The Certainty of Knowledge

 1:30 a.m., clear skies, 32 degrees

The waning gibbous Moon is calling to me right now, and I am tempted to break one of the sacrosanct agreements that hold the Cottage steady: Never wake a sleeping puppy. The sound of the front door opening would provoke either a gentle investigative patrol or a call to arms. Both of those would wake the other South Side human, so I let Love elder Ego and chose to stay inside.

However, that doesn't mean I cannot have some of what I want, and some of what I want is to listen for the calls of my newest neighbors, a pair of Great Horned Owls. I make a cup of tea for the pleasure of a warm drink, move the chair in my room for a comfy listening station, open the window that looks over the south yard, and settle in for a visit with the night.

I heard the Owls at 10:00 p.m. when I went outside to tend the cat trap. Hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo. Hoo-h’hoo-hoo-hoo. The female’s higher pitch call was answered by the deeper voice of the male. Their call and response could mean they are marking their territory against an intruder, or they could just be staying in contact while they hunt. I was tonight years old when I learned that although female GHOs are about 1/3 again larger than males, the males have a larger voice box, and that is why their voice is deeper.

Here I am, listening. The laptop is actually on my lap. I am making use of easy access to information to look up the answers to my questions about owls, and suddenly find myself inhabiting a memory room from my childhood. There was a bookcase against the wall in the space where living and dining room joined, and another in the playroom. The first held a complete set of Encyclopedia Brittanica, a dictionary, and some other heavy reference books. The other had a set of junior encyclopedias, books about birds, trees, and wildlife that had belonged to my Grampa Barker, a set of books about the states (with hideous blue covers), and many other books on miscellaneous reference or educational topics.

If I wanted to know something, all I had to do was find the right book to give me the answer. My mother never said, “Don’t touch those,” or “That book is too big for you.” The only rule about books was that if you took a book out, you had to put it back where it belonged when you were done with it. From the time I was four years old and able to read on my own, I had a world of knowledge available to me. All I had to do was reach for it.

What is this witch rambling on about in the middle of this cold night, with her window open as she’s hoping to hear the owls and listening to all the other night sounds? This: for the past couple of years I have been following a New Year’s practice that I learned from Irene Glasse of Glasse Witch Cottage.

It is simply this: “Many years ago, I was introduced to the idea of selecting a single word for each calendar year to act as an intention, touchstone, and big-picture goal. The beauty of a single word intention is that the simplicity means multiple ways of connecting are possible.” ~ Irene Glasse

Ever since my autumn pilgrimage to the north, I have been gently reviewing the way I live my life. Some days, I run it through my mother’s flour sifter; some days, I put it in a simmer pot on the stove. Some days I toss it into flowing water to see what floats away, what swirls in the eddies, what settles on a rock to stay. The pull of the Turning Wheel and even the common calendar year have taken me to the time and place where the results of that review have been settling comfortably into my being. Into my bones, maybe even rewriting something in my DNA.

In the past two weeks, I have been thinking into the coming year. 2024. Goodness. I’m sure it was just yesterday that I was playing four square and hopscotch on the Walnut Street sidewalk.
There is so much happening in this world, in the local community, among my friends, with my family, inside of me. These are uncertain times, and it seems to me that it is best to meet that uncertainty with a combination of the certainty of knowledge (both knowing and knowing what you don't know) compassion, and love.

I’m not making resolutions. I did, over time, create a small list of things I would like to try. Why a list? Because my brain needs the memory assist, and I do not want to wake up in the middle of a next autumn night and say, “oh noooooooo! I meant to try candle making this year.”

 My single word, my simple intention for the coming year, is LEARN. I will be mindfully reaching for that world of knowledge with the same sense of wonder I had as a child. Here in the darkness, still listening for the Owls, I am certain this will be another grand adventure.

With love from Bear Path Cottage.

Sheri

                                                        Great Horned Owl - Bill Rhodes

 

The Remains of December

I have been secret hours restless lately; a combination of circumstances, illness, and medication, methinks. Last night, I roamed the house, front porch, and gardens until 3 am, at one point embracing the drama by wearing one of my sun hats and my long robe and carrying around the perfect walking stick that Rhodes brought home from the wilds of the Outer Banks. I felt appropriately dressed while listening for the owls and other night sounds, but it seemed I was the only creature stirring. Every being with better sense than I was safely tucked away in a cozy snug, not at all sorry to miss the soft rain. 

Secret hours is a phrase from a book I recently read. That two-word combination is a skeleton key that turned a ward in one of the mystery locks inside me, revealing a truth I needed to know. It is certainly well-suited to the workings of my mind and spirit right now. 

I slept a few hours, cozy in my bed, safe in the sheltering embrace of the Cottage. These are feelings I will never take for granted, and I thought about that when I woke and watched the darkness outside the window slowly melt into a soft gray day. The wind is making all the chimes ring gently, and the sound of the rain hitting the roof is sweet and comforting. It is most certainly a day for curling up, resting, or engaging in quiet activities. 

This has been the sweetest Yule/Christmas season I have experienced in a long time, but these are not easy days for me or the gentlemen who share my home. Regardless of our individual spiritual and healing paths, between us, we carry more than a few ghosts who are active this time of year. So, when I eventually moved from the comfort of flannel sheets, the first thing I did was refresh the simmering pot on the stovetop. I added fresh thyme and time, more pine cones, orange slices, cinnamon, a few drops of balsam fir oil, and a spritz or two of grounding spray. I'm feeling serious about tending hearth and home today, and this was an essential first step. 

Rhodes and I shared some kitchen chores, passing the time together with humor and the depth of ease that comes from familiarity and the release of expectations. 11 years into our togetherness, we are finally crafting our own holiday traditions. Preparing easy-access food is becoming a favorite, I think; a way of providing self-care options for each other that do not require constant attention at a time when we might not be able to provide that. 

There's a crockpot of chili going and freshly baked cornbread. There will be some other easy foods: smashed baby potatoes with cheese and bacon, little BBQ sausages, a festive-looking Caprese salad, and sausage balls if I get back into the kitchen to bake them. Plus, there's already an apple mincemeat pie waiting to be sliced. My father-in-law was just prowling the kitchen, looking to see what was on offering today. I think I'll go get that pie out and fix him a dish. 

Hank says, "Get that cornbread right, Mama!"

If these days are difficult for you, be kind and patient. Love yourself. Rest. Cry. Laugh. Immerse yourself in the crowds of your choosing, even if they are held within the pages of a good book or on a screen. Sit quietly by yourself, wrapped in a warm blanket. 

You do you, boo. You do you. 

Much love from Bear Path Cottage.

 

Holding On - A Poem

A re-telling, because I need those pockets today. 

HOLDING ON

Mother keep me mindful…
the first line of my daily prayer
cast upon the ley lines
between earth and water, fire and air.
A breadcrumb trail, a marker
that helps me find my way between
life and death and life once more.

Mother, give me pockets
deep enough to hold my fear and grief
so my hands are free for living when
death comes like a thief in the night
to carry away pieces of my heart.

Sometimes it leaves clever forgeries
With a spark of soul or a breath of feeling.
The synthetic diamond, the depthless sculpture,
the falseness that sends my spirit reeling
until memories become jaded
and all the worlds collide.

Please help me to remember that your body
and mine are one and the same;
that as you now hold their bones
I will hold them, whole, once again
in other worlds and times and places
with the gentle strength of stone.

Sheri Barker
2023

Solstice Approaching

Tuesday, December 19, 2023
21 degrees, clear skies

I am slowly finding my way back from the shadowy, floating adventure lands of some weird deep-level sinus and ear infection/fluid issues, and seriously grateful to friends who shared helpful ideas for treatment. I am also taking note of the number of people across the country who have had similar health issues recently. No conspiracy theorizing going on, just noting facts. 

This morning, I was able to complete all of my regular morning chores in a regular, timely manner, and that nod to my own weird normal felt good. Hamish continues to grow at exponential rates, probably because he empties all of the kibble bowls after everyone has gone to bed for the night. (or, empties the bowls because he is growing!) This means Cat Breakfast is now an emergency situation every morning and must be dealt with accordingly.

So, cats fed, puppy loved on and out the door to daycare, cat boxes mucked, chickens given scratch and worms (extra protein helps them stay warm in the cold weather), chicken waterer thawed, coop mucked, and then back inside for this chicken tender to take a shower and get dressed.

I hope to spend the day ahead preparing for the Solstice. The first step is to slice oranges to dry in the oven. Once those are started, I will focus on crafting a simple, gentle ritual to celebrate the return of the light. 

It is a curious thing to be holding space for faith, love, and compassion in a time of personal grief while simultaneously moving within the larger and collective grief for the world. I can only say I hope that I can continue to be mindful of holding my balance and letting Love elder Ego. 

This unfinished prayer was written last night. I hope to complete this today, as well.

Mother, keep me mindful…the first line now of every prayer,
Cast upon the ley lines between Earth and Water, Fire and Air.
That I may hold the space between stillness and patience,
So I remember to pause before I respond.
That I may hold to my grounding, deep in the earth,
Keeping my balance, knowing my worth.
That I remain open, and willing to learn.
And see the beauty in darkness as well as in light,
And know when to listen, and know when to fight.

Peace, friends, and much love from Bear Path Cottage.

Image: photo of a long ago Solstice altar

Confession Time

In passing conversation this week, a distant friend told me that mentions of the Cottage always read so cozy and sweet. I asked them what that means to them, and they said they remembered not only the energy of another home where they had visited, but how well-kept and neat my house always seemed.

Just in case I have lead you for a merry dance down the path of false impressions, I present to you the current state of the Cottage kitchen.

The re-do meant giving up the storage offered by the china cabinet and the baker's rack, but once the new cabinet and shelves are finished they will allow for a complete and hopefully (nearly) final merging of three households' worth of kitchen goods. Until then, the kitchen will be in varying stages of distress and inconvenience. I can deal with that, and I work hard to make it liveable for my housemates.
I prefer to live in a well-organized home; a place for everything and everything in its place. Clutter messes with my head and energy and requires extra work to keep them both balanced. Merging households has been a tender process taking place over an extended period of time, all the while understanding that grief, sentiment, and even lifetime habits are deeply personal reasons for someone to hold onto material goods. Anyone who has ever had someone else throw away their belongings or tell them they cannot have something they want should certainly be able to understand this. We have been fortunate, I think, that while the Cottage does not offer much actual storage space, it has offered space for things to be held until each of us has been ready to let go of what is no longer needed or wanted. Life happens. If you are able to manage your home so that everything is tidy and neat, and that makes you happy, then hooray for you! But we have to be able to *live* where we live, and sometimes that just isn't Reel or TikTok or magazine pretty. Wait a minute...do you hear that? That's the sound of life going on even though last night's dishes are still in the sink and the living room floor has disappeared. Don't judge yourself or anyone else based on the snapshots you see on social media. Actually, don't judge, period. Life is sweeter that way. Much love from Bear Path Cottage.

The First of December

No snow here, but still James Taylor's sweet voice has been drifting through my mind off and on all day, and matched the slow, steady tempo of my movements as I dealt with outside chores this morning. 

The temperature was not unpleasant, but a light rain was falling when I went out the door in my pajamas and yard sneakers to ask Hamish to come back inside. The adventurous fellow ignores the door for long periods of time, then spends days in a row taking every chance he can get to head outdoors. A few nights ago I followed him all around the neighbors' yards and waited while he explored under a shed before he finally let me pick him up and carry him home. Today he realized he does not like rain, so he willingly came to me for help getting back inside. 

I returned the cat and signed out the dog, who you might recall holds the title of Farm Dog. Morning chores are his thing, and today he helped by keeping predators at bay outside the fenceline while I gave the chickens scratch and mucked the coop. This was a day early (it is usually a first Saturday chore), but I went ahead and applied lime to the coop to help control insects and mitigate the smell of ammonia. 

The chickens are all healthy, and seem to finally be reaching the end of their molt cycles. They are still laying anywhere from 5 to 8 eggs a day, which is good for this time of year. There are currently 22 residents in the flock, and right now I think if I lose any birds this year, I will not replace them. The space we have can support that many birds, but it is a lot of work.

During the Hamish round up I noticed that the chickens' water cups were all empty, which meant the rain barrel somehow ran dry. Hank helped me pull the hose around from the south yard to fill the barrel, and try to figure out what went wrong. There's a tall pipe at the barrel end of the waterer which can be uncapped so I can pour supplements into the line; the bottom has a cap that comes off as well. Only guessing, but I think during the last freeze, when I poured hot water into that pipe, the ice pushed that bottom cap off just enough for a slow leak to happen. Everything is back in place, the barrel is full, and I washed out the water cups and cleaned the steps for good measure. 

The cabbage plants are still alive in the veg garden. I don't know exactly what they should be doing, but they haven't died and that counts, I guess. 

My parents and some other ancestors visited in a dream last night, and today that has me thinking about generational trauma and healing, and how that healing takes place in so many dimensions at so many different times. And of course that can be part of what makes "the holiday season" so hard for so many people. How many times can I say "so many?" 

Be kind to yourself, and to others. Don't overextend, don't do things you don't want to do, don't feel obligated to give or accept or acknowledge. 

Annie Lamott tells us that "No" is a complete sentence." 

Give yourself permission to use it. 

Hold onto your peace, friends, and share it if you are able. Protect the littles, let them have the magic of this season. The world will try to steal it away soon enough. Remember that learning is a process, and gentle teaching gives the sweetest rewards. 

Much love from Bear Path Cottage. 

Wintering Den

Into my wintering den I shall go to hear more clearly the things I must know,

to see more deeply
the truth and the light
that will carry my spirit
through every long night,

to feel more surely
the path where my feet
tread softly and lightly
and eager to meet
each new adventure,
each joy and each sorrow
from days gone before
and perhaps with tomorrow.

Sheri Barker
November 27, 2023

The Remains of November

 I was awake before the Sun this morning, which is my preference. Although my sleep was rich with dreams, I slept well for the first time in quite a while, and I feel well-rested and eager to see what this day brings. 

50-something years ago my parents started trying to teach me to always do my chores first. Those lessons never took hold the way they wanted them to, but these days, my way of doing things works well for me. I have been sorting out a morning routine that helps set me up for a good day because it allows me to focus on what I really want to do. In other words, I get my morning chores done first, then I can have fun. Thanks, mom and dad! You were right. (love you and miss you)

Yesterday I pulled chicken carcasses out of the freezer and put them in my stock pot on top of the stove. Then I added water, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, salt, pepper, and some herbs and let the whole thing simmer all day long. It wasn't long before the whole house smelled of comfort and care, so I used that as a little boost for a home energy clearing ritual. Multi-tasking kitchen witching is a lovely thing, friends. 

At the end of the day, I separated the bones, meat scraps, and veg from the stock before pouring it through cheesecloth to strain out the tiny bits of left-behind stuff. The stock went into a pot to cool overnight in the fridge, and all the scrappy stuff into another for the same purpose. How strange when I woke at 6 am, that finishing up that kitchen work was the first thought on my mind. 

I filled a glass quart jar with the rich stock so I can drop it off to a friend today and poured the rest into silicone molds to go into the freezer. Then I spent about half an hour removing the bones from the other goodness. The veg and meat mixture will go in the freezer so I can use it to supplement chicken feed. 
Yes, this can be a controversial topic, and I gave it a lot of consideration before making the decision to give them the meat. The choice is between that or throwing it away, and I am working more diligently toward not wasting food or other resources. 

The bones will go into the forest later this week, well away from human habitation. What isn't consumed by a critter or two will be consumed by the earth, and the cycle of life and death will continue. 

I have a couple of other small projects to finish in order to neatly wrap up the remains of November. This time of year always brings an inward focus, and each year it seems I move ever more deeply into that space. This season is no exception. 

I hope this day brings you whatever you want or need; peace, fun, quiet time, excitement, comfort, love. 

Peace out. 

    

"

The 1st of November

It was 27 degrees when I woke at 5:30 this morning, which seems a fitting temperature for the first day of November. I knew it meant the end of the blooming Cosmos in the Cottage Garden, but hey...for everything there is a season. I also knew it meant I would have to thaw the chicken waterer once the sun rose and the birds were out for the day. But not in that moment. Not until the light came. Until then, I was willing to embrace my gratitude for my warm bed and the warm enough home that offers me safe holding. After the pup and the cats settled back down, I went back to sleep.

A few hours later, the chickens sounded the alarm. I looked out the window and saw them standing where I knew they would be, clustered around the waterer, raising a ruckus about the lack of service. The water in the shallow cups had frozen over, and they were unable to have their first-thing-in-the-morning drinks. Poor ladies. After I fixed their water, I offered scratch and mealworms to make up for the inconvenience they suffered, and they accepted.

All this time later, I have been at my desk. Reading and writing, thinking, crying, praying. When I felt cold, I was able to walk down the hall to fetch my sweater and gloves so I could be warm at my desk. If I really wanted to, I could turn up the heat, but I am being more mindful of the use of resources and budget than I probably have ever been. Plus, I'm a Gen-Xer on the cusp of being a Boomer, born to an upper-lower-class family. I grew up putting on slippers and extra socks, sweaters, or hats if I was cold. That's just the way we did things. 

I had hot tea and warm bread pudding for breakfast. I made plans to go to an orchard tomorrow to buy apples so I can make homemade applesauce.  I was able to text my children and message some loved ones. And nobody dropped a bomb on my house while I was doing any of these things. Nobody shot at me. It is most likely that nobody will shoot at me or try to kill me when I go to the market later on. 

Part of being a GenXer/c/Boomer is that I thought the world would go one of two ways. Either the grownups would sort out all the hatred and violence and it would be done by the time I became a grownup, or we would all end up living some Mad Max kind of life. I thought we would educate and love our way out of racism, misogyny, and genocide. 

But we haven't. And while I logically and practically understand it, I cannot, at any emotional or spiritual level, understand or accept it. It has been part of my entire life; it has shaped me and wounded me, burned and strengthened me, but still...I am left with mouth and soul agape at the seemingly casual response to the genocide being manifested in Gaza. 

There are so many words wanting to pour out of my fingers onto the page, and I have to find the courage to let them out if for no reason other than maybe one person will read them and not feel so alone. 

The meaning of this season is upon us. What shall we do with it? What shall I do?

Sunday night memories

It is 8:00 on Sunday evening and I just showered after cleaning the chicken coop, then put on my favorite soft, old pajamas. Having just gone outside to see a bear across the way and fireflies all over my gardens, I now happily have nowhere to go. It seems I am going to ignore the million things I have to do because my mind is traveling down memory lane and this is a trip I am happy to take. 

My parents have been in my thoughts quite often recently, even more than usual. Of course, I miss them and often wish I could sit down at their dining room table to talk with them, sometimes about important matters, but mostly about everyday life which, I suppose, might be the most important matters of all. Funny and sad that I cannot conjure up clear images of what they looked like when I was a small child, in my mind they almost always appear as they do in the photograph below. I think they were both in their 60s when this was taken. I can piece together image memories by looking at other photos of them taken during my childhood but that isn't quite the same thing, is it?

Tonight my memories are focused on the Sunday nights when home was a safe and happy place to be. When I was little enough that coming in before dark to have a bath and put my pjs on was a source of comfort and not conflict, when my mother still washed my hair in the tub and used water running from the faucet to rinse it, when she was always careful not to get soap in my eyes. 

I cannot recall how it was decided who sat where in the living room, but my favorite seat was always on the couch, safe behind the little comma of my mother's legs. Sunday nights were for Wild Kingdom and The Wonderful World of Disney and even my dad watched those shows with us. This all reminds me of his love of fudge ripple ice cream and how often that was the ice cream treat for everyone in the summer. 

Too many memories to spill onto a page, electronic or written, but tonight they are filling my heart with feelings of being loved, safe, and happy. 

I am grateful. 

This is How the World Goes Round

This is How the World Goes Round 

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But the swallows are flying over the water
and I needed to see the way their wings flutter,
the way their bodies shudder and stutter
until the moment they dive and become pure grace.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a fish broke the surface near the edge of the lake
and the ripples are spreading,
changing the world without making a sound
and I needed to see the new pattern so I can find my way.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a blue heron is flying overhead,
great wings stretched wide, great legs dangling behind,
going from one place to another without telling anyone where or why
and I wanted to wish him an excellent journey.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but the river is rushing along next to the path,
gems glistening and glimmering on her gown.
She’s singing a ballad, still drunk and happy from last night’s rain,
and I wanted to hear the story in her song.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but there woven between tall stalks of lambs quarter
a spiderweb shimmers in the sun,
here one moment and gone the next
and I must learn that ancient magic.

There’s a black snake slithering among the rocks
on the edge of the path, body twisting and curving as it moves.
The red-winged blackbirds are falling from the sky,
darting to the ground, trilling their songs.
Geese and ducks sail, turtles amble along,
and this is how the world goes round.

I didn’t want to walk this morning
but the bees are in the lavender, buzzing and humming
in ways that I am certain weave all of creation together
and I simply have to know their secrets. 

(c) Sheri Barker
June 2023 

 

 

 

Chicken Update - Long Overdue

After some disruption and schedule shuffling, I am finally easing back into my normal Sunday routine with the chickens. I find it comforting to be back on track, and I will anthropomorphize enough to say that the chickens do, too.

I still have 20 chickens, but the rooster, Mary, has been gone for a while now. He moved on to a small homestead with someone much more experienced in dealing with an aggressive rooster. There are three other roosters there to help keep him in line, and he's adjusted well to his new life. The Cottage chickens are a lot happier and more mellow now that he's gone. 
In a funny twist that amuses and frustrates me, since his departure more of the ladies have gone broody than ever before. First Bree, then Bree and Gussie, then a break, then (surprisingly!) Jazz who is the oldest, then Jazz and Mae, then Gussie and Elke at the same time as J and M. There are currently four chickens sitting broody, with two of them hogging the nest box. What the ever-loving fluff, girls? Get over it. Jazz sits in there and purrs like a dinosaur from the first Jurassic Park.

The new watering system is great, and I am glad I made that change. This morning I added supplements to the system and it was so easy to do. I just turned off the water feed from the rain barrel, then drained the pvc system which holds about two gallons of water. 
I added Hydro Hen (2 scoops) and Poultry Booster (2 teaspoons) to a gallon of water, poured it and one more gallon of plain water into the pvc pipe, and turned the system back on. Easy peasy.

They seem to like the flavor of this Kool-Aid mixture, as there is a lot of talk among them while they are drinking. 

Greens from the gardens - both wild growth and things I've planted - are a great addition to their diet this time of year. This morning I pulled redroot pigweed, which is a species of amaranth, out of the south yard for them. I haven't seen it here before, so it must be a gift from some visiting birds. I also give them comfrey, nutsedge, lambs quarters, roses, bee balm, yarrow, salvia, and whatever else I find that they can have. 

                                                      Redroot Pigweed

Egg production has slowed down, probably because of brooding behavior. They get occasional production quota talks, but don't seem to care. Right now they are laying 8-9 eggs a day. 

I have decided to cover more of the run with some kind of roof. I think I'd like to use the clear or green polycarbonate panels to allow more light, but this is probably going on the autumn project list. I'm just not happy with how muddy the ground gets in the run, and I don't think its healthy for them. 

Best part of the Sunday chicken routine - time on the swing, watching the chickens be chickens.

Peace out. 

Choosing Battles

 The world "out there" is overwhelming today. I look, sometimes simmer, acknowledge what is going on, and occasionally discuss a topic with someone I trust.

But I'm not wading into that fire. No, thank you. I stay informed enough to know what I need to do, and I already know what I can do, so those are the things I am focusing on.

The world is burning while I am tending my physical, emotional, and spiritual gardens. If I become consumed by fighting every fire, I will have nothing left to give. So I'm nurturing the soil, planting, building, watching life bloom all around me, and I am listening, observing, and loving what needs to be loved. Taking action when action is the right move for me to make, choosing my battles instead of swinging at pinatas.

I'm feeding chickens, filling waterers, gathering eggs, slinging dirt, and talking to plants and spirits and ghosts. Loving my darlings, kitchen witching, summoning and cajoling words, making and living magic. This is what I've got.

#onthebearpath

#bearpathcottage

#cottagewitch

#chickentales

#cottagegardens

Lemon Balm

I am anthropomorphizing the behavior of birds in the garden. It is too early in the day to do anything that requires the use of such a big word, so I simply choose a different way of explaining my own ideas and behavior to myself.

I am a goddess, am I not?

I can do anything I choose,

bring anything down to its essence,

and that includes reinventing

the game.

The day.

Myself.

~~~

Breezy, chilly, cloudy with the promise of rain coming. I’ll soon be ready for a big mug of tea made with full moon water, but I’m not quite ready to step away from this gorgeous, riotous springtime energy.

Goddess April

 Oh April, you brilliant, sassy goddess!

Please, do try on all the outfits and then

Strew them across the garden when

They don’t fit quite right or

Look creative enough or hit all the power cues

or just don't feel like you in that moment.

Wear the yellow daffs and grape hyacinth with all those shades of green.

Muddy brown looks good on you,

Highlighted against dried milkweed stalks and a rainbow of tulips.

And how you dazzle me now,

A shimmering dream in your black velvet

Evening gown beaded with snowflakes,

The train flowing endlessly into the night.

s. barker

2022

#bearpathcottage

#cottagewitch

#cottagegardens

#onthebearpath

#pollinatorgarden

#nativeplants

The Untrimmable Light of the World

Spring is busy going through her wardrobe, pulling garments out of the cedar-lined closets built by a bored neophyte godling who was a carpenter in another life. She looks at each piece and laughs or sighs, delighted and wooed by the richness of texture and color. 

"So much green. There is so much green," she says. "I love every bit of it!"

She tosses a light shawl on the branches of a tall oak tree, then drapes a dress across the top of a willow. Another for the elderberry and the roses. This ecstasy of viridity goes on through multiple turnings of the earth, and in between exploring shades of green, she rummages through drawers full of color. A patterned yellow, orange, and white scarf flutters over the top of the daffodil greens, and a pair of purple gloves call the creeping phlox into being. 

She pauses over her ancient jewelry box, running her fingers over the carvings. It is worn with age, and she reads the runes by touch rather than by sight. The godling peeks over her shoulder as she lifts the lid and nearly swoons himself right out of his feigned boredom. Such richness of color and power that so quickly now become hyacinth, crocus, snowdrop, and speedwell; the fresh green of buds on sweet cherry, the earthy tones that color the eggs of every creature that lays. The red gemstones on the wings of the red-winged blackbirds, sapphire jays, carnelian cardinals, and tawny gold Carolina wren. 

This is the tale of springtime's spiraling arrival at Bear Path Cottage, as seen through the eyes of the resident witch. 56 years ago, I came into this world with this garden in my heart, and the runners have been spreading and bulbs have been multiplying for all this time. With every growing season I spend with this land, the richness of the garden increases. This is what I was born for. 

My days are filled with reminders of patience and sudden blooms of joy. Reading the words of kindred spirits like Mary Oliver is part of that joy and also part of the root system that inhabits my being.  

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these —

the untrimmable light

of the world,

This is one of the rewards of being mindful, slowing down, and looking and listening. For seeing the untrimmable light of the world. I am part of a world filled with magic and wonder, and for that, I am grateful.

Peace. 

Mindful by Mary Oliver
Everyday

I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these —
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Weekly Chicken Update - Edith Rising

Never underestimate chickens, the closest living relatives of Tyrannosaurus Rex. They may have fragile bones and bodies, be prey to countless predators, and are easy victims of disease and parasites, but they nevertheless surprise with their ability to recover even when recovery seems to be against the odds. 

One week ago, I was concerned that Edith (a 2-year-old Icelandic Viking hen) was dying or would require special care for the rest of her life. Over several days she experienced decreasing mobility, eventually becoming unable to stand or get into the coop at night. She could move, but only in an army crawl. Her tail was down, and she was not using her wings. Her symptoms might have resulted from an injury or any number of diseases that could affect the entire flock, so I moved her into isolation and made an appointment with the chicken vet, Dr. Beth Rhyne (Bird House Mobile Exotic Vet https://www.birdhousemobilevet.com/). 

Under normal circumstances, I would isolate a sick or injured bird in a kennel on the workbench in the barn. But winter temperature fluctuations and an issue with rodents in the barn nixed that option, so Edith has been living her best spa life in my bathtub for over a week. Obviously, this is less than ideal, but it was the best way to provide her the care and restful environment she needed. 

I brought Edith inside on a Saturday morning. The first step in treating her was to give her an Epsom salt herbal soak, which was soothing and could ease her symptoms. After her spa treatment, I examined her and found no indication of injury, bumblefoot, signs that she was egg-bound, or that she had an impacted crop. She seemed to be eating, drinking, and pooping as normal. Her comb was a typical pretty red, her eyes were bright, and she was alert. 

Spa Soak

Feeling pretty after her bath

Between Saturday and the vet appointment on Wednesday, I pulled every anti-inflammatory/medicinal herb I could think of out of my home apothecary. For the first two days she was in the house, I tempted her to eat with a mix of steel-cut oats, yellow grits, dandelion roots, lavender, St. John's wort, chamomile, rosemary, echinacea, bee balm, and chopped apple. Once I was certain she was eating, I replaced the oats with her regular feed. Local stores were out of Hydro-Hen, so I added Sav-a-Chick electrolytes and probiotics, rooster booster, and rose water to her water. There were also plenty of conversations with the land spirits and with Brigid, whose altar oversees the barn and chicken coop. 

Part of the trickiness of keeping a chicken isolated is its extremely social nature. Being away from her flock can cause depression, negatively affecting physical recovery and even the will to live. 
Friends who also keep chickens offered suggestions on how to make Edith as comfortable as possible while she was confined, and I found a few helpful tips on websites as well. 

Lining the tub with puppy pads and putting pine shavings on top of those made for easy cleanup every other day. At one point, I had an "oh duh" moment and brought a small pine branch in for her to roost. A ticking clock, two mirrors suspended from the shower rod and towel bar, and a stuffed chicken friend named Nellie helped round things out in the bathroom. 

Fresh air, sunlight, and contact with the earth are some of the most beneficial natural medicines available to every living being. Weather permitting, I took Edith outside for an hour or two of free-range time each day. Even when she wasn't moving well, she foraged and pecked and seemed happy being where she really belonged. 

By Tuesday, I could see that she was starting to get depressed. On Wednesday, the vet said that she also thought Edith seemed a little depressed, so we took Edith's care up another notch. I fixed up a basket with the same puppy pad/pine shaving set up, and Edith spent time every day hanging out with the rest of the fam in other parts of the house (she's definitely a fan of British mysteries on Britbox) I kept an amused but watchful eye on her blooming friendship with Mojo, the youngest feline resident of Bear Path Cottage. Side note: tell people you have a chicken in a basket and watch the range of expressions that cross their face.

From what I have read and what friends have told me, people often have a hard time finding veterinary care for their chickens. I feel fortunate that we have access to a good vet team and even more so that they make coop calls. Dr. Beth Rhyne and Veterinary Assistant Delilah Wilson were non-plussed by conducting an exam in a bathroom and were, as always,  kind and gentle with Edith. She weighed in at 1.27 kg (2.79 pounds), and Delilah remembered that Edith had been the smallest bird in the flock when they did a flock check last year. 

Their examination of Edith didn't reveal any injuries, either. Labs were drawn, samples taken, and they left us with encouraging words and a prescription for a broad-spectrum antibiotic to start getting some medication on board. 

Wednesday through Friday the days passed much the same. Edith grew more vocal, communicating with my husband and me and with the kitten who went into the bathroom every time one of us did. Although there was no real improvement in her mobility, she didn't seem to be losing ground, either; still eating, drinking, and having the expected results of those activities. 

Saturday afternoon, I went in to pick her up to go outside and was surprised to see her standing in the bathtub. She walked a few steps, wobbly as a weeble. I took her out into the warm fresh air, and although she tired very quickly, she walked her wobbly walk for a distance of 10 feet or so. She has continued to improve every day since then. On Sunday, she looked like Jack Sparrow at his worst, and by today she was walking with a perfectly normal gait.

I heard her in the bathroom before I was even out of bed this morning. She was talking up a storm, probably griping or psyching herself up for the effort, and then I heard the very distinctive sound of her hopping up to the edge of the bathtub and then down to the floor. She seemed quite proud of herself when I went in, and made it clear she is done with being held captive.

Less than an hour later I received good news from the vet. Edith's lab results came in with no evidence of liver failure or kidney disease, no fecal parasites, and the only bacteria that showed in the culture was E. coli in both the blood and cloacal cultures. The fungal culture results have not come in yet, but the vet is confident we are on the right treatment track. E. coli is sensitive to the antibiotic Edith is already taking, so we will continue that course of treatment. 

Chickens carry E. coli in their system all the time. For some reason (cold? rain? mud? stress?), the levels in Edith's system broke through the normal barrier and made her ill. More good news: other than adding some probiotics to their water, this is not something that I need to treat the rest of the flock for.

This means no round of antibiotics for everyone that would put us in an egg desert, throwing away 3-4 dozen eggs a week for two months. Even better, I can start the process of reintegrating Edith into the flock. This will happen at a slower-than-usual pace because even though she is showing great improvement she still gets tired very quickly. I do not want anything to happen that could jeopardize her total recovery. 

I really thought my chicken day could not get any better than it was when I received that good news. 

But when I took Edith outside this afternoon, she did something that made me have the best chicken day ever.

I wish I had been able to get it on video so you could see it. Chickens have this funny, endearing, wonderfully lolloping way of running and flapping their wings when they are happy. I watched Edith run across the yard like that not once but twice, as if her fierce little heart just could not contain its joy.  As if she had never been happier. As if she hadn't a care in the world. 

Seeing that rising joy made all the concern, worry, and work of the entirety of my time keeping chickens worthwhile. And it brought home the depth of emotion that comes with honoring my commitment to holding life sacred as I work with this land. 

Edith spent two hours free ranging in the yard with her sister Mae today. In another place and time, Edith and Mae were my dearest great-aunt and my grandmother. Tomorrow I'll bring Marg and Gussie, the other Viking sisters, out too. 

My heart is content. I hope theirs are as well - the chickens and the Gone Befores.

Soul Journey

I spent much of last fall and this winter in a state of existence moving between hibernation, torpor, and wakefulness, and I have had very little contact with the world beyond my own. An exception to my inward focus has been my participation in a weekly writing group, and that gathering always nourishes my spirit.  

The topic of this series has been Soul Journey, and tonight's subject was about the moment one says yes to their soul's particular journey. I have been thinking about this for quite some time, as my life has shifted significantly over the past 13 months, and I am often in awe of the changes. 

No one moment, no round-headed pin on the map, no single enlightened conversation brought me to the point of commitment to the road I am traveling. I have walked so far, through so many different landscapes, dark beneath the weeping willows, bright atop the mountains, but it has only ever been a journey made by moving one step at a time.

Distance and time have no real meaning to me anymore. Years of struggle, years of therapy, years of work. Tears of pain. Sometimes I would bargain with my demons and myself to get through a day or a mile or the longest nights. Just get through this meeting. Just get through this day. Just walk to the next bench, then the next one. Just swim this lap. Run this water mile. Ten more steps. Ten more minutes. Five. Just make it five minutes without leaving this place, and then you can think about it again if you need to.

I say yes to this journey every morning that I wake and then a thousand times a day, and I do so gladly and joyfully. Every time I get out of bed, every food and water dish I fill, everything I plant and plan, everything I harvest, every bee I talk to, bear I observe, coyote that sings me to sleep. “Mother, keep me mindful…Give me your work, which is to be joyous and to tend all things because all things live of themselves and with your spirit. Your will through mine, So mote it be.”

The conversations with myself, my spirit, my heart, and my brain have changed now. I have no more thoughts of leaving because I am already gone from where it matters most. Where it now matters least. 

Now, the most adorable love cats in the world to talk with. Now, the wild pup who is my homestead work partner. Now, the chickens with their nonsense and demands. Now, the land spirits with their whimsical humor. Now, the divine who never left me, even when I blinded myself to her presence. Now, the life partner whose own fractures never keep him from being the rock I can lean against when I have need.

Now, I am home. 

Sunday Morning Musings and Chicken Update - Edith

Chicken tending started differently this morning, as little Edith, the butterscotch calico Viking, is still in the chicken infirmary. Two things you should know: (1) Edith is the only butterscotch calico Icelandic Viking chicken in the history of the world because I made up the butterscotch calico part of her identity. Those two words perfectly describe her appearance, and she is who she is. (2) The chicken infirmary is currently my bathtub. 

Under normal circumstances and during warmer times of the year, chickens that need a soak for either medical or grooming reasons have their spa day outside. They soak, get a bit of a towel dry, then finish drying in the sun. If one is ill or injured and needs to be isolated, I put them in a dog kennel on the bench in the barn where I can easily monitor them, and they have the comfort of being near the other chickens. Unfortunately, Edith's illness or injury occurred when it was too cold to have allowed her to go outside until her feathers were completely dry. I also did not like the idea of her being confined in a kennel when I knew rats were getting into the barn. 

And so, to the horror of the wonderful person who cleaned the bathroom on Friday, there has been a chicken in my bathtub since Saturday morning, doing everything chickens do. I will leave the details to your imagination. Edith is currently not using her wings to jump up or fly, so her activities are at least contained within the tub. I promise I will clean the bathroom top to bottom with every antibacterial product under the sun once Edith is released back to the general population. 

She greeted me sweetly when I entered the bathroom this morning, which is a return to her usual demeanor. Yesterday she ate a thin mixture of oatmeal with apple bits, dandelion, chamomile, bee balm, and cinnamon. I also added electrolytes and probiotics to her water. She is eating and drinking (this morning, she had oatmeal with the same herbs, plus rice and peas). She does not appear to be egg-bound; she most definitely is not constipated, nor is her crop impacted or sour. Her comb is still an excellent, bright red, which leads me to think she may be dealing with an injury instead of an illness. 

Her movements seem a bit more steady/less wobbly this morning, and I think she is improving. Keeping her in the infirmary allows her to stay warm and dry and access food and water without much movement and with no competition. As long as she tolerates this change in circumstance, it is in her best interests to keep her indoors to improve her chances of recovery. But the second she is well enough to hop up onto the edge of the bathtub, she is going back outside where she belongs. 

I care a great deal about my chickens. I have a strong spiritual and ethical commitment to caring for them. But they do not belong in the house. Nope. 

When I finally went outside to tend the other birds, Mary made it very clear he has not forgiven me for taking Edith away yesterday. The hens seemed concerned, so I informed them that Edith is improving and should return to them soon. By the time I finished filling the feeders and waterers and mucking the coop, all was well with the flock. 

There was a hen-pecked brown egg in the nesting boxes, and I used that to do an egg cleanse of negative energy before I left the barn. Five minutes of earnest conversation with Brigid at her altar which overlooks the barn, then I was ready to move on with my day. 

Of course, no morning is complete without time spent playing with Hank in the south yard. That routine is essential to his well-being and has become part of the ritual that is essential to mine. I sit on the porch of the woodshop and wait for the first kiss of sunlight on my face - and that is when my day truly begins. 

"Mother, keep me mindful..." the first line of my daily prayer, cast upon the ley lines between earth and water, fire and air...

Good morning, peeps.