Fall journey

Buttons the cat is gone. Again. She left for her annual through-hike on the Ozark Trail. She goes this time every year. She never lets us know she's leaving, but one day, I'm milking in the barn and the familiar presence is gone. No one jumps in my lap while I'm sitting on the milking stool and kneads my bare legs. After a few days, I realize she's left. I miss her.

This is the third year Buttons has left around this time. The last two years she returned some time in October or November. Seriously, I don't think she's far, but I do wonder why she disappears and steers clear of the farm for so long. And why is it always in September? Last year, I thought it was because we'd moved and she didn't like the new place. The year before, we thought she got into an old home where the owner left for several weeks. Every time we think she's gone for good and have just gotten used to the idea that she won't be back when she suddenly appears. I hope that's the case this time as well.

But I wonder where she goes and why she leaves. Is there something about fall that calls her into the woods, that makes her long to reconnect with the wild cat in her? Are we not feeding her enough to help her fatten up for the long winter outside? Does the sound of goats in heat drive her nuts like it does me sometimes? Do cats have spiritual lives that need tending? Does she go on a spirit quest every year? A silent retreat?

Cattle trails

Most of the land we live on is wooded with oak, hickory, pecan, and walnut trees. Cattle trails wind in and out of the forest and provide us with a way to explore the farm. Lisa and I followed one last night through the back pasture and across to an area of the farm where a spring runs and fills several ponds. It's beautiful. Crab apples are ripening, as are the persimmons, filling the air with hints of fall.

The woods never look the same. No matter how often we walk the trails there are places that seem new and unfamiliar. From the lush greens of a rainy spring day to the stark absence of green in winter, the woods show a new face each time we hike. I'm struck by all the life that makes its home in the woods. Last night I walked through something, some tall grass perhaps, and came out with a dark brown patch on my leg. I bent down to investigate just in time to see dozens of tiny little bugs scatter across my leg. Lisa thinks they are chiggers. I'm not convinced, but I brushed them off furiously just in case, and then wiped down with alcohol and showered when I got home.

Our walk last night started with a hike out through the back pasture to close the gate. A cattle trail led us through a part of the farm we hadn't explored before. After a few minutes we reached a place that's familiar, a fork in the path where we'd always turned north. We headed down the familiar path to our favorite pond. The pond is lined with reeds on three sides. There's a beautiful clearing to the north, with a perfect canopy of shade on the edge. We'd like to camp there some day, and hope it will happen soon. Until a few weeks ago, cattle roamed freely through the woods. Neither of us wanted to camp there with them around. As friendly as they are, I wouldn't want to wake up to them checking out our tent.

I love this time of year, when the farm is slowing down enough to allow time to explore. The evenings bring cooler temperatures and the sun's light softens, inviting me to shed the office and spend some time outside after work. There's a sense of urgency in it. Soon, darkness will set as I drive home, giving the last glimpse of light on the western horizon as I pull into the driveway.

The end to a long summer

These days I go to parties where people sit around and play music, eat food we've made with our own hands, and talk about what a horrible summer it's been for tomatoes. I've never been much of the party-going type, but this I can handle. After working all day outside moving fences and doing chores, it's hard to make ourselves get in the truck and drive the 30+ minutes it takes to get anywhere our good friends live, but it does help.

Farming sometimes feels very lonely and isolating. We have neighbors that live fairly close, but we don't see them much and even if we did, we'd still feel isolated. They don't farm. The isolation we experience is of a particular kind. It's the kind where until we make an effort to check in with someone else who is doing what we're doing, we feel like we're the only ones having struggles or going through tough times.

We went to an annual party held by a friend of ours on Sunday. It's a party that marks the end of summer, and for some of us, the end of the farmers market season. It's a good chance each year to catch up with some friends after the busy market season, when it's hard to get together with anyone. Naturally, the conversations turn to what kind of year it's been, and if the conversations on Sunday are any indication, it's been a rough year for farming. The usual playful feel of this party was replaced with a fatigue that was palpable. We were in the truck headed home well before the sun was completely out of the sky....and we weren't the first to leave.

In spite of the struggles, we've had a decent year. It's our first year at this location, and Lisa and the interns did an amazing job of eeking out some good veggies from soil so nutrient-depleted from years of laying fallow that it's hard to imagine much of anything good growing from it. In another couple of years, with lots of good compost and proper cover crop planting, we'll be in good shape. The animals that have managed to fight off the barber pole worm look healthy and well-fed. The dinners have been amazing, and have helped us introduce our farm to new people.

But it's been hard too. The heat has been outrageous, burning up plants and beating up anyone who dares stay out in it very long. It's taken a toll on some of the weaker animals, leaving them susceptible to the barber pole worm which thrives in hot, humid conditions. We've lost two or three lambs already, including Lily, and have two near death. We were able to save two or three that have been infected by the worm, but this worm is wicked and very hard to treat. Worst of all, the anthelmintics that are available to farmers now are growing increasingly ineffective. The worms are developing a resistance to them, leaving us with management of the sheep and goat's grazing as the main option for prevention and protection.

We're not alone. Others are facing the same problem. For some, it may mean not having any lambs left to sell when the time comes. If the cooler weather shows up soon and we see an end to the high temps during the day, we will be fine, but it's hard to lose animals.

At one point during the conversation on Sunday, someone asked if we thought the winter would be mild. No one responded. Another asked if we'd looked in the Farmers Almanac. No one had had the courage. I pray it's mild, well at least not as harsh as last winter. I know a lot of people who could use the break.

Showing up

Okay, I'm here. Writing. Well, that sounds more like I'm doing it grudgingly, which I'm not. This is something I really want to do, but for some reason it's become a struggle. Again. And, no doubt, it's because I keep waging the battle in my head instead of just sitting down to write. Seriously. I think that's a lot of it. I'm mean, my fingers are moving across the keyboard now, so there's clearly no mechanical failure. Odds are pretty good that if I just show up and do this from time to time, I'll occasionally write something that I actually like, and maybe in the process, figure a few things out.

Much of my writing in the past was done to figure something out. I was in a bad situation and needed to get out, so I wrote. I got out and needed to make some changes so I didn't make the same mistakes again, so I wrote. I was alone and had a lot of time to let my mind go to a place far away to think, so I wrote. There are a lot of other reasons to write, though....to remember, to share, to play with words, to create.

It's interesting, just sitting down here to do this, feeling the slick surface of the keys under my finger tips, hearing their click and thud as I press them down, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. There's a sense of relief, actually, recognizing that I'm doing it. I'm not just thinking about it right now.

So, showing up is a start, and now the trick is to let go of my expectations of where it will take me. Yes, that's it. I need to let that go and just write.

Haycation reflection

I've been on vacation for almost two weeks now...vacation from the paying job, the one in the city, the one where I sit inside an air conditioned building all day and either talk on the phone, go to meetings, answer e-mail, or show people around the school, the one where I wear dry-clean-only clothes and carry a briefcase. I have not, however, been on vacation from the farm and have, instead, leaped head first into the farm life, making it my sole vocation for these two weeks. It's been good, albeit hot, the hottest two weeks of the year to be exact. I'm trying not to take it personally that come Monday, when I return to the office, the high for the day will be a mere 90 degrees, a good 12 or 13 degrees cooler than it's been any day this week or last.

Our days start at six and include the usual chores and an assortment of projects around the farm, things like setting up a planned rotational grazing system for the sheep, which included examining and treating the sheep for worms and/or foot rot, cleaning out the barn, hoeing in the garden, and mowing the lawn. We've also managed to host a couple of private dinner parties during these two weeks and come up with our farm plan for the fall and winter months. On a calm day, we're in bed by 9:30 or 10:00. Most days it's been around 11:00. All and all, I'd say, it's been good.

And without two hours of commuting everyday, there's been time for a nap or to read and write and I'm grateful for that. In fact, I'm not really sure how I'll give those things up to be able to return to the office.

Last night we worked with some chickens, clipping their wings so that we can move them to the Hennebago tonight. I looked up and saw stars twinkling in the sky, so many of them, their vastness almost overwhelming. I was struck by a sense of my smallness in the vast scheme of the universe. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for my life, for a chance to be human, to live on this earth, to be witness to stars twinkling and chickens cackling and spiders weaving their webs and goats running in a green pasture. I have a truly amazing life.

Amazing to be sure, and a bit surreal at times. We have a buckling who has been a bit sickly this week. He wasn't responding to the treatment we've given him and was very anemic. He needed a blood transfusion, so I loaded him and his mama (so she could be his blood donor) up in my truck and headed into town to our vet. This is not the large animal country vet we normally use, where the sight of a goat would be all in a day's work. This is our small animal, pet vet, a friend who was kind enough to answer the phone at 8:30 this morning and agree to do something that's not part of her normal operation. I think it was the point at which I sat down in the waiting room with the buckling's mama that I realized, "My life is not normal." Did you catch that? I sat in a vet's office waiting room, milk goat in tow, while she stubbornly tried to graze the tile floor.

The little buckling is improving. If all goes well tonight, we'll pick him up tomorrow and wonder why on earth we saw fit to transfuse a goat. He'll grow up, perhaps live his days out on this farm. If we're lucky, he'll breed our milk goats and give us babies as beautiful as he is. Regardless, our lives will carry on, daily looking after the care of 20 goats, 47 sheep, five llamas, six dogs, five cats, and more chickens than you can shake a stick at. We'll manage to grow some vegetables, and we'll host people for dinner parties and treat them to fresh food grown right and cooked well. This is our lives, and it suits me just fine.

Sitemeter amusement

Just glanced at my Sitemeter stats and noticed there are a number of people who find my blog by googling "how to introduce a preacher." I'm not sure what's so special about introducing a preacher that drives folks to the interwebs for help, but I have to admit it pleases me that they find a post where I write about the best introduction I've ever heard.

There are a surprising number of folks finding me through searches on things related to dead possums. Those searches take them to a post about my experience with one. This post might actually prove a bit helpful.

I am, however, resisting speculation on why someone in the U.S. House Representatives Information Systems is googling "possum kicking."

Sermon: A father and two sons

I had a chance to preach in chapel a few weeks ago. I don't do that very much anymore. I'm not ordained, and have no plans to be. I once felt compelled to wrestle with that and kept trying to find a way to make ordination make sense for me. But, something shifted for me last summer and I'm happy to report there's no longer a struggle. It's a huge relief to say I'm a lay person, one who is theologically trained. And one who occasionally preaches.

So here you a go, a sermon on the text from Luke 15:1-3; 11b-32. There's a podcast of it on the seminary website for those who would prefer to listen to it: Go to this page and scroll down to 3-10-10.

A FATHER AND HIS TWO SONS

The familiarity of a text such as our gospel reading for this week causes me to work a lot harder to find meaning in it. A surface glance doesn’t reveal much, at least not for me. And in the case of the particular text for this week, there is so much there that it’s hard to figure out where to focus my attention. I’ll admit even to a momentary longing that the lectionary actually offered up for us the parable found earlier in the 15^th chapter of Luke, the one about the lost sheep. I am, after all, a shepherd now, and let me tell you, I have a lot to say about searching for and finding lost sheep. With lambs running around the farm, it’s a daily experience. And can you imagine the props I could bring to breathe new life into that story!

But, at this point in the middle of our Lenten journey, the lectionary offers up the story of a father and his two sons, a familiar story that we can too easily dismiss precisely because of its familiarity. One that we know so deeply in our bones is one that requires work to let it shed new light on our faith.

For me, some of the newness came as I paid attention to the pace of this story. It covers a lot of time in a relatively short space. It seems to be in a hurry to get a particular point. The younger son asks for his inheritance. It’s given to him. He blows it on wild living. He comes to his senses, and returns home. Phew! The details are sparse, just enough to give us some sense of the significance of what happens next. And with that the story shifts to a moment, one particular moment only. And it is the meaning of that moment and all that is behind it that remains the focal point of what’s left in the text, the moment when a father embraces the son he fears he’s lost.

Reading the part of the story that focuses on the younger son, my thoughts almost always immediately go to a ballet performance I saw when I was in college. Ballet choreographer George Balanchine created a beautiful interpretation of the story, set to the music of Prokofiev. In the ballet, the younger son is seen dragging himself through the mud and slop of the pigs, an image made more profound in my mind as I grew to understand the significance of a Jewish man finding himself caught in that situation. The choices the younger son made didn’t just mean he ended up penniless. They ultimately led him to give up his family and his faith. Balanchine understood the younger son’s decision to return to his father to be an indication of remorse and repentance. The principle dancer in this ballet is seen dragging himself across the floor, no longer walking, perhaps weak from hunger, but more likely, given the downward gaze and lack of eye contact when he meets his father, an act of contrition, a sign of his sorrow for what he’s done. In the text, we are given every reason to believe that too. When he comes to his senses, he recognizes that his suffering is needless. He knows a man, his father, who treats the least in his household better than he’s being treated by the one he hired himself out to. In what he says both to himself and to his father, he demonstrates at least a cognitive awareness that his actions mean the relationship has to be different. He can no longer be a son, but his hope is that he can at least be a hired hand in his father’s household. It would be better than his current situation by far. He doesn’t seem to expect to go back to what he had before. He’s merely trying to improve his current situation and turning to the resources he has to do so.

The climax of the ballet is the point at which the father sees his son from afar and runs to meet him. The music reaches an emotional crescendo as the beautifully choreographed scene shows the father run and fall to his knees to catch the son who is unable to stand, and from that position on the ground they embrace. There’s no distance, no holding back. The depth of each one’s longing for the other is seen in the profound absence of separation.

For most of us, it’s not hard to identify those times in our lives when the regret of our actions leads to a shame that keeps in place a distance from those we’ve hurt. It may be physical distance. It may be emotional distance, but it is separation nonetheless. There’s an invisible line we feel can no longer cross because of what we’ve done. We know what it’s like to be out of God’s presence, don’t we. We know what it’s like to feel the sheer force and impact of the consequences of our poor choices. And, certainly, in this season of Lent, we are invited to an examination of our lives that sheds light on those things which separate us from God’s love. And when we recognize those things and become aware, we need only turn to God and know that God stands ready to receive us. Indeed, that is the good news of the gospel. And what beautiful news it is to be reminded of God’s grace, to be reminded of and to know that we are invited to experience again those moments when the past is overlooked so that the distance that separates us might be overcome.

There are some who are satisfied with the story ending there. Theologically, I don’t think it’s particularly troubling to do that. But it is hard for me to simply ignore the fact that there’s more. There must be a reason for it, right? This is, after all, the story of a Father and his TWO sons.

THE OLDER SON

Balanchine stopped too soon, I believe. There’s such richness when we shift our perspective to look at this scene through the eyes of the older son.The story is still focused on that moment, the one when after the father and younger son embrace, the father casts everything else aside and throws a party. He’s been watching and waiting for the day when his son would return. What he longed for has happened and nothing else matters in that moment. It’s an occasion to celebrate, and so he tells the servants to put a robe, the best one, on his younger son and to kill the fatted calf so that they can eat and celebrate.

And without moving away from this scene the perspective of the story shifts and instead of seeing the celebration through the eyes of the father, we are invited to see it through the eyes of the older son, the one who has been there all along, the responsible one who has followed the customs and honored his father, the hard working one who we see working in the field when the party begins.

He’s indignant when he discovers what’s going on. And if we’re honest with ourselves, it’s not terribly hard for us to understand why. In fact, we have some good sound reasoning to help us support the older brother’s position. Isn’t the celebration a bit premature, we might ask? Has he been to rehab? How do we know he’s sincere? Don’t we need evidence of changed behavior to demonstrate that he really understands what he’s done?

The older son is focused on the past. He can’t overlook it. And, in all honesty, there’s some wisdom in that perspective. We know that. If our concern is a changed relationship as we move forward, then the past matters, and we’re wise to make clear our expectations that things be different.

But I believe it’s at this point that the pace of this story reveals something very important to us. The focus of this parable is on that moment of reconciliation, the one in which the past is overlooked and the future doesn’t yet matter. It’s that moment when what was lost is found and the celebration begins, when our hearts are open to the beauty of reconciliation with God and with each other.

And, we like the older brother, run the risk often of robbing ourselves by focusing on the past or the future so much that we can’t allow our hearts to feel the profound joy that comes when, for a moment, there is no distance that separates. Our own self-righteousness or concern for the integrity of the church steals the opportunity for joy.

I wonder how different our lives and churches would be if we would say to ourselves at times, all that matters right now is that what was lost is found, that which was dead has been made alive again. Maybe, my friends, that’s the open door to a true transformation, one that invites something new, not something predicted or controlled. For those of us who are in need of reconciliation, like the younger son, transformation is possible because we’re allowed momentarily the chance not to have to answer for the past or prescribe how the future will look, but are simply allowed to experience in the very depths of our being the profound joy of being reconciled with God. And maybe for those of us who haven’t strayed far from God, what we need to truly be transformed is to allow ourselves the opportunity, momentarily, to enter into the joy of others who find their way home without expecting them to explain the past or demonstrate how things will be different, to participate in the demonstration of God’s grace that makes the transformed life possible.

It’s in those moments when the love of God infuses us and makes possible things we can’t imagine, when resurrection can occur and our lives and faith are given new breath. In the remaining days of Lent, what do you need to let go of to truly experience reconciliation with God? What do you need to let go of to be ready to celebrate with all of God’s children?

Lily smiles for the camera

Shot yesterday after Lily followed me around the farm. There are no words to describe how much I love this lamb!

An Open Heart and the Will to Live

The following is an article I wrote for the All Souls Church monthly journal Simple Gifts on the theme for the month: salvation.

An Open Heart and the Will to Live

We operate with a simple rule on the farm: If a sick animal shows us she wants to live, we will do everything we can to help her get well. The rule was at the forefront of my mind the day Lily was born. A lamb born to a ewe that was too young to be bred, Lily came into the world without all she needed to survive the first few hours of life on her own.

Too weak to stand or lift her head, Lily needed help getting her first meal. I prepared a bottle and brought it out to the barn where she lay in the soft hay. Her nervous mama paced and called to her. I picked her up and put the nipple to her lips. Mama came over to us and licked Lily’s back, stimulating her to suck, the two of us working together to give the lamb her best shot at life. Lily latched on to the nipple, emptying the bottle in a matter of minutes. I knew immediately she had a strong will to live.

I took Lily in the house as night fell and the temperatures dropped. I held her to my chest while I talked to Lisa on the phone. It’s been a hard winter at the farm. We’ve lost some animals and my heart has been broken more than once. Lisa knew immediately what I needed as I described the situation. I had the basics down, all the necessary care to help keep her alive. But I was tentative and scared. Lisa affirmed all that I was doing, but quickly zeroed in on what was lacking. “You have to open your heart to her. She’s going to break it. You have no control over that. It may be tonight. It may be tomorrow. It may be ten years from now, but she will break it, so accept that and let her in.”

I nuzzled Lily against my chest, and let her rest in my arms. I prayed for my heart to open. Tears fell as she nibbled on my chin. I felt a deep connection to her. I struggled with fear that she would die. I knew the odds. If a lamb doesn’t get up on her own in the first few hours of life, she isn’t likely to live. The impending sense of doom that had lingered since we lost the first animals in the Christmas Eve snow storm crept in over and over again. I wanted her to live but I was afraid to ask for it, afraid to believe that it would happen.

I let her sleep near me. Every few hours, she stirred and I fixed a bottle. For nearly 48 hours, I fed her and stood her up. I talked to her and sang to her. I watched her struggle to get up on her own. Time after time, she’d almost make it, only to collapse with a thud. Until, finally, almost two days after she was born, she got up. Her shaky legs barely able to pull her up, she stood and in seconds began to walk around the room. She walked circles around me while I danced and laughed. I felt the wall that I had so carefully erected around my heart come crashing down. Salvation came to both of us. With an open heart and the will to live, joy returned and lifted us to the sky.

Salvation
by Rumi

There is no salvation for the soul
But to fall in Love.
It has to creep and crawl
Among the Lovers first.
Only Lovers can escape
From these two worlds.
This was written in creation.
Only from the Heart
Can you reach the sky.
The rose of Glory
Can only be raised in the Heart.

February showers bring....?

If I had a camera with a powerful telephoto lens, I'd take a picture to post here this morning. It would look through our rain-streaked kitchen window out toward the barn. It would show you the soggy barnyard, puddles standing in most of the yard, thick, sticky mud everywhere else. The background would be grey and foggy. And then the photo would land on a lone figure standing in the doorway of the barn, Sugar, a goat with ears down, head drooping slightly. You would see her head leaning on the post at the doorway and her sad eyes looking up toward the kitchen window, pleading with us to do something about this rain. This was my view while I washed the breakfast dishes.

She's miserable. They all are. They'd much rather be headed out to the pasture by now, or climbing up on the round bale of hay. Being confined to the barn is not their style. I hope it lets up enough for them to get out in awhile. There's no telling what the sheep and goats will cook up together in that barn.

One of our ewes had twins while we were over at some friends' for dinner last night. Lisa found them safe and sound when we returned. I checked on them this morning. They were toasty warm and full of life.

The 5-acre field that we'll use for growing is now plowed and ready for Lisa and Kasey to lay irrigation pipes and tape. Planting in the field will begin around March 1. Planting seeds for germination in the greenhouse has already started.

This place is bursting with life, even if some of its livelier beings are a bit thwarted by the rain. Maybe I'll put on some rain gear and go for a walk today.

In the middle of the night.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night. We're still lambing, and have some goats we're concerned about, so I slipped out of bed, put on my jacket, grabbed the headlamp, and walked out to the barn. There was a chill in the air. I pulled my jacket tight around me. A cat stirred from the pile of cats and dogs on the porch and glanced my way through bleary eyes. In a moment, the pile came to life as cats lazily stood, stretched, and yawned. The dog laid motionless, sleeping peacefully after a full night chasing coyotes away.

I walked on toward the barn. The darkness enveloped me as I stepped off the porch and away from the lights at the house. It was quiet. I could hear only my own breathing and the crunch of my boots on the frosty ground. The barnyard is usually so full of activity, lambs and ewes looking for each other, doelings jumping and head-butting, everyone looking for corn. But last night there was one lone woolie, lying next to the fence, to greet me when I entered.

I walked on toward the barn. The sweet smell of hay met me as I walked through the open door. Some animals stirred. The sheep are not used to us yet, so they run when we get too close. Several of them sprang to their feet and ran out toward the pasture. I looked quickly to see if any were showing signs of labor. Then I looked past them to see if there were any ewes down in the pasture on the other side of the barn. Everyone was on her feet. I breathed easier. There would be no babies in the house this night.

On the far side of the barn, the goats were piled up together in a corner. The two or three on the outer edge looked up, but the others continued sleeping. I walked closer to look at them. The one we're most concerned about was in the middle of the pile, completely surrounded by the others. I watched her breathing, soft gentle rises of the area just past her rib cage. She was safe for the night.

I turned to walk back to the house and stepped past the hay feeder. I looked down to see two woolie lambs cuddled together sound asleep in the safest place in the barn. I smiled at their cleverness.

I made my way back to the house. The dog was still asleep but the cats had scattered. I walked through the door, took off my jacket and laid it down. I turned out the lights and went back to the bedroom, walking softly and quietly to keep from waking anyone. I got to the bed and laid down. I closed my eyes, holding in my mind the beautiful sight of the animals safe and warm, sleeping peacefully in the middle of the night. And, soon, I too, was sound asleep again.

Taking requests/suggestions

My life is full. I want to write, but it's hard to find a place to start. What should I write about?

Finding Isaiah

I met a friend for coffee today at a coffee shop I've been to a couple of times, but not for a long time. We walked up to order and were chatting as we got to the counter. The barista overheard me say something about my friend leaving soon, so he turned to my friend and said, "You're leaving?" I could tell that they were familiar with each other. My friend Duane said yes and explained that he's moving to the West Coast. The barista said, "Oh, that's so cliche! Everyone does that!"

The tone of his comment sounded very familiar so I looked a little closer and realized it was Isaiah, the barista who worked at the coffee shop I used to go to pretty regularly. I knew he'd left, but had know idea where he'd gone. It kind of felt like I'd found a long lost friend.

The two of you who've stuck with the blog for the past few years may remember Isaiah was featured in a post I wrote a couple of years ago. I've been thinking about that post all day, laughing about it and fondly remembering the regular back and forth banter with Isaiah.

I'm reposting that old post in honor of finding Isaiah. Here it is, from June 2007:

Vanity

I had to travel for work today, so my work day started with a trip to the rental car agency to pick up my vehicle. AJ the manager checked me in and asked if I wanted a Mazda 5 or a Subaru. When I rent for work, I usually choose something that blends into the background, is relatively conservative and businesslike, and gets decent gas mileage. I asked for the Mazda 5. I signed the documents, grabbed the keys, and looked as AJ pointed me in the direction of my car.

AJ said Mazda 5 and I replied Mazda 5, but I pictured Mazda 6, a nice generic, nondescript sedan, preferably white or grey in color, something that just sort of disappears into the road when I barrel down the highway. I have this fantasy that neutral- colored cars decrease the likelihood of a ticket. The warning ticket tacked to my bulletin board at work is a testament to the falsehood of that fantasy. Still, I believe it.

At first I thought he was pointing to the red car directly across from me, until I realized, to my relief, that it was a Toyota. I walked up two more cars and saw the car I’d rented. It didn’t look like anything I’d rented before. It was kind of young and hip, I thought. It looked a little like a hatchback, only bigger. I walked up next to it and unlocked the doors so I could put my things in the back seat. As I got closer, I saw that it had a sliding door. “Good god!,” I thought. “I’ve rented a minivan. I can’t drive a minivan. I’m not a mom. I’m single. I’m, I’m, I’m….cool!” I tried the key, thinking maybe the car was unlocked and that I hadn’t, in fact, opened the right car. The key worked.

I pulled the door back and looked in to find that there were six, possibly seven seats. I got serious van vibes and worried about my image. Nevertheless, I was running late and had to get going. I put my things in the back seat and drove off.

It didn’t drive like a van. I was sitting up high, but not above everyone. I could maneuver it easily. Clearly, I was driving a hatchback, I reasoned. I sat back, put a cd in the player, cranked the volume, and set my mind on the trip ahead.

I decided to stop for coffee at a place I frequent. I did a u-turn, pulled into the parking place in front of the shop, got out and walked in. Isaiah the barista walked up from the back room. He smiled and greeted me by name. I’m a regular.

Isaiah is twenty-something, a rock climber who wears designer jeans, retro shirts, and whatever you call those shoes that look like something I rented at the bowling alley when I was twelve. His curly blonde hair flows from his head like a bush. His beard makes him look like Grizzly Adams.

“You get a new car,” he asked. I was stumped. He’d come out from the back of the shop when I walked in. It hadn’t occurred to me that he saw me drive up. I hesitated. “Your car. Is it new? I don’t remember you driving a van.”

Looking down to find my frequent buyer card, I mumbled, “It’snotavan.”

“What?”

“I said it’s not a van!”

“What is it then?”

“It’s a Mazda 5.”

He nodded his head. “Right. A van.”

“Define ‘van.’”

“You define ‘van.’ You seem to be the one with specific ideas about what it is and what it isn’t. I think you’re a little sensitive about this,” he said chuckling. He stepped back to start my drink. The cup was sitting on the counter under the espresso machine. He pulled the shots and began to the steam the milk. “What’s wrong with driving a van?”

“I’m not a mom. I’m, I’m….well, I’m not a mom.”

“Is there something wrong with being a mom?”

“No. I’m just not one, so I don’t think I should be driving a car that makes me look like one.” I suddenly remember that I’d been offered the Subaru and wondered why I didn’t just take it. Sure, it screams lesbian, but I am one. I could drive it with my authenticity intact, and in that moment, we would have had a very different conversation.

The sound of the steam blowing against the bottom of the metal milk container brought me back. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t actually ordered a drink. I was curious what he was fixing me. “What are you making for me?”

“The same thing you’ve order the last 25 times you’ve been in here.”

“I haven’t been here 25 times.”

“Okay. The same thing you’ve ordered the last 15 times you’ve been here. A large mocha.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

“Um, yeah. I was just going to get something different today. One of those Previa mochas.”

“What’s a Previa mocha?” The blood rushed from my face. As soon as he said it, I knew what I’d done, but I tried to cover it up.

“You know. A mocha with semi-sweet European chocolate. Not that sweet American stuff.”

“That’s not a Previa. Where did Previa come from? Wait. I know what a Previa is. It’s a VAN, a Toyota, isn’t it?”

“Um. Yeah.”

He nearly dropped the milk from laughing so hard. “Why did you think of Previa?”

“Well, I have some friends who have one.”

“Really. Do they have kids?”

“No.”

“So, it’s not a mom-car to them.”

“Well, no. But, it’s still not right. I mean, I drive up to their house and see it sitting there and I wonder who’s visiting them. They’re not van people. I don’t really know why they have a van.”

“Or maybe you’re just narrow-minded about the whole van thing. Is the regular mocha okay, or do I need to make a Prague mocha?”

“Regular is fine. You’ve already started it.” He picked up the cup, carefully poured the milk, creating the perfect swirl of coffee and milk to look like a leaf. I paid and walked away.

“I’m going to go get in my van now,” I said, looking back over my shoulder.

“That’s right. Embrace it, Linda. Embrace the van.”

Winter garden magic

Lisa and Kasey grow our garden using methods developed by Eliot Coleman, author of a popular book Four Seasons Harvest. Coleman has been a leader in the movement toward small-scale sustainable farming for many years. What he teaches dispels the notion that reliance on local farms for your produce means you only get fresh vegetables in the summer. He teaches ways to have fresh produce year-round.

I had the pleasure of experiencing this joy for the first time last year. Lisa kept a couple of cold frame garden boxes near the house. She grew spinach, kale, chard, and lettuces last year. A cover made with a wood frame and greenhouse plastic was placed over the raised bed any time the temperature dipped below freezing. The cover kept the plants warm and protected from frost. When the sun would shine and the temperatures jumped above freezing, the cover came off, allowing the plants to soak up the sun's rays or get some moisture from the rain. When it was frigid or snowy, the lids stayed on tight, keeping the plants protected from the damaging weather.

This year, Lisa and Kasey planted a winter garden at the farm to provide produce for our community supported agriculture (CSA) members. Rather than using raised bed boxes, they planted in a plot of land that receives a lot of sun from the south and has some protection from the north winds. Small metal hoops were placed in each of the beds, over which they lay a layer of fabric insulation and greenhouse plastic. They've planted all of the same things Lisa planted last year, and included some broccoli, cauliflower, and cabbage.

Amazingly, the plants, for the most part faired well in the Christmas Eve storm. With the exception of the cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower, which were in a bed where the plastic was blown off in the strong winds that we received, the plants have done well. Lisa and Kasey will have to work quick to harvest in these frigid temperatures, but even with the cold weather they can provide the CSA members with fresh produce.

A friend from work got curious about gardening this past year and learned a lot from Lisa. She's been keeping a cold frame of her own in her back yard in midtown Tulsa. She's so excited about it she told a friend who lives in Texas what she was doing. He's in town this week for a class at the seminary and is watching her cold frame with curious skepticism. He bought the book Four Seasons Harvest and is considering options for himself.

One of the greatest pleasures of my life is getting to eat fresh salad from the garden in the middle of winter. It's magic!
Pictures were taken by Lisa.

Farm bio: The long version

I had to shorten my bio for the farm website so I thought I'd post the longer version here:

It took exactly two days and two nights at the Living Kitchen to get me hooked. Some friends and I were farm sitting to allow Lisa a much needed break, and while we didn’t do nearly all the work the farm entails, the daily routine of milking, feeding, and harvesting provided a rhythm for my life that made my soul sing. I left telling a friend, “I’m going to live on a farm someday. I don’t know how or when, but I’m going to do it.”

I moved to Tulsa in 2006 determined not to make the same mistakes I made years earlier when I moved to Fort Worth, Texas. Months before my move I started reclaiming parts of my life that had been buried under books and hidden in corners of a library while I tried to finish a Ph.D. I lost 70 pounds, started running again, became more concerned about what I ate, and most importantly, got out of the house regularly and reconnected with nature. When I got to Tulsa, I found rich opportunities to allow those pursuits to grow, including the chance to work occasionally at the Living Kitchen, farm sitting, helping plant potatoes, shoveling out barns, raising a yurt, really anything that needed to be done. I loved the chance to be outside, to be connected to the source of the food I ate, and Wow! did I eat when I went out to the farm!

In 2009 my level of commitment to the Living Kitchen shifted when I moved here to live and work. I still hold a full-time job in Tulsa, which I enjoy, but in the waking hours when I’m not at work, I have the chance to help with the animals, work in the garden, do projects around the farm, and assist with some of the administrative tasks that keep the farm running. I also get to hike and fish!

My life’s work has centered on spirituality. I’ve worked as a counselor and chaplain and in graduate education for ministers. At the heart of my spiritual interests is a deep love for the natural world. Farming for me is an expression of my spiritual life. As my role at the Living Kitchen evolves, I hope to offer opportunities to assist others in exploring their spirituality using the amazing resources the land and its fruits provide.

Back to the office

So today I head back to the office. It feels like it's been a month since I've been there. In reality it's only been about 11 days. The long commute in will help me shift gears to the work that lies ahead for me there. It's going to be busy!

The weather forecast for this week keeps changing. Every time we check it, the lows get lower. With some windchills below zero later this week and the prediction of another snow storm, I'm so glad we managed to get the barn enclosed. As we were working on it yesterday and the day before, we could feel the temperature rise in the barn as we added walls. I hope and pray it keeps the animals warm!

The propane truck comes today. We ran out on Tuesday of last week and have managed pretty well with a couple of small radiator heaters. I'm ready to have the dryer back too. The laundry has been piling up.

We will be getting a wood stove soon. We really prefer to have one for many reasons. For starters, it will help us cut back on the propane we use. It also gives us a good source for heat and for cooking if the electricity goes out, which will no doubt happen some time before winter is over. The wood stove gives me a great sense of security. I'll be glad when we have it in.

All that has happened the past few weeks has made me conscious of how much we rely on energy resources. We are working to be more intentional, again, about how much we use. That means making the most of any trip we make to town so that we can cut back on the number we make each week. It means using the sustainable practices that we know work. And for me, that means living in line with my values, something I can get excited about it.

So while it's cold and I'm headed back to the office this week, I'm coming into this new year humbled by the experiences I had over my break, and ready to practice what I preach. I sure wish they made dress Carharrts. My office is pretty cold. I could sure use some!

Another year

...and what a year it's been. So much has happened to enable me to live a dream. I have a lot to be grateful for...amazing love, a chance to live and work on a farm, some growth in admissions at the seminary, wonderful friends and a deep sense of connection to this place and to the community that surrounds us. If that's how 2009 is ending, 2010 should be absolutely amazing.

December ended with my initiation into farming. I've been a farm sitter and have helped out around here a lot for the past few years, but when Lisa went to Seattle for a week and Kasey went to be with his family for a few days, I found myself solo farmer for nearly a week. The farm has grown. We now have 28 ewes, a ram, and several little lambs added to the goats and llama that we have. I was expecting lambs to be born while Lisa was gone, and indeed a healthy baby boy was born the day after Christmas, all without any help from me. Mama and baby are doing quite well.

A winter storm was predicted for the time Lisa was away, but they were making it sound like it wouldn't amount to much. As it got closer to time for the storm, the predictions grew larger and larger. By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, we were hearing "Blizzard Warning," words that are rare in these parts. That day rain turned to sleet and things started icing up pretty quickly. I checked on the animals and though they were clearly cold, all seemed okay. The winds started picking up and I found myself checking the weather radar every few minutes. The storm seemed to be moving on and it appeared at one point in mid-afternoon that we were nearly out of the woods, not much more than sleet and a little bit of snow. Oklahoma City had been hit hard, about 10 inches they were saying, and I could see on the radar how the storm was hammering them.

A few minutes later I looked out the window and saw snow coming down sideways with almost no visibility. I looked at the radar again and realized something had caused the storm to stall out on top of us. I pulled on my Carharrts and coat and raced around to check on animals. The snow was drifting in the barn. The area where we kept our bucks was quickly receiving a covering of snow and I could tell that there wouldn't be much dry, warm space left for everyone. I knew it was crazy, but I opted to put the does in the milk barn for the night and coaxed the bucks into the does area of the barn.

I slept uneasy that night. I had to make myself get up and go outside the next morning to see what had happened. There was snow everywhere. It was beautiful to see the sunrise on the frozen acreage, the faint hints of light peaking up over the hill beyond the pond, just beginning to reflect off the ice that covered it. I stepped into the barn and found everyone huddled. The two bucks were still lying on the ground, cuddled together to stay warm. Everyone else was standing. There was a four-foot drift just outside the barn, creeping into the south end. Everywhere I turned there was snow.

I fed everyone and went back in to get ready to milk. When I went back out I checked on the bucks again. They seemed to be listless and not very responsive. I called Lisa and made the decision to get them in the milk barn where I could turn on a heater. They were so cold at that point that they couldn't walk. I had to carry them to the barn. I laid them on a thick bed of hay, turned on the heater and grabbed several blankets to put over them. A friend of ours recommended putting hot water bottles under them to help warm them up, so I did that as well. I laid on top of them and talked to them, alternating blankets and water bottles. Lisa stayed on the phone with me for a long while, coaching me, talking to the boys when I'd put the phone to their ears.

In the end, all that I tried didn't work. They had already shut down too much when I found them. They both died that day in the barn. It was hard to accept. It still is at times.

But I find myself as I move into this new year, aware of all that we've accomplished in 2009, trying to celebrate what did happen those few days when I was here alone, deeply aware that I am not in control. I play a role here. I am responsible for the care of these animals, a responsibility I share with Lisa. A responsibility I share with the animals and the elements too. I won't always be able to save the animals. At some point, our best efforts fall short, and I'll learn from those times, just as I've learned from this one.

Being a farmer is not about being a hero. This narrative I write of my life will not have its heroines. It will be the story of living beings learning to live to within a balance of life, each playing a role, each impacting the other. There's a rare beauty in that. I've seen it intimately these past few days. It's like seeing the face of God, I think. I can't walk away the same.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays from the Living Kitchen Farm and Dairy!


With gratitude,

Linda, Lisa, Kasey, Teeny Tiny, Pascal, and the rest of the herd

A question that lingered

Lisa participated on a panel that answered questions after showing portions of the movie Food, Inc. at All Souls Unitarian Church yesterday. The panel included Wes Downing of Downing Family Farm and Doug Walton who works with the Kerr Center for Sustainable Agriculture. The questions that came after the film were interesting, different than I expected. One question in particular has lingered with me.

A woman who works with seniors in Tulsa asked the question, "What should they buy when they shop at Walmart to be sure they're getting the safest food possible?" I found myself wondering why they're shopping at Walmart, but I realize there is likely a complex answer behind that. There's a certain appeal to the one-stop shopping Walmart offers, particularly when people rely on others for transportation. My mom who is nealry 80 years and would hardly be characterized as a revolutionary or activist is on a one-woman campaign to boycott Walmart in the small town where she lives. She sees them as a threat to the small grocery store in town and while the selection at the grocery store is more limited and may, in some cases, provide less healthy and less safe options simply because there's a smaller customer base to demand such options, she is firmly committed to doing her part to keep small businesses alive. I know there are options. Walmart isn't the only choice, but even if it was, the answer to the woman's question is more complicated than that.

Doug Walton attempted to answer it on several levels. First, he talked about choices between processed foods and whole foods. Second, he tried to discuss the difference between organic and non-organic products. His attempt to highlight the multidimensional nature of the issue irritated her, I think. She fired back at him with several more questions and seemed frustrated. I'm not really sure what her frustration was. Is it the cost of those products versus the cost of processed foods that use commodities that are highly subsidized and can be provided at below-cost-of-production prices? Is it anger that we're caught in a situation of having to even concern ourselves with the safety of food to begin with?

My dad had a big vegetable garden nearly every summer. He planted tomatoes, corn, green beans, okra, beets, potatoes, and other assorted goodies. The garden was always much bigger than needed to feed us and provide produce for my mom to can for the winter months. We used to tease about his ambitious planting, but I think there was often more behind his intent than he ever let on. He loved to share what he grew. Neighbors would come pick for themselves after he'd harvested for us. And he loved to take bags of stuff to people he knew couldn't come pick for themselves. He didn't do it because it was trendy or an act of social justice. He did it because he loved to garden and believed none of what he produced should go to waste.

After he retired, he and my mom volunteered with Meals on Wheels, delivering meals to homebound people in the small town where they lived every other week. When his garden was producing, he took extras along with him and delivered fresh vegetables to everyone on his route. Now, my mom doesn't drive much and can't garden for herself, but a couple from town who delivered Meals on Wheels with them have taken to bringing her regular deliveries of vegetables from their garden during the summer months.

The problem in the woman's question isn't just about the safety of food. I think it's also about the breakdown of community and a demonstration of what we value most. We've sacrificed small community-based businesses and our own health on the altar of convenience. On one level the answer to her question seems simple enough...buy non-processed, organic foods from local producers whenever possible. It gets more complex only because it means challenging our values. To do so means budgeting for our health. It means allowing time to find the products that are safe. It also means being aware of those who are most vulnerable and susceptible to relying on unsafe food as the staple of their diet simply because they truly can't afford or gain access to good, clean food.

That feels complex. It's hard to challenge our values. I don't think it was ever so complicated for my dad or for the couple who pass things along to my mom. They just simply planted more than they needed and looked for those who didn't have access to it. Maybe it really is that simple.

Coming home

Every night it’s the same. I turn down the road and see a couple of white dots in the distance, dancing along the horizon, getting larger as I approach. As my truck nears the driveway the dots take shape and Ginger and Cosmo, the guard dogs, wag their tails and pant and walk slowly to greet me. Sadie is not so patient. She races past them, coming from wherever she is on the farm as soon as she hears the truck. I pull in the driveway, put on the brake, and turn off the engine, and hear a thud on the driver’s side door. Sadie jumps up to look in the window. I’m home.

I’m a member of the pack, part of the herd, one of the clowder. I belong to the brood. If I’ve forgotten that in my workday world, I’m reminded as soon as I round that corner. Goats turn to look and bleat. Dogs run to meet me. Chickens cackle. And cats…well, cats raise their heads and appear annoyed.

It’s just like a human to see herself as the center of attention when she arrives on the scene. Make no mistake. I know for many, my return home means it’s time to eat. I’m at least a reminder of dinner time, at most a means to an end…the hand that reaches into the barrel with the grain or scratch or other food or to pat a waiting head. It’s not an indication of my self importance, but in some small way it is one of the most assuring things I encounter everyday. I know I belong.

On a cloudy, windy evening after the sun was well on its way to setting, I rounded the corner to the side porch, briefcase in hand. The cats were waiting near their bowls when I stepped up on the porch. I reached for their food as I passed and filled each bowl. I noticed one of the four cats I knew should be around wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen him in the morning either. So I started calling him and caught sight of a small white creature moving quickly toward the house from out by the pond. At first, I assumed it was Ruben and started to head in to the house, but in a moment realized it wasn’t him. It was Buttons, a cat who’d run away the first night she was at the new farm, five or six weeks ago.

I yelled in the house for Lisa to let her know Buttons was home. Then, stood and watched. Buttons ran, but slowed as she got closer. She crouched low and slunk up to me, rubbing up against my leg. I picked her up. She didn’t like that and jumped down. Sadie ran to her, so she took off back toward a wooded area across the street. I grabbed a bowl of food and called to her. She stopped. I walked slowly toward her and put the food down, under the fence that separated us. She turned and came back to the food. Ginger and Cosmo saw her and jogged toward her. I called them off and they turned away. They NEVER listen to me. I was shocked.

The other cats, including Ruben who had appeared from somewhere, grew curious and started towards her. Bella, the ginger manx cat, everyone’s favorite, got the closest. She approached slowly, but confidently, and stopped near Buttons. Bella waited a few minutes while Buttons ate a little, then lowered her head and cautiously started grooming her, lightly touching Buttons’ coat, gently licking it. After awhile, Bella groomed in earnest.

There we were. Two white dogs a safe distance away. Lisa and I back near the porch. The cats scattered around the yard between the porch and the fence where Buttons sat eating. And Bella right beside her, licking Buttons' white and grey fur.