Somehow it’s February 18th, and I find myself back here for the first time since mid-August of last year. I could blame my absence on many things, from laziness to overwhelm, to busy-ness, to loss of connection to the part of me that wants to write, to fatigue, to goats and sheep and cats and dogs and kids and relationships and farm chores and sourdough and scooping poop and and and…I could go on, but no need. Suffice it to say, here I am, and, despite the resistance I fought through to get here, back at my desk, facing a blank screen, I feel glad to be back. I think I have been waiting for the “perfect” moment to lock into some sort of ethereal inspiration, some sort of divine, mystical sign from the universe calling me back to the page, telling me how important my words are to saving the world. Insert mocking chuckle. For of course none of that matters a damn bit, and, in the words of E.B. White:
A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.
It does help that I am, basically, alone on the farm today (my son is here, but sleeps so deep and late it feels like I’m alone). If there ever was a perfect time to write, it is now. The house is still but for the cat next to me, purring and vibrating in her sleep. There is a break in the seemingly relentless February rain, and the temperature outside is almost balmy in comparison to the drenching storms of the last few days that had me cold to the bone. Without the droning sound of the pellet stove fan or the pelting rain on the roof, the quiet in the house is almost maddening.
I’m not sure I can remember the seasons ever passing so fast. Late Summer, Autumn, and deep Winter have come and gone, and somehow it is early Spring. February is a moody month, some days Wintery and some quite Spring-like. In the past week I have seen the arrival of the season’s first wildflowers: Dandelion, Daffodil, Veronica, Crocus, and Violet, dappling their purple and yellow among the sea of green. As of February 4th, my family has officially lived at this farm for two years. I am slowly becoming familiar with the flora and fauna and the timing of their arrival and decline. Since my last post in August, the land has gone from dry and crisp to green and soft. The forest drips with moss and lichen, the creek is full and rushing, the ground is squishy with mud from rain and ice melt. Since my last post, my kids have all turned a year older (20, 18, and 15), as have I. This birthday was significant for me, as I turned 50, and I’ve been feeling especially introspective and existential. Nothing like turning half a century to coax a good, hardy examination of where I’ve been, where I am, and where - or, better yet, how - I’d like to be going forward. I feel simultaneously inspired and freaked out; fifty is no joke. It seems a natural time to let go of things that don’t serve my health and higher self, and focus on things that do. There is a certain flavor of fatigue in this season of my life that comes from so many years of striving and resisting, longing and grasping, shoulding and shouldn’ting, and just all around looking outside myself for comfort and satisfaction. It is a clarifying kind of tired, the kind that turns off the brain so I can hear my heart and body talking. One of the things they asked for - demanded actually - was that I finally and completely let go of alcohol. My struggles with drinking have filled many chapters of my adult life up till now; it no longer serves me. That roller coaster has become quite tedious and I am stepping off. It is the best gift I have given myself in a long time.
I have instead become addicted to all things Goat. We recently sold our flock of sheep to a nearby family, and I can now fully give in to my newfound passion for goats. (The only sad part is that I can no longer call them “shoats”) We currently have six, three of which are due to kid any day now. I adore them and spend much of my time lately cultivating my relationship with them, and hence with myself. I learn more every day, and my search for knowledge and experience has brought new relationships, both animal and human, into my life that I never imagined I would have. Yesterday, in order to give the pregnant does (as in “doe, a deer”) a break from the bullying antics of the herd queen, Zelda, I opened the barn door to allow the herd to wander and forage as I was heading out for my daily forest loop. It wasn’t long before I realized three of them had followed me and Hazelpup up the hill. They proceeded to stay with us the entire hike, whinnying with nervous curiosity and sampling wild plants along the way. I have dreamt of this very scenario since we got goats a year and a half ago, and it did not disappoint. For that brief but poignant part of my day, I was Heidi, walking alongside my beloved goat friends up the foothills of the Swiss Alps to meet my goatherder friend, Peter, and to dine in the warm sunshine on fresh goat milk and brown bread with butter. I spent much of my childhood nourished by the story of Heidi and her grandfather, deeply enchanted by the ways their lives interweaved with that of the goats and mountain landscape. I had forgotten how much I loved the story until almost a year into my journey with these caprine weirdos. Now I’m hooked. They’ve hooked me. The next step is to experience milking, and I won’t have to wait too much longer. Until then, I will tuck myself nightly into my hayloft and dream of warm milk with cinnamon and pray the upcoming labors go well. So mote it be. Thanks for reading!