The Middle of May - Growing with My Gardens

Every year, I say I'm done trying to grow vegetables, then I do it again anyway. For various reasons, I like being able to feed myself from my own gardens. I like the process of watching food grow. I like seeing the science and magic come together.

I think people sometimes get the impression that everything in my gardens is perfect and idyllic. I assure you, it is not. (As you can see from the photo below) The south yard, which houses the vegetable garden and the wood shop, and is Hank's primary play space, is generally a disaster area. Once upon a time, I'd have heard the ghosts of parental voices shaming me for the mess and been driven by guilt to keep the space perfect. Fortunately for me, I escaped that fairytale version of life quite some time ago.

I do my best, ask for help when I need it, and pay for help when I can afford it if I cannot do something on my own. I move along as I please. Sometimes, projects get started and then have to wait. Last year we planned to finally build a greenhouse and began the work by setting in a foundation. That took a little longer than anticipated, and by the time the foundation was done, material costs had doubled and were beyond my budget. At last check, the costs had tripled due to corporate greed. I would not pay them even if I could. Before the Wheel turns to Autumn, I will figure out an alternative greenhouse plan. In the meanwhile, there is a big hole covered with a tarp, stacked up wood, and cinder blocks to contend with.

My raised bed dreams for the vegetable garden called for those pretty green modular units from a certain manufacturer. It would have cost nearly $1,000 to trade out all the inexpensive food-grade plastic barrels for those nicer containers. My brain and my ego kept arguing, "But I want..." And this was one of those places where people might not realize it can happen, but Love eldered Ego and kept me from spending that money when it was needed more in other places. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with spending good money for things you want or need. Not saying that at all. But for me, in this situation, NOT spending the money was a better decision. Then someone gifted me three galvanized stock tanks that they were no longer using, and my evolving raised bed dreams are happening, just in a slightly different form. I am happy, content, and excited to see how it all turns out. And until I figure out what to do with them, I will have empty plastic containers taking up visual space in the south yard. Yes, of course, I will set them up more neatly than they are in the below image. Maybe Hank needs an obstacle course on his runway.

Over the last couple of days, I got the stock tanks set in place, transferred soil from the plastic containers into the stock tanks, mixed in some good stuff, put in some plant starts, and planted some seeds. That work will continue for at least another week, as there is one more tank to substitute in. I also have some smaller galvanized tubs that I can make use of as well. And next Monday, someone is coming to help Rhodes install a cattle panel arch at the entrance to the veg garden. Every once in a while, friends, I let my brain slide down the wrong pathways and I get momentarily overwhelmed by the volume of work that must be done. When that happens, I gently reign myself in with the reminder that I can only do one thing at a time, and so there goes my focus until I am ready to move on to the next thing. We are none of us perfect beings living Instagram perfect lives. Beauty and joy are often accompanied by mess and bother, and this is not only okay, it is normal. Thank you for sharing my messy, lovely, wonderful, sad, happy, joyful life. I appreciate the company. Peace out.

The Fourth of March

 It is currently 63 degrees with clear blue skies here at Bear Path Cottage. I just spent a few minutes outside, taking pictures in the gardens and making plans for working this afternoon. Sometime in the last three days, the forsythias all went from buds to blooms, and that little hedge of yellow is a cheery sight!

In early April of 2019, we were waiting to close on the purchase of the Cottage. I was still recovering from my knee replacement surgeries, and Rhodes and my eldest daughter, Katie, constructed a little greenhouse on the deck at the Mountain. She took clippings from the humongous forsythia growing on the Mountain for 20 years and then started 30 forsythia slips for me. To my surprise and great happiness, those survived my care in the greenhouse and have thrived growing on the northeast corner of the Cottage proper, where my father-in-law helped me plant them. Every bright yellow blooming branch will always be a reminder that it is okay to ask for help when you need it and okay to accept help when it is offered. 

The other early yellow bloom in the garden has been shining bright for a few days. In 2022, my sweet friend Wendy sent me a box of daffodil bulbs she had dug up from her gardens. I planted them between the Juneberry trees near the road edge, and for the last two years, they have been bright lights of love and happiness, and some of the earliest blooms of Spring. 

I love having this garden reminder of my dear friend. I think of them as "Wendy's daffs". They stir memories of happy times, good conversations, and hopes of seeing each other again. Wendy's love of her home, gardens, cooking, and family is nothing short of phenomenal and helped me believe that my own dreams of home could come true. (If you read this, dear ladybug, that hippy you're married to ain't so bad either! So much love to you both!)

Spring always wakes the extra deep layers of hope within me. New growth and life are stirring, and old growth is stronger for having come through the winter. Over the next couple of weeks I'll be spending a lot of time outside, talking with the land spirits and observing the way water, air, and light are moving over the land. I don't have any new projects planned for this year, but I need to stay in tune with this tiny ecosystem so I can continue to support it. 

We lift each other up every day. And on the most challenging days, through the darkest times, we offer each other safe space and understanding. This is how love wins. 

This is how we save the world. 

The sweetest thing I saw in the garden this morning was a pair of Mourning Doves. They were walking around together, probably looking for nesting sites. They didn't pay much attention to my presence, other than to walk in the opposite direction from me once they saw me. One had the biggest coral pink blaze on its shoulder that I've ever seen on a dove. So beautiful. I love that they feel safe here. 

I love that I feel safe here, and that I have the opportunity to share portions of this magic with my friends. 

Peace, and much love from Bearpath Cottage.

Mid-January: Deep Winter Visits

Sometime in the early morning hours during our first deep freeze of the year, the pipes for the chicken watering system exploded with enough force that it knocked the whole thing askew. The crack and boom sound roused the dog, who in turn roused the Cottage Engineer, who in turn determined that with an outdoor temperature that felt like -3 degrees, an investigation into whatever caused the noise could wait until daylight. So it did, and the photo below shows what that investigation revealed on a cold morning last week.

Ouch. Best estimates: the shut-off valve from the rain barrel was frozen partially open, and although it seemed like the water supply had been turned off, it was not. Ouch again, and oops. These things happen, and we just move forward. Fortunately, the heated waterer in use inside the coop can serve as a temporary backup with the minimal additional cost of labor (mine) to fill that water source every day. Since the staff here at BPC are elbow deep in the kitchen redo, I'm grateful to have the time that gives us to re-think and re-engineer before we rebuild the watering system. 

This photo was taken when the coop and barn were first built. It shows the Engineer in deep thought about some project design. I am holding space for this forward for the water redo. 

I just came back inside from tending the chickens. It is currently 8 degrees and feels like -6 with the wind chill. Most of the girls were still in the coop; nobody was in a hurry to go out in this cold. Hank stopped at the back door and looked up at me as if to measure my sanity. Sorry, pup. If you want out, this is the only way to go. Two nights ago Hamish scooted through the back door when Rhodes and Hank were coming in. I spent 30 minutes tracking him all around the neighborhood before he finally allowed me to pick him up and carry him home. This morning, he looked toward the door with absolutely zero interest in traveling through it. 

It snowed all day yesterday, resulting in a sparse dusting on the ground here at the Cottage. This land is tucked into a sweet little geographical bowl, and weather systems are often funneled around us by the mountain ranges to the north and south. I would love to experience a good, heavy snowfall; it has been two years since a measurable amount fell here. Goodness knows we need the precipitation, but She also knows the many ways in which people and domestic animals suffer in wet, cold weather. Perhaps she is doing a kindness here. (note: silly, ridiculous, hopeful wishing on the part of this writer.)

No surprise that I am choosing to spend the remainder of this cold spell emulating the black bear by denning in. I will consume and produce words, do some hearth magic, and periodically fall into a state of torpor. I do not know for certain whether bears are grateful for their dens, but I am for mine. I'm going to go refill my tea cup and create a flexible map for the balance of this day.

With love from Bear Path Cottage,

Sheri

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 

 

 

 

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.

Imbolc: A Time of Hope and Dreams

Before the sun rose on Imbolc, I reclaimed Brigid's mantle from the slender arms of the hawthorn tree which grows above her altar. Gathering the fabric into both hands, I held it to my face and inhaled the mingled scents of moonlight and fresh dew. It was an intuitive act that linked the peaceful early morning ambiance, the cool texture of the cloth against my skin, and the pleasing smell with the magic of the mantle. I love the very thought of having this gentle healing magic available in my home health kit. 

Later in the day, I took a walk around the Cottage proper, connecting with the comfort and shelter of home after having been out and about in the world for a while. The disquiet I experience when I am away makes it clear that I am not ready to leave my inward focused time behind. Truth be told, I probably never will be. I am okay with that. 

As this day reminds me, Spring is coming. She always does. Whether I stay at home or wander into the world, growth, new birth, renewal, and change will continue to happen all around me and within me. The weight of the world sometimes blurs that hope and reality, but the peaceful magic of  Bear Path Cottage has become a touchstone that helps to clear my vision. 

The daffodils that were gifted to me by a friend last year are already pushing their way out of the ground. The garlic is doing the same thing. And it was cheery and uplifting to see new growth and buds on the apple trees, elderberry, juneberry, and forsythia today. 

I have worked hard over the last four years to build the foundations of this tiny homestead, and it gives me a sense of satisfaction and contentment to see that work paying off. During the upcoming growing season, I will be making some significant changes to the vegetable garden as well as working on the native plants pollinator garden. A recent shift in managing the chickens means they are starting to pay for their own upkeep! I am grateful for their help in that regard. It gives me a good feeling to be able to share the abundance of the Cottage with friends and neighbors. 

Imbolc historically marks the beginning of the lambing season. Although I love them and think they are adorable, there are no lambs at Bear Path Cottage. The pace of garden work is slowly picking up as the weather permits, but in this still-quiet time, I will continue to dream about creating beautiful spaces, growing flowers, and harvesting fruits, berries, and veggies to nourish myself and my family.  My hopes are running high. 

Apple Tree

Daffodils

Forsythia

Juneberry Tree

Sunday - Dreams of Forgiveness

I’m back to starting my day at my desk, writing in my journal. It feels good to be back in this rhythm. (Thanks, Hank.)

When I woke this morning I came out of a dream that I am sad to have lost the beautiful details of, but which had me in a place where giving grace and kindness and forgiveness mattered so much that my mind stayed in that space the few moments I was still abed. I hope it stays there for a while longer.

Mary has been busy crowing the sun up the sky, and out this south-facing window I can see the fruit of his work as the sky gets brighter and brighter. The corvine crows have gone by several times on their early morning missions, cawing and calling. Perhaps encouraging Mary, perhaps encouraging the sun. Perhaps doing their own crow things and not paying attention to the rest of us.

That “us” - my mind spoke it with the someplaces British pronunciation. Uz. Welcome to the weirdness of my brain.

Currently 22 degrees here, feels like 15. Currently extremely grateful that we built the barn and coop last year, and that I have the physical ability to haul warm water to the chickens. Hail, chickens, givers of eggs and fluffy butt happiness.

By the by, after the last cold snap all of our girls are now laying their eggs inside the old roosting box instead of on the floor. I hope that practice continues, but one never knows with chickens.

And also by the by, Mojo spent about an hour hanging with us and playing in the living room proper last night whilst Hank was passed out on the couch. Cottage normal seems to be on the horizon.

I’m holding hope for a quiet day here. Maybe some chores. Maybe some kitchen witching. Definitely some writing.

What’s going on with you?

Peace out, peeps. Be easy if you can.

p.s.: Double-decker cats for cat and Cottage tax.

#bearpathcottage

#mojo

#chickentales

#onthebearpath

The Shine

A couple of weeks ago I was writing an article about witches and pagans and turning inward during the dark part of the year. That gave me pause to think back over this year and in doing so I realized that I actually started that turning inward process round about July, and this year I have gone further inward and traveled farther to Other places than I have ever done before. 

This was not a deliberate attempt to disengage; my actions were instinctive and the journey itself was the only destination. Disengaged just happened to be one of the places I landed. 

The pause to think also led me down a thought road to the conclusion that the depth of my journey and the degree of disengagement both helped me make it through a time of year that is often extremely difficult for me. I hope this awareness does not change the process as I move into January's emotional storms. 

I have talked publicly and honestly about a lot of heavy emotional, mental, and spiritual stuff since 2011 when I first shared my thoughts about my youngest daughter's struggle with mental health and addiction. At first I wrote because I needed to get it all out of my head, and then because I hoped it might help someone else if they could see that there were not alone. The issues are different now, but I still write for both those reasons. 

I think it is important to be honest and real about the way grief, depression, and anxiety sometimes knock me down, and just as real about the fact that I always get back up. Always. I want everyone else who is struggling to know that it is possible to do that. I want people to know that it is normal to have a less than Hallmark holiday perfect life, that it is normal to talk about it, and normal to ask for help carrying the stuff that gets too heavy. That is it normal and real to enjoy a moment or an afternoon or a day and then have some random word or song or thought send you hurtling into the brick wall of an anxiety attack, then find your way back to good space. 

Life is like that sometimes. PTSD is like that sometimes. Grief is like that sometimes. Even love is like that sometimes. 

I watched my father drown himself in depression-fueled grief over his misguided and anxiety driven perceptions of every mistake he ever made in his life. I sometimes take similar nose-dives, especially related to my parenting failures and mistakes. But a huge difference between me and my dad is that I have learned how to do the work to get out of those riptides and he never did or never could. I will always believe that inability to heal is what killed him. 

Shadow work is not a walk in the park, but it is an important part of the process of deep healing. I am grateful for those who showed me that it is possible, and for those who help me along the way. I am doubly grateful for whatever or whoever it was that brought me into this world with a spirit that was never afraid to search for answers, knowledge, and magic.

These days I share a lot about the happy aspects of my life; Rhodes in his many forms of being, my kittens, my gardens, my spiritual path. Even though there are days I don't want to get out of bed, days when anxiety holds court, days when I cannot stop crying, I always look for the better, brighter side. I won't ever deny that the dark side exists, but I don't ever let it beat me, either.  

Part of defeating the darker aspects in any persons life and of this world is keeping them out in the open and shining light on them. When I ask folks to "rise on up and put your shine on" I am asking them to be a part of the light that helps keep darkness at bay or at least shows it for what it really is. 

That doesn't take a falsely manufactured megawatt smile, or a bubbly, gushing personality. It just takes being. 

Even the softest light pushes back the darkness. 

Peace out.

Chicken Time

Daylight Savings Time doesn't matter much to me these days. I know so many people hate it when we fall back and darkness falls earlier, or spring forward and lose an hour of sleep, but Rhodes and I are both retired, and most of our days don't run by the standards of time as most people see it. I've talked about this enough times that most people who know me probably get the basics: we sleep, eat, work, and play on our own schedules. 

There is, however, one major exception to that: my father-in-law lives with us, and we have dinner together every night. He prefers to have dinner between 6 and 7:00 p.m., so dinner prep and dinner time revolve around that schedule. We don't always make it, but we try. 

At certain times of the year the conflict with that schedule doesn't come from any human source, but from the 11 feathered bodies in the backyard. 

I have kept chickens for about a year and a half now, and one thing that hasn't changed in that time is my concern for losing birds to predators. Our chickens are part of our Cottage family, and I hate the thought of them dying in some terrible, frightening manner, so their "free-range" time is more of a "supervised-range" time. Through trial and error, I have figured out that they are happiest when they range right before they go in for the night. 

Every evening, 60 to 90 minutes or so before sunset, Rhodes or I go sit in the yard with the chickens while they roam around eating green plants, hunting bugs, and playing chicken games. I use that time to read, talk with friends, do barn chores, meditate, write, or just be in the swing, watching as the light changes and darkness moves in.  

With daylight savings time having rolled in, this means that I am out the door no later than 4:30 for chicken time, and when it comes to chickens it isn't a human time construct issue but an actual sunset issue. The chickens have their own circadian rhythm that sends them looking for their shelter a little before the sun sets, and our automatic coop door works on the basis of available light and has been closing at around 5:40 p.m. 

For some reason going outside "earlier" makes it seem easier to have dinner prepared on the nights it is my turn to cook, and with the cooler weather, I sometimes use chicken time for looking up make-ahead casseroles that Rhodes can just pop into the oven while I am out with the birds. 

Dinner conflicts, cooking, adjusting schedules, and all else aside, no matter what time of year it is, that time outside every evening is always a best part of my days. There isn't any rushing it; even with the automatic door, I still have to make sure that they have all gone into the coop. Sometimes cloudy days or rain can mess with the birds' sense of timing. Recently I came home from running errands and went to check on them within half an hour of the sun having set. It was a rainy day, and I found most of the chickens huddled and miserable on the steps by the closed door. They were sitting ducks for any predator that might have wandered by. 

Sometimes they are all in 10 or 15 minutes before the door closes; other times the last one squeaks in just before I hear the beeping alarm and the metal door slides down. Both of the Smokey Pearl chickens, French Broad and Miss Frizz, are unimpressed by stories of the monsters that wait for them in the dark and frequently push their luck by going in at the last possible second. 

Bottom line, chicken time is my outdoors, fresh air, slow down and breathe point in almost every day, and I am grateful to have it. 

I have also learned that having a light on inside the coop when dusk starts to fall encourages my chickens to move into the coop and helps them get settled. I often feel that way about going inside, too. 

The light in the window draws me every time, and most nights when I come in and step into the hallway and see the light coming from the kitchen and smell homecooked food my spirits are lifted even more. 

Birthday On the Bear Path

Two days ago, as has become my tradition, I started the celebration of my actual day of birth where we all begin life - in a space between the here and there, between the now and then, between the beginning and the end. Not by design, but in answer to a gentle invitation, I kept one foot in that space and the other in this one from the early hours of the 16th until I watched the first blush of color rise in the sky this morning. That experience was a neatly wrapped gift from the divine.

As midnight fell into my birthday I was sitting in the front garden, light-bathing under the waxing gibbous moon. Flowers in sunlight are a beautiful thing; flowers in moonlight are a whole different world, and after completing a deep meditation I lingered outside, conversing with the Moon and the flowers about my birthday, about Autumn, and about many other things.

15 minutes or so after I came back into the Cottage, mama bear and her cubs came strolling up through the tiny orchard. Watching the video, the first thing you can see is her shadow cast onto the embankment by the headlights of an approaching car. Then there is the floating eye-shine parade, as she moves along with the cubs coming behind her. She was actually well ahead of them, and as she reached the edge of the driveway turned twice to make sure the car wasn't a threat to her cubs.

Seeing these bears well and healthy, chubbifying their way towards the winter months, was a grand present. Being able to witness their journey always brings me a great deal of joy. As I've spent the last two days walking in between worlds I had a lot of time and a good many reasons to muse about bears and why I care so much about them, and about the whys and hows of all the things I wish for and wish not.

That lead to a great deal more thinking about how walking the Crow Road merged with being On the Bear Path; how living with grief is moving towards living from a place of healing. I hope to share more about that soon. The grief I carry is never going to be a gone thing; it is never going to go away or get better. But it does not hold me in a place of stasis or stagnation; in fact, it frequently brings change and growth and continued healing, and I am learning how to give grace and compassion to myself when I have need of such things. I am embracing this new year of my life with courage and hope, and looking forward to strengthening foundations and empowering transformations as I continue my journey On the Bear Path.

Slip Slidin' Away

 I'm somewhat adrift these days, but not in a bad way. I don't know what other folks think of it, but this song by Paul Simon has always been, to me, an anthem of hope and belief in myself. 

I'm reclining in an existential unicorn tube on a spiritual lazy river, wearing cut-off jean shorts, a tank top, and my favorite sunglass. I smell of that coconut-scented sunscreen I used in my teenage years. My fingertips are trailing in the water as I drift along. Occasionally I bump into something or someone and stop for a few moments, and I enjoy the contact, but I know I'm going to keep moving towards where I'm supposed to be. 

It may not seem like it to anyone watching, but I finally know where I'm going, and this is the right path to get me there. 

Peace out. 

https://youtu.be/iUODdPpnxcA

"Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man
We work our jobs
Collect our pay
Believe we're gliding down the highway
When in fact we're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away
Mmm"

February Romance

 When trying to build or assemble or design something, I never had trouble stepping back if I hit a wall and started to feel frustrated. I'd go for a walk or sit down with a cup of tea and a good book; basically, I would hit the pause button and give my mind time to untangle the problem and find a new approach.

After my knee surgeries, I took that skill to the next level and became a goddess supreme at working out ways to accomplish whatever I wanted to get done. I even learned to accept help, although I admit I will never be comfortable with that. Two of the most important pieces of that adaptation were developing deeper patience with myself and acknowledging and accepting that it is okay to stop and rest when rest is needed.

Despite all of that, it took this long winter for me to figure out that I could address my creative walls and limitations in the same way. Who knew? I have long held the practice of letting Love elder Ego when dealing with other people, but it was no easy task to apply that principle to myself.

I've been writing for nearly 50 years. This winter, I renewed my love of the process and my love of language. I'm feeling pretty darn happy about that.

Here Comes the Sun - a Celebration of Science and Nature

This memory from December 2019 has been on my mind for the last few days. I know the extra challenges that isolation amidst the pandemic and other social issues are adding to my life this year. I can't help but wonder how many people are struggling to connect with something, anything, any piece of hope or happiness they can find. 

I originally shared this story to highlight how simple it can be to let someone else feel like they matter. A year later, when so many are walking a tight-rope, I am sharing it again for that same reason, and perhaps as a reminder that there is at least one seasonal option for a celebration that has nothing to do with faith or religion. 

December 2019

I stopped at a chain pharmacy store to pick up a few things tonight. I usually avoid new to me places, but I’ve driven by this one 13,000 times since we moved, there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, and I needed two specific items and some chocolate. Don’t judge.

I was browsing the holiday stuff aisle, amazed at how much crap we consume in the name of giving, when a voice said, “Can I help you find something?”

I looked up and almost walked out of the store when I saw the female clerk standing there. She was one of the far too many women who look like my Beth did towards the end of her life. Sometimes seeing those shades of my daughter is a total system shock, much like going into cold water for a swim.

I paused to catch my breath, then answered, "No, thank you, I’m just looking."

She said something about holiday shopping that I couldn't quite hear, and then she quickly walked away.

When I was ready to check out, that clerk was at the counter. I was determined not to even look at or chat with her, but you know I can't do that. I cannot treat people as if they are invisible. Once again, she said something about the holidays and then said, “Not everybody wants to celebrate them. Not everyone can.”

I responded with something like, you know it’s okay if you don’t. Somehow, that removed the wall between us, and while I was standing there at the checkout, she poured her heart out.

She isn’t a Christian and doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her daughter is 18 this year, and they won’t ever do Christmas again. It’s too hard, just too painful, and it costs too much, and, and, and.

And.

I just listened as she talked. She obviously needed to vent, and why not let her? Why not hold space for and share space with someone else’s daughter? The last thing she said in her recitation of pain and unhappiness was that she likes some of the pretty decorations, but there isn’t anything for her to celebrate.

I said, "Well, you know, the Sun is coming back. I think that’s worth celebrating."

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

I offered her a brief explanation of the Winter Solstice and Yule, that the days will be getting longer again, and that it’s just science and a love of sunshine and warmer days. No belief system is necessary.

She was silent while she finished ringing up my purchases. After I paid and she handed me the receipt, she smiled at me and said, “I think my daughter would like that idea. I’m going to see if she’ll help me look it up.”

Then she smiled an even bigger smile and wished me happy holidays.

Of course, she has no idea that I’ve seen that smile before. Of course, she has no idea that she brought a bit of unexpected brightness to my day, to replace the unexpected sadness.

I hope I brought the same to hers. 

Please choose kindness when you are able. Be the Sun.

And oh - Sing this with feeling. 

https://youtu.be/KQetemT1sWc