on 400 acres...with 17 goats (soon to be 22), eight sheep (soon to be, well, fewer), an assortment of chickens, seven cats, four dogs, and one llama.

I love it here. The place is beautiful. Fourteen stocked ponds, wooded areas waiting to be explored, more lush green grass than the goats and sheep could ever eat, and plenty of room for a large market garden.

If I doubted at all that my life has changed, I suppose the coffee pot conversation (our equivalent of the water cooler conversation) at the seminary today would convince me. Someone asked me about my weekend. I told her, "It was good. We moved the sheep and goats yesterday. Went pretty well, except we had some trouble with the llama." No one really knew what to say in response.

That's alright. It's not a life for everyone, but I'm sure glad it's mine!

Half Dome: New old pictures and a repost

A friend from seminary posted a couple of pictures from the famous hike to the top of Half Dome. I've stolen them from him to post here. :) I don't think he'll mind.

In this photo, we're on the way to top, taking a break. I'm in the front on the right-hand side, in case it isn't obvious.





And here's proof that we made it to the top...well, I guess you'll have to take my word for it if you haven't been there yourself.

And below, I'm republishing a post from the first blog that I wrote about four years ago. It was a post that gave me my first real glimpse of the power writing had to change my life. The memory of that hike helped empower me in some very important ways. I'm so grateful to be reminded yet again of that great experience.

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Half Dome

I used to have a poster print of a famous Ansel Adams photo of Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. It was displayed in my office for years, a reminder of the most difficult and rewarding hike of my life. I often looked at the photo with a great sense of accomplishment and pride in what I achieved the day I reached the summit.

The Half Dome hike is about 17 miles round-trip with an elevation gain of about 5000 feet. A lot of the trail consists of steep stone stairs. Near the top, the grade lessens, but the distance is increased over a long series of switchbacks. The last 400 yards is straight up a sheer granite face at a 45-degree angle. To get to the summit hikers have to grasp two taut cables in their hands while carefully climbing cable rungs that are fastened to the rock.

The scenery is amazing. Ansel Adams has popularized many of the more magnificent views in black and white photos of the area. There are few places I've been that match Yosemite in its number of breathtaking, awe-inspiring scenes. Along the trail to Half Dome's summit, hikers are treated to several beautiful waterfalls (depending on the time of year), a crystal clear river, flora and fauna of many varieties, much of which remains unspoiled in spite of heavy foot traffic along the trail.

I started the hike with a group of friends early one summer morning. We camped out at a friend's house near the park entrance the night before to be sure we could start as soon as there was enough light. There were about 10 of us, allowing for hikers of varying fitness levels to stay in different groups without slowing down the stronger hikers.

Hiking is usually a solitary activity for me, but I stayed with some friends in the front group for most of the hike. Occasionally I dropped back or pushed ahead a few yards to have some time to myself. I hiked up the trail moving from one group of friends to another, enjoying a chance to get to know them better, then taking some time to myself to enjoy the beauty of the valley.

At various points along the trail, beautiful sweeping views of the Yosemite Valley are opened up through gaps in the trees. Each one invited us to rest. I was consumed with the landscape. As I looked out at the horizon, I measured the increase in elevation from the last view, wondering how much farther we had to go. The density of the forest and the position on the adjoining mountainside make it difficult to keep Half Dome in view for a large part of the hike. All that we had to assure us that we were headed in the right direction were a well-maintained trail and other hikers who were coming and going along the way.

Just before the switchbacks start, there is an opening that beautifully frames Half Dome, teasing hikers with a view that makes it seem just minutes away. As I recall, we were still about an hour and a half from the the final climb to the summit. The muscles in my legs were burning and shaky when I reached the cables. I wasn't sure I could make the climb, but I couldn't give up. I put on some leather gloves, positioned myself in between friends, and slowly started the ascent up the cables. My fear of heights overwhelmed me at several points and I froze, unable to move up or down. Each time a friend from behind reminded me to look at the rock in front of me and nothing else. If I looked up, I got dizzy. If I looked down, I started shaking. From time to time, I would have to let go of one cable to make room for a hiker coming down the face. Accustomed to repelling and having a rope to hold me in place or catch me if I fell, the experience of being on the side of a slick piece of granite with no harness or safety rope frightened me terribly. As I came to the last cable rung and saw that one step up would put me on flat ground, I reached with every ounce of energy I had left to hoist myself to the top. A few steps forward brought me to the rock's edge and the most spectacular view I've ever seen.

I couldn't breath. When I looked up, I saw nothing but sky and clouds and solitary birds circling in the wind. The sky was bluer and the clouds closer than any I'd ever seen. When I looked out, I saw the vastness of the Yosemite Valley stretching for miles in front of and around me. Trees and rocks blurred together, creating a view much like an impressionist painting. Though surrounded by friends, I felt completely alone, invisible, humbled. I found conversation impossible, so I walked to a place where I could sit alone for a few minutes. I contemplated the landscape and felt myself slowly disappear, swallowed up in a place bigger than me, a place so enormous that it was scarcely aware of my presence. I didn't want to leave.

It had taken us five hours to reach the summit from the trailhead. Some of the group stayed behind at a rest area just before the switchbacks. They were worn out and tired from the hike up, so they decided to conserve what energy they had left for the return trip. There wasn't much time to stay on the summit. We rested awhile and started the descent. When we reached the group waiting for us, someone suggested that a few of us hike ahead to catch the last shuttle bus to our cars in order to avoid increasing our hike by another two miles. Two others and I agreed to retrieve the cars. We started down the trail, moving swiftly and carefully.

I walked on ahead of them for awhile to think about the experience of reaching the summit. I could hear my friends playfully arguing about some weighty theological issue. I stayed just aware enough of their banter to know that I was not losing them. My vision was narrowed by my thoughts. I had little awareness of what was around me except for the trail directly ahead.

An hour or so down the trail, I was startled back into a keen sense of my surroundings when I heard in a quiet, but stern voice, "Don't move!" I stopped dead in my tracks, just in time to hear a rattle. I carefully surveyed the area around me. My eyes landed on a rattlesnake about a foot ahead and to my right, ready to strike. My arms and hands drew up in a defensive move as my body pulled back. All the blood drained from my face, leaving me pale and cold. I stood motionless. One of the friends behind me walked in an arc to my left so that he could get down-trail and warn other hikers to stop. The other friend, still about six or seven feet behind me, reached down to pick up several rocks. One by one, he threw the rocks to make noise in the leaves on the ground behind the snake, eventually scaring it away. Assured that the snake was gone, I finally moved. I walked back to my friend and collapsed in his arms as he hugged me. Other hikers joined us, led by the friend who had gone down-trail to warn them. The friends excitedly recounted the details of our encounter with the snake.

Speechless again, I quietly contemplated how the guys who were so far behind me saw the snake before I did. I pulled myself together and started back down the trail. We reached a calm pool in the river a few minutes later. The guys wanted to swim for awhile, so we took a break. I sat down on a rock at the river's edge and watched them, still aware of my increased pulse and shallow breathing. The sun was shining through the tops of the trees, warming me as I laid back on the rock. I took deep breaths, in and out, to calm myself. I slipped my shoes and socks off and dropped my aching feet into the icy river, slowly swinging them in circles to keep the blood flowing. The river refreshed us, and the warm sun and cool rock calmed me.

We got back on the trail. I was tired and sore. My knees ached from the strain of climbing down stairs. No longer able to escape into my thoughts, I was hypnotized by the steady rhythm of my steps. I would stop for a few minutes and start up again, trying to keep my stiffening muscles from freezing. When I felt like I couldn't take another step, I remembered our plans to stop for ice cream on the drive home. The hike ended at the shuttle bus stop with ten minutes to spare. We returned to the trailhead with our cars to meet an excited group of friends as they emerged from the trail. The drive home was energized by each one's tales of conquering fear and fatigue. Our lives were joined by a common experience, our friendships forged along the steep, rocky trail, deepened by the joint effort to get everyone up and back again safely.

First kids

Sally, Queen of the Milkers, had her babies yesterday evening. I checked on her at 8:00 p.m. She was in labor, but there were no babies. We ate dinner and went out to check on her at 8:30 and to assist if she needed help. She didn't. Baby number three dropped just as we stepped out the door. She had three beautiful baby boys. Kasey, the farm intern who started last week, is in the picture above.

Saturday morning surprise

I went out to do chores yesterday morning and made my way through the usual routine: Feed the dogs, feed the cats, grab some alfalfa for the milk goats, feed the chickens, check their water and lower the perches on the roosting boxes. The goats in the back pasture saw me and announced their presence, in case I had forgotten. I looked up to see who was speaking for the group and noticed five goats and five sheep at the gate. Wait! Five sheep, there should be six. I did a quick scan of the group and noticed Lady Left-teat was missing. That's not unusual. I looked behind them to see if she was resting, but didn't see her. A quick glance over at the barn brought relief. She was there, just inside where the hay and alfalfa are kept, but I noticed something underneath her. I looked more carefully and initially thought it might be a chicken that had roamed a long way from the hen house. Then it hit me! LAMB! Lady Left-teat had had her baby.

In the time it took me to turn and run to the house, I suddenly became skeptical. Maybe I hadn't seen it right. It was morning. I wasn't awake yet. But before I could convince myself to go take a closer look first, I had announced to Lisa and to the new farm intern, Kasey, that we had a lamb. They dropped what they were doing, pulled their boots on and joined me outside. I was halfway to the barn by the time they got outside. I had to be sure there was actually a lamb there first. Didn't want them to raz me for being a dumb city girl! ;)

As I got closer, I noticed that there was not in fact A lamb. There were two! Two big, healthy boys. They're beautiful.


Sally, Queen of the Milkers, is due to give birth tomorrow!

Spring is bustin' out all over

It’s cold here this morning. A cold front moved in yesterday, dropping the temperature about 40 degrees over a few hours. I was deeply aware of the cold front’s progress. I went to a gathering in Oklahoma City yesterday and didn’t take my coat. Each trip outside during the day and on our return to Tulsa, it felt like the temp had dropped another 10 degrees. Right now, I’m sitting on the couch next to the woodstove, wrapped up in a blanket trying to warm up on this cold, cold morning. It’s 31 degrees, by most standards not a bitterly cold morning, but after several days of waking up to 50s and 60s, it feels pretty chilly.

The Farm is full of new life already. Lisa has been growing vegetable plants to sell at herb fests next month. The greenhouse is filling up with beautiful pepper plants and tomato plants that have germinated and are now starting to get their true leaves. Trees all around us are blooming and budding. Green grass is beginning to appear amidst the straw-like dead cover on the ground. The first of goats is due to give birth on Monday, and we still await the arrival of new lambs. There’s no describing how much excitement I feel watching the new life around me blossom.

In many ways the new life springing up on the farm mirrors for me the new life emerging in me. The sense of rebirth that started three years ago (yes, THREE years ago!) continues. I’m grateful everyday for all that the transformation has brought me, most recently the beauty of a new and amazing love. I’m so glad to be alive!

Morning chores

It was a balancing act walking out the back door this morning. My arms were weighted down with a variety of plastic containers holding scraps of food perfect for hungry chickens. The screen door slammed behind me and I stopped briefly just to take in the sunrise and fresh air. It’s warm today, a nice southerly wind sweeping over the dead grass, drying out the air and leaving me with a longing to be outside, instead of sitting at my desk doing the tasks that call to me with greater urgency.

I stopped just outside the chicken coop and dropped the containers. One by one I emptied them over the fence and watched as the chickens scrambled to feast on the scraps. A familiar bird call rang out from overhead. I looked up to see a beautiful red-winged blackbird sitting on the telephone wire above. I’ve heard him several days over the past few weeks, but this is the first time I’ve seen him. I greeted him and watched him fly away, then collected the empty containers and headed to the garage to carry on with the rest of the chores. Hungry cats raced to their bowls as Lisa poured cat food for them to eat. I walked past her to the corner of the garage where the hay is kept. I took two flakes of alfalfa and headed to the milk barn. Seven glowing pregnant ladies greeted me with appetites for the sweet goodness of the dense grainy alfalfa. I gave them all a pat on the head and walked back to the chickens.

Morning chores are a meditation, a practice that calls me to leave behind the swirling anxious or excited thoughts that clutter my mind and focus my attention on my present surroundings. However routine the chores may seem, they involve the care of animals, care that requires more than the completion of tasks. Attention is needed to be aware of their health and safety. And at every corner I am reminded that I may be responsible, but I am not in control, an awareness that calls me out of my head into my surroundings, alert and ready to give attention to the details of my environment.

When I returned to the chicken coop, I stood at the fence and opened the barrel to throw them a little scratch to go with the scraps. When I looked up to fling the grain and seed, my eyes caught a glimpse of Ginger, the Great Pyrenes farm dog, inside the coop, but she didn’t belong there and in the morning, pre-second-cup-of-coffee fog, it didn’t stick with me…dog, BIG dog, inside the chicken coop, inside the high fenced walls of the coop, eating scraps of food alongside chickens who appeared less than concerned by her presence, and when it finally registered, I stood there for a moment, jaw dropped and breath held wondering how on earth she’d gotten in. I still don’t know. It was such a quick and trail-less entry that I’m wondering if she’s discovered the secret of teleportation. Either way, the illusion of control that fences and locked gates and things as they should be offers quickly dissolved with the sight of her white furry presence amidst the cackling hens and crowing roosters.

I opened the gate and scolded her. She turned to look at me, head down, dejected, frozen in her position inside the coop. I held the gate open and stepped out of her path, calling her to come. She walked slowly toward me, tail tucked and head down, and reluctantly left the coop. She stopped just outside the gate, looking with longing inside at the scraps on the ground. I gave her an understanding pat. Though frustrated with her, I admire her will.

I checked the water cans in the coop and found that between the dry air and the thirsty chickens, they’d emptied the two cans I filled the day before. I filled them again and walked back to the garage to get another can to help ensure that they have enough.

The goats and sheep in the back pasture were waiting at the gate for me when I got there. Pascal the llama stood amongst them, his watchful eye guarding their safety. I counted the sheep and noticed one was missing. My heart raced. We’ve been waiting for the two ewes to give birth. Unsure of the exact day when they were bred, we’ve known for awhile now that it could be any day. Last night I told Lisa I hoped I walked out to find a lamb. She smiled and said, “Not tomorrow! I have to leave for work at 7:30. I won’t have time to get things ready for mama and baby.”

“Well, can we have a baby on Friday?”

“Yes, Friday or Saturday or Sunday. But Monday’s not good, and neither is tomorrow!”

I looked past the sheep and goats and noticed the older ewe on the ground several yards behind the crowd at the gate. I walked over to her and realized she was just resting. She’s old and tired and frequently separates from the crowd now. There was no baby, and I breathed a sigh of relief and walked toward the barn to feed everyone. She jumped up to follow me.

This is still new to me, but today I felt like a farmer, awake to and aware of the world in my care if even for only a few minutes this morning. I’ve raced around every morning this week, scrambling to get out the door and off to an early meeting at work. I felt the same tension in my chest when I woke up, but with the first deep breath of the fresh air when I walked outside, I let the work of morning chores slow me down and call me into full awareness of my presence in this world. It’s a life I could get used to. It’s a life I’m learning to love.

25 Things

Denise invited me to post 25 random things about me on my blog. I've had the same invitation from several people on Facebook, so it seems like it's time to get it done. So, here goes:

1. I was trained as a minister in a Southern Baptist seminary, but I'm not ordained, in spite of a couple of attempts to move in that direction. Years ago, I thought I'd never be anything else but a minister. Now, I'm not so sure.
2. I preached my first sermon ever...in drag. I was nine years old, playing a part in a production put on my by girls' missionary study group. I picked the verses and wrote the sermon myself, but I'd never seen a woman pastor before, so I thought I had to pretend to be a man to preach it.
3. I grew up in the greater Kansas City area, but haven't lived there in over 20 years. Since then, I've lived in three states and one other country, South Korea.
4. I'm profoundly grateful that I'm not satisfied with easy answers and that my questions have led me through some amazing spiritual territory.
5. I once completely disassembled my brand new alto saxophone (that my mom worked summer school to buy for me) and correctly reassembled it on the first try.
6. I have never been able to successfully stop biting my fingernails for more than a couple of days at a time.
7. I think the color of the sky just before the sun breaks across the horizon in the morning is the color of hope, and the sound of birds chirping is the music with which hope is most convincingly sung.
8. I've had molatov cocktails fly over my head on the way to work before.
9. I am an introvert who prefers work often better suited for extroverts.
10. One of the most satisfying things I've done in the past year is help construct the bungalow that I now live in.
11. I believe milking goats is an amazing spiritual discipline.
12. I can recite the last names of all the US Presidents in order and have been able to do so since I was in third grade. How's that for random?!
13. My favorite vegetables are asparagus, brussels sprouts, and artichokes.
14. I believe that there's a thin veil between us and what transcends us and is moving in and through all of creation to connect us, but I'm regularly amazed at how easily I miss its presence in the world around me.
15. I have considered giving up on church many times, and have taken breaks from it at different points in my life, but I can never seem to grow and change spiritually without the help of other people, whether I agree with them or not, who are seeking to grow as well.
16. Reconnecting with old friends and influential people from my past the last few months has demonstrated to me that there is a great deal more grace and acceptance in this life than I had ever dared to hope.
17. I'm the youngest of seven kids, in a blended family. But I swear I am not spoiled! :)
18. Very little warms me like scratching a goat or a cat or a dog behind the ears.
19. If you need someone to draw you a picture or decorate your room, I am not your woman.
20. I am freakishly good at remembering names.
21. I never thought that I was the kind of woman who would drive a pick-up truck. Turns out I was wrong.
22. I hate being wrong, but I'm pretty good about admitting it when I am.
23. I am most at home when I'm outside doing just about anything.
24. If Wii fitness is an accurate measurement, I missed my calling when I didn't become a ski jumper.
25. I think learning 25 random things about other people is far more interesting than learning where they went to school or what their political views are.

Holiday on the farm: Part 2, Llama herding

It's been more than a week since my holiday break, and I'm slowly finding my way back to a routine. Truth be told, the old routine has been interrupted for awhile now. Regular trips to the farm have led to greater changes even than just finding a new routine. My friends, I will be buying a pick-up truck later this week. If I've left doubts in anyone's mind that I'm truly gay, this should clinch it for them. I'm beside myself with excitement. Can't you just see me driving down the road in my cute little white Toyota Tacoma truck?

But back to the regular trips to the farm.... I've spent a good bit of time there lately. And in the interest of full disclosure, I'll tell you, I'm going out there often because I'm in love. It's true. Madly in love....



....with Pascal the llama, long-necked guardian of the sheep and goats. His soft brown eyes search for understanding and draw me in with a curiosity and empathy I don't quite understand. A bit standoffish at first, he's slowly warming up to me. No doubt, the handful of feed grain I give him occasionally helps. His love for the grain knows no bounds, and by extension, the love he feels for anyone who offers it to him follows.

Pascal stays close by when I go out to the back barn to feed the animals. He watches closely, hoping that I'll open the can with the feed grain. When I fill the red bucket to pour grain into the feed trough, he follows me, hoping he'll get some to enjoy. He used to get some on a regular basis, but he's gained too much weight, so he's been put on a diet, one free of feed grain, except for the occasional handful he gets from anyone who pities him.

A couple of weeks ago, I stood at the fence along the front of the barn, about six feet away from Pascal, my chin resting on my arms in a studious pose, staring into his eyes. Neither of us moved for the longest time. His lips were slightly parted as though he were about to speak. I wondered what he would say if he could talk.

Days earlier Pascal and I had an adventure. During morning chores, I wheeled a bale of alfalfa out to the back barn. Pascal and the herd were standing at the gate when I got there. The goats and the sheep greeted me loudly, letting me know they were hungry. Their insistent pleading betrayed the fact that I had fed them grain and prairie hay the evening before. I opened the gate carefully and backed up to push the wheel barrow through, but the gate opened wider and Pascal took advantage. He darted out the gate and headed for the street.

My heart jumped into my throat. Of all the scenarios I'd considered I might encounter on the farm, an escaped llama was not one of them. There had been no drill ahead of time, no lessons on llama herding in all of the instruction I'd been given to prepare me to take care of the farm.

My mind raced. Getting the gate closed was the first priority to prevent the goats and sheep from following Pascal. I dropped the wheel barrow with the alfalfa and ran for the gate. Sadie, a beautiful black dog who was created to run like an Oklahoma wind sweeping across the prairie
, met me at the gate and passed through chasing after Pascal before I got it closed. She came flying from the back of the pasture, and her presence increased my anxiety. She's beautiful and fast and adores me, and I love her for all of those things, but she's a bully. She plays hard with the animals and causes chaos. I feared she would create more of a problem with the loose llama.

I closed the gate and turned to see where Pascal had gone. He took a right out of the gate and headed for the garden area. The fence on the front of the garden was open, a passageway for the truck to get to the back pasture. Instinctively Pascal headed for the opening, but Sadie caught up to him. I had no idea what to expect to happen next. I stood frozen, fearful, but I couldn't think of a single thing to do. Sadie raced past Pascal and headed for the opening. She stood in front of it waiting for him to come to her. As he drew closer she charged him, forcing him into the fenced part of the garden. And every time he inched back toward the opening, she ran for his feet, herding him back. Defeated, Pascal looked toward the garden and searched out the patches of green grass sprouting up around the edges of the furrowed ground.

I was amazed. With Sadie safely herding Pascal away from the street into a contained area, I closed two areas of the fence that were open and ran to the chicken coop to get some scratch, hoping to lure Pascal back to the pasture. I knew it wasn't the stuff he loves, but I was afraid to take the time to walk to the back barn and get the feed grain. With a can of scratch in hand, I walked closer to Pascal. He jumped back and darted away from me. Each time I approached him, he ran. I couldn't get him interested in the scratch for anything.

I stood in the middle of the garden watching him graze, wondering what to do. I kept glancing over at the barn, knowing that the grain was surely the key. I looked around the garden and saw Sadie a safe distance from Pascal, but close enough that she could spring into action if he headed toward the one remaining opening in the fence.

I ran to the barn, grabbed the red bucket and dropped a can full of feed grain in the bottom, then ran back to the garden. Slowly, I walked toward Pascal, and as I got closer he got more curious. Then, in a flash a knowing gaze took over his face and he started moving purposefully toward the red bucket. I let him stick his head in and get a mouthful, then pulled it away and started backing up toward the gate. He followed me, eyes fixed on the bucket, neck and head bobbing for it as he walked. In no time, I had him inside the gate, safe and sound.

Something happened to me that day. I've yet to put words to it. There's something very moving about working with a dog who instinctively helped herd an escaped llama. I was pulled by the universe to trust something I'm used to controlling, to step back and let her do what she knew to do without ever being taught. I felt connected to the world in a new way, aware of the profound interconnectedness of beings. I participated in something ancient and mysterious, something that pulled me beyond myself to a force greater than my own. I was left feeling humbled and grateful.

But when I look in Pascal's eyes now, I wonder what they are revealing to me in the depths of his soul. Maybe all I see is the deep longing of my own soul, the desire to be free, the struggle to trust those closest to me, and yet, the profound gratitude that what I love nourishes me and keeps me safe.
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The photos were taken by my good friend Jill when we took care of the farm a year and a half ago.

Holiday on the farm: Part 1, Dead possum kicking

I should be running this morning, but I'm not, so I decided to try to kick start the blog again. I've got to get past the voice in my head that says, "Don't post unless it's stellar writing," and get back in the habit of writing regularly without the editor's voice shutting me down.

I have some great stories to tell. I spent the better part of ten days taking care of the farm for my good friend Lisa who went to Seattle to be with her family for the holidays. In spite of the fact that the goats are dried up, conserving their energy to give birth in a few months, I managed to have some adventures with the animals.

For example, there was the evening when I returned to the farm at sunset to find a possum lying on the ground outside the chicken coop, curled up looking rather dead. I'm no farmer, but I quickly sized up the scenario. One possum, however dead he might appear, just feet away from the open gate to the chicken coop would likely not lead to a good outcome if I left it alone. So, I texted Lisa and asked her what to do with the possum. She called me back right away and the conversation went something like this....

Linda: I know possums play dead, and that's it not a good thing that he's so close to the coop, but I have no idea how to get him to leave. Should I poke him with a stick or something to see if he's actually dead?
Lisa: Well, um, poking him with a stick won't help. To tell if a possum's dead, you have to kick it. And by kicking, I don't mean pushing it around a little with your foot. I mean, you'll have to kick it like a football. Go back about 25 feet, run up and kick it up into the air. If it lands on its feet and runs away, it's not dead.
[Silence while I look for the Candid Camera]
Linda: Okay. So, I'm going to kick it like a football. If it runs away it's not dead. It will run away, right? It won't charge me and put those gnarly teeth in my leg, will it?
Lisa: No. But it will probably hiss at you when it lands.
Linda: OhhKAY!
Lisa: Good. Call me after you take care of it. I want to know how it turns out.
Linda: Yeah. I'll do that.

So, I hung up the phone and put it in my pocket, then stared at the curled up critter, its gnarly teeth showing as it laid in a ball on the cold ground in front of me. I debated the merits of the kick. I wondered if there was another way. Then quickly decided I just needed to get it done. I can handle this, I thought. I was the top female finisher in the Punt, Pass, and Kick competition in my hometown when I was 11 years old. Clearly, God was preparing me for this moment years before.

I stepped back and ran forward and kicked with all of my tentative might and managed to scoot the animal about six inches forward. No launching it into the air. No movement from the animal whatsoever. So I stepped back again and ran forward with greater confidence. I shifted my weight to my left leg and reached back to give that critter the best football kick I could muster. With my eyes closed, I kicked forward. Toe pointed, leg straight, I reached down first, to make sure I got under the possum to launch it into the air, and kicked forward with all of my strength. And in a split second I screamed in agony. When I looked down I saw that I'd missed the animal by a good six inches and had, in fact, kicked the cold, hard ground with my full force. My foot was throbbing. I danced around in pain, crying out for whomever could offer me sympathy. Sadie, the beautiful black dog who races around the farm at break neck speed, treeing squirrels and causing chaos, came over to check on things. Instead of offering proper sympathy, she ran over to the possum, took one sniff and dashed off to find something more interesting to investigate.

After the throbbing stopped, I stepped back again and ran forward to kick the possum, this time launching it about four feet into the air. It landed with a thud on its side. I assumed at first that it was dead, but I wondered, "Maybe this is a hearty possum, able to keep up the charade of death in spite of my best punt. Perhaps it's best to try this one more time, just to be sure." So, once more, I launched it four feet into the air. Thud, again.

Concluding that it was dead, I stood over it for a long while, gathering my courage to pick it up. Those gnarly teeth looked rather formidable. But, I reached down and grasped the tip of its tail between my thumb and forefinger, then quickly dropped it into and empty feed bag, folded the top of the bag over several times and ran to drop it in the trash.

The next morning I checked the trash to make sure it was still in there, still dead. Fortunately, it was. I have no idea what I would have done if it hadn't been.

Next up, Part 2, Llama herding.

Parsnip haiku

white carrot puree
creamy goat's milk and butter
new passion revealed

Catching up

This space feels dusty and neglected. I've chatted with some of you recently and know that the loss of blogging mojo seems to be going around. I've had some good reasons for the neglect. First, there was the time spent getting my new place ready to live in. Then, the new school year started and I embarked on a work and church schedule that resulted in only an occasional evening at home and seldom ever a weekend at home. And frankly, I hit a block on the writing front.

Over the past three months, I've taken advantage of a life coaching group to help me make some significant steps toward reaching the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year. It has been enormously helpful, on so many levels. One area that I had identified as important to me to work on this year was the area of creativity, specifically, my practice of writing. I was frustrated when I got to the middle of the year and realized I wasn't even close to making progress in this area, so I made it a priority in the coaching process, and am delighted that I am finally working through some of the block and starting to write again. One of the most helpful things I've done is purchase the book, A Writer's Book of Days, and start using the prompts given for each day of the year to help get me started. I'm anxious to see where this kind of disciplined practice leads. And, I hope to use the blog as workspace for some of what I'm doing in the coming weeks.

So, I think that means I'm back to blogging fairly regularly. I took some time last week to look through old posts and identify some of my own favorites. I've created a list on the right-hand side of the blog that provides links to those posts. And now, brace yourself, as I said I would do in my goals for 2008, I'm going to dare to talk about my hopes and dreams for my writing. I want to work toward having some of my work published. I have no idea what or how or where, but for me to even say that's something I plan to do in a public space is progress enough for right now. I hope that putting that intention into the ether will help move me to make some more concrete plans.

So, stay tuned and wish me luck!

Introducing

If you're still reading here, and have read this blog for the last year or so, you'll likely remember that I've posted a few times about my experiences on my friend's 7-acre sustainable farm near where I live. You'll recall the time three friends and I went out to care for the animals while the owners were gone for Labor Day weekend. I wrote about our preparations for the weekend here: August 31, 2007.
And a few days later, I wrote about the weekend: September 5, 2007 Part I and September 5, 2007 Part II. Then, a couple of months later, I went out to help in the garden on a Saturday and wrote about the day: October 27, 2007.

Many of you have commented about how you enjoy reading about my visits there. Well, I've got good news. My friend, Bibi, who lives on the farm is now blogging about her life there. She just started and put up her first post today. So hurry on over and welcome her to the blogosphere and go back often to read about her work to start a goat milk dairy on her farm. You'll find her at Living on this Farm. And for some good recipes, check out the blog she keeps for her "day" job at Oklahoma State University's Seretean Wellness Center: Cowboy Bites.

Writing by hand

I write in a journal every morning. I love the way my pen feels in my hand moving across the page. There is something magical about fingers clicking keys on the computer keyboard, moving swiftly, trying to keep up with the thoughts as they come to mind. But, I prefer the slower, more deliberate work of writing by hand for my journaling. For some reason, it feels like it's more my own when it's in my own handwriting.

This morning I went to a coffee shop to journal. A man walked in front of the table where I was sitting, lost in thought and contemplating what I would write next. He startled me when he stopped one step past the table and turned back to say, "You have really nice handwriting!" I was startled not only because he pulled me out of a faraway place in my mind, but also because I have never considered my handwriting to be nice. In fact, I can still hear the daily lectures from my fourth grade teacher, Miss List, who was convinced I'd never amount to anything because my handwriting was small, and messy, and not always neatly resting on the lined page of my wide-rule notebook paper. She'd allowed the other students to shift to college-rule. I, however, had to have remedial handwriting lessons, until my mom took the extremely rare bold step of challenging one of my teachers and telling her that she wouldn't concern herself anymore with Miss List's criticisms of and concerns about my handwriting. After all, my dad's handwriting was bad, she reasoned, and he was a successful person.

The gentleman who stopped to compliment my handwriting said that he'd noticed his own had gotten worse and worse the more he'd shifted to using a computer for his correspondence. The exchange was over quickly. He hurried off to the car where his teenage daughter was waiting for him to take her to school. But, the compliment stayed with me.

After I dropped off my rental car and picked up my own, I stopped at a drug store and found a thank you card. A friend had me over for dinner last night, a beautiful fall evening out by her pool, the smell of salmon grilling over the charcoal fire, and a cool breeze bringing an occasional chill to an otherwise perfectly pleasant evening outdoors. Harry Connick, Jr., played softly in the background over the stereo, and soft warm light illumined the bar where we sat to eat. Her dog laid quietly at our feet, enjoying a pig's ear while we talked until I caught a glimpse of the time on her watch and realized we were both going to have a difficult time getting up in the morning. It was the kind of evening that will remain in my heart for some time, and it just seemed an e-mail thank you, our usual way of touching base about such things, was too impersonal for such an intimate, warm evening.

I wrote my words of thanks on the card, addressed the envelope and dropped it off at the post office on my lunch break. The card lay on my desk most of the morning, the sight of my handwriting catching my attention from time to time. I wondered what the way I write communicates to people. Does it show the beauty I wish to convey? Does it communicate the warmth I want them to know I feel when I think of them? What part of me do they recognize in the way I shape my "s" or dot my "i"? I thought about the cards and letters I've received over the years and the feelings I've had when I recognized the handwriting of someone I love or someone I loathe.

I'm not an overly sentimental person who mourns the loss of things with the increasing use of technology to communicate. I'm deeply appreciative of the enhancements such things as e-mail, instant messaging, and text messaging have brought to my communications with friends and loved ones. But it was odd to think there are people I love, whom I consider close friends, whose handwriting I would not recognize, and in some cases, I've never actually seen. I think that's why I stopped to buy the card. A small gesture, perhaps, but it just seemed important to give a little bit more of myself in the way I said thank you for that beautiful night.

Inquiring minds....

I don't put much up here anymore, but I get a bunch of hits on the blog from two specific Google searches everyday:

1. the smell of the ocean
2. my blog name, apparently because there is now another (popular) blog that uses my blog name

Why do so many people Google search on the smell of the ocean? It's fishy. It's salty. And all of that together is wonderful and good, but why do so many people do research on it?

As for those looking for the other blog, I'm sorry this isn't it. Perhaps someday I'll actually post regularly again and I won't just be using up a URL that someone else actually wants.

Releasing a balloon

I'm going to the store later today to buy a helium balloon. I don't care if it's one that wishes someone a happy birthday or declares the giver's love for the receiver. What's on the balloon really isn't the point for me. I just want to take it out in the back yard, maybe down to the river, and let it go. Buying a balloon just to let it go is my plan.

I've been spending a lot of time lately imagining how I want my life to look and feel. I've written descriptions of four areas of my life that are evocative pictures of what I want when I'm moving effortlessly through life, experiencing it the way I think it should be lived, full of the joy and passion and satisfaction that I think I'm meant to have, not because I'm anyone special or particularly worthy of the privilege of such abundance. I'm just now, at 43, getting around to actually believing that what I've long thought was meant for everyone else in the world is also actually meant for me too. There's no need to pity me for this. It's not a bad thing to discover this at age 43. I think I have some wisdom and clarity and focus that makes it all the sweeter to enjoy these things now that likely would have been lacking from my experience much earlier in my life. I'm just happy to be awake to it now.

But back to balloons and why I plan to release one today. I am finding that the abundance I seek exists somewhere in the tension of working on those things over which I have control and practicing an awareness that control is merely an illusion. I have it, and taking responsibility for that which I can influence requires far less energy and provides much greater satisfaction than hanging my hopes on the actions and desires of others. But if that sense of control isn't held in tension with a good healthy practice of detachment, I'm going to be gravely disappointed somewhere along the way. That's why I'm releasing a balloon today.

I need to let go of my attachment to a particular hope for my life. It's the next step in a long journey of detachment. This hope has taken on a sense of ultimacy that's far too confining for me. Letting go of it, allowing for the possibility that it may not be my path, frees me to see the ways in which God is seeking to offer me that which I thought only this one hopeful outcome could offer.

I've held on to that hope because I thought I was as entitled to it as anyone else. I've clung to it because I was convinced its absence from my life meant I was living in deprivation. I know now that's not true. If it never comes to me, I will be just fine. I will not be in the least deprived, as long as I keep my focus on what's provided in the moment and not get too attached to it to provide what I need or long for.

So I'm going to buy a balloon and let go and watch it float up into the sky and out of my sight. I'm going to marvel in the sense of freedom that comes in seeing the balloon carry away my attachment. And I'm going to delight with gratitude in the abundance that exists in my life today.

Anyone want to join me? Wouldn't it be great to walk outside and see someone else's balloon in the sky and know that today her/his life is a little lighter too?

On forgiving

A sermon delivered in chapel, based on Matthew 18:21-35
___________________________

Peter says, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

It sounds like a pretty generous offer to me, particularly when I hear his question immediately after the preceding passage, the one in which Jesus teaches the disciples that if a brother sins against them they should go to him in private and if he refuses to repent, then take along a couple of other people to confront him and if he still refuses to repent, then take it to the whole church, if he still won’t listen and repent, then they should treat him like a tax collector, like someone who isn’t one of them. That’s harsh!

And so when I hear Peter say, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” I find myself ready to pat him on the back and commend him for his generosity.

I suspect he thought he was pretty generous too. He heard the encouragement to confront the one who wronged him in the context of his Jewish upbringing which taught him that if a brother sinned against him, he should forgive him three times. So, when he offers seven instead of three, he really is being generous.

Yet, Jesus, the one who had already told them to confront the one who sinned against them and hold them accountable, says, “Not seven times, but I tell, seventy-seven times.”

His response is a challenge to us, isn’t it? Oh, we struggle with the encouragement to confront the one who wrongs us, probably because the passage holds some difficult sayings about binding and loosing, and we don’t like to think about cutting people off or treating them like tax collectors. Or maybe we struggle because we don’t like conflict, and the idea of confronting someone when we’ve been wronged is hard for us to agree to.

The truth, though, is that if we’re honest with ourselves, well…the truth is, if I’m honest with myself, that part of me that’s very oriented toward justice, working on behalf of those who have been oppressed and hurt by injustices committed by those in power, I want to yell with Jesus, “Yeah! Confront them! Call them to repentance!” And in some way that feels more satisfying than asking someone to forgive the person who’s wronged them.

It’s all a little messy for us, isn’t it? It felt really messy to me when I sat with this passage in preparation for today’s message. I sat with the passage while thoughts of people I know who have been hurt badly by senseless acts of violence or prejudice or abuse ran through my mind. Can we really ask them to forgive? I sat with the passage mindful that in a couple of days we reach the seven-year anniversary of a terrible act of violence in our country, an act of terrorism that’s affected us all deeply and I wonder, what does it mean to ask those most deeply hurt by what happened on 9-11 to forgive? I wonder, how do we call a nation, a government to forgive?

I think it’s difficult for us because forgiveness has been thrown out to us in a rather casual fashion….maybe it conjures up images like this one that it did for me, images of my tired mother, weary from all that she had going on in her life, weary of the fighting and bickering between my brother and me who often said, “I don’t want to hear it! Just kiss and make up!” My friends, no kiss was ever so bitter as the one demanded without justice first! And while in the long run forgiving my brother for irritating or annoying me may really have been as easy as kissing and making up, to glibly suggest that someone hurting from a genuine, painful offense to just kiss and make up, to tell them to just forgive is to cause harm.

That’s why I think holding the two passages together is critical. The two acts of faith that these passages point to need to be held in tension. Our justice-seeking is an act of faith that leaves us empty if it doesn’t point us toward something different, if it isn’t meant to bring about the long-hoped-for reconciliation promised in the kin-dom of God. That’s what I see happening when I hear that our nation’s response to the cries to “Never Forget” what happened on 9-11 is to take the scrap metal from the twin towers and make a battleship! Doesn’t that just lead us down a never-ending road of revenge and hatred?

Without forgiveness, reconciliation, peace, transformation cannot happen. That’s a reality we’re faced with.

And our forgiveness is shallow and meaningless if it doesn’t also name the offense committed and demand change. That, too, is a reality we’re faced with.

As people of God, we stand with those who are hurt and work for change. And as people of God, we also seek to forgive, setting ourselves free to embrace the promised transformation.

The parable Jesus told shows us how we find our way through the messiness. A king demands that a servant pay the debts he owes. The servant begs for the king’s mercy, asking him to be patient until he can pay it off. The king has mercy on him, sets him free and forgives the debt. But the servant, we’re told, immediately encounters another man who owes him money, and demands that the debt be paid. When the fellow servant says he can’t pay and begs for mercy and patience, the first servant, the one fresh from his experience of forgiveness, has the man thrown in prison. When word of what the first servant did reaches the king, he calls him wicked for not having pity on his fellow servant, particularly after having been shown mercy himself. Then he hands him over to be tortured.

Jesus concludes the parable with a difficult saying, “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” That difficult saying tempts us to be distracted from the point. We want to debate whether or not a loving God would actually do that to us. But, as anyone who has actually struggled to forgive can tell you, it’s really a moot point. We need not be distracted, because the reality is that when we don’t forgive, we’re holding ourselves prisoner to the anger that for awhile protected us and pointed us to the need for justice. We torture ourselves, making ourselves prisoners to the past and to the pain. And we cut ourselves off from the very work God wishes to do in our lives. Forgiveness sets us free from those things…..when we’re ready. It declares that we no longer believe the past holds such significant sway on the present and future. It declares our faith that change can happen. It takes time, there’s no question, and it is wrong for us to demand that anyone forgive. But when we keep working at this -- and I really think that’s Jesus point in saying seventy-seven times, that we keep at the work as long as there are wrongs to forgive -- then we open the door to peace and reconciliation.

And what helps us do the work? Remembering that we have been forgiven. That’s what the servant failed to do. He failed to take in the power of his experience of having his debt forgiven. So if you need a place to start in the work of forgiveness, if you find that there’s someone or a group of people that you just can’t forgive yet, then find another way to do the work of forgiveness. Don’t start with the big stuff if you aren’t ready. Asking someone to forgive the major offenses without doing the work to get there is like asking someone to run a marathon before she’s made it around the block. We can start by practicing forgiveness in our everyday lives, seeking to offer it where it’s possible. We can start by seeking to forgive ourselves. While we do what we can, we reflect on the multitude of times we have experienced forgiveness and let that move us to show mercy when the time is right. And when we struggle to believe forgiveness is possible, we can turn to people who have done the hard work and let them inspire and challenge us.

During my preparation for this sermon, I watched a documentary entitled “The Power of Forgiveness.” Near the end of the film, a Sufi Muslim man who lives in California, Azim Khamisa, is introduced. Azim’s story is extraordinary. His 20-year-old son was killed delivering a pizza to a group of young men who refused to pay. When Azim’s son, Tariq, told them they could not have the pizza, he was shot in the head in response. Azim used his faith to help him deal with his loss. He observed the prescribed period of mourning, then turn to his religious leaders for help deciding what to do next. He was told to do an act of charity, so after considerable thought, Azim, an investment banker, started a foundation in the name of his son. But he didn’t stop there. He went to the grandfather of the young man who killed his son and asked him to help him build the foundation. The two men now work together in schools and other community organizations to teach others that forgiveness is doorway to transforming the violence and hatred in their neighborhoods to peace.

Forgiveness is possible! The message of the gospel is that change can happen. Hope lies in the present and future. It’s based on the very real possibility of transformation. We demonstrate our conviction that we believe it’s possible when we act in faith and seek justice and forgive.

Who do you need to forgive today? Are ready? It’s okay if you aren’t, but I encourage you, as one who’s struggling with you, find some piece of the work of forgiveness that you can work on today, and open the door to transformation.

The unicycle

The oak tree in Tommy Weaver's front yard stood well above the roof of his ranch style home. The branches stretched with broad shoulders and long arms to shelter the expanse of the front yard; its roots exploded through the concrete sidewalk in front of their house. It was impractical really. Summer time called for games of baseball and kickball, or hours of catch with a football or frisbee, but we could never play any of those things in his front yard. But the tree was good for climbing or for standing against to count with our eyes closed tight next to arms leaning on the tree while neighborhood kids ran in the dark through scores of lightening bugs looking for a good place to hide until someone stealthily reached the driveway to kick the can.

Summer days stretched lazily from the cooler morning hours of baseball and basketball and long bike rides around town through the hot afternoons of quieter activities in the shade of the giant oak and well into the night when our families sat in cheaply made lawn chairs with flimsy aluminum frames and fraying nylon strips that tenuously held us while we ate watermelon and drank slurpees in plastic cups with pictures of baseball players from the Kansas City Royals. Our brown bodies and dirty bare feet bore the marks of summer. Chigger bites swelled under cracked layers of clear nail polish from spots on our feet and legs. We relished in the freedom of summer. The neighborhood belonged to us and our days were our own to structure and plan as we pleased.

In the summer when Tommy was eight and I was nine, he got a unicycle for his birthday, May 25, two days after school was out. We had three months to learn to ride it. Our goal was to make it around the block once by the end of the summer, a trip that would take us up and down a hill and over crumbling sidewalks. We practiced for hours, falling off with each half turn of the pedals, the cycle dropping clumsily to the ground at our feet. We were stiff and clumsy. Each move came timidly, uncertain where it would take us. There was no one to teach, no one to say, "Lean forward" or "hold your arms out to keep your balance." We were left to experiment and see what position on the bike would keep us upright and what shifts were necessary to compensate for the terrain we traversed.

Our lessons eventually shifted to the thin patch of lawn under the oak tree. The bumpy roots mimicked the crumbling concrete on the sidewalk and the opportunity to keep the tree at arm's length while we rode in circles around its trunk gave us the balance we needed to stay on the unicycle long enough for our bodies to feel where it needed to position itself to stay on. Slowly we made progress, spurned on by the competition we offered each other, yet free to enjoy the pleasure of learning something new just for the sake of learning it.

The day came when we were ready to move away from the tree. After hours of practice, we were consistently circling the tree five or six times without ever having to touch it to keep our balance. We wanted to see how far we could go. I was timid at first and the unicycle quickly fell from under me, crashing down while my feet dropped to the ground to keep me upright. My legs and arms were tight, my jaw clenched. Over and over, I tried to keep my balance, but I kept falling off. I would make it two feet on one try and five the next, then fell with the first turn of the pedals. And just as I was ready to give up, in a flurry of frustration and anger, I pushed on the pedals with greater force and groaned through the stiffness in my stomach until with each turn of the pedals, I found myself moving another foot down the sidewalk. I went over the Collins' double driveway and past their house, crossed the Schmidts' driveway and before long my own house was no longer in sight. I breathed in deeply and laughed with delight while my body took over and kept the delicate balance needed to ride all the way to the end of the block, where I had to turn to go down the hill and around the block. I stayed on the cycle until sheer exhaustion kept me from making it back up the hill on the other side of the block.

That's the feeling of summer to me...beginner's mind with no attachment to an agenda, free to learn and explore, playfully finding a new balance that my body can learn and embrace.

And if I close my eyes, I can feel the warm summer breeze in my face and the sheer pleasure of effortlessly balancing on the unicycle down the crumbling sidewalk and around the block, the sheltering oak tree in Tommy Weaver's yard saluting my freedom as I ride past.

Sweat equity

Just as a matter of record, I would like to point out that over the course of this summer, while building the one-bedroom cottage that I will be renting and moving into soon, I have acquired the following skills (with varying degrees of mastery):

• Laying Pergo
  
• Hanging sheet rock
• Mudding and taping sheet rock
• Applying structolite (like stucco)
• Painting
• Blowing insulation (eco-friendly, green insulation made of recycled newspapers!)
• Roofing

I can't wait to move in! The place is going to be amazing!

TIHTFNTINZOBTC* #2

Riding my bike to and from work a couple of times a week...

It's 10.3 miles each way, so the to and from gives me a good workout, a nice alternative to running. And I LOVE it! I swear I'm like a kid at Christmas. I love seeing the city up close and at a slower pace. I find myself connecting with it in a different way.

*Things I Have Time for Now That I'm not Zoning Out Behind the Computer