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. 

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

The Snow Princess

Sorrow crossed my path today. After a moment's hesitation, I greeted it as I do most old friends, with a gentle welcome and an offer to sit together for a while. I have never found a way to avoid it, anyway. No, holding compassion for sorrow seems to be the ticket, methinks. Besides, I cannot imagine carrying all that it carries without some kindness and a cup of tea.

During our time together, something reminded me of the way a beech tree holds its leaves through the winter. That reminded me of this tree I used to know and a poem I wrote in 2019. 

I am weary from our visit, but content. And so I will spend the rest of this evening with ghosts, candles, magic, and memories. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE SNOW PRINCESS

Golden-brown beech leaves
Shiver and shimmer on their branches.
Do not make the mistake of believing 
that it is fear that causes them to tremble.
They are simply wise enough to turn
with the cold wind as it blows through.
Not wasting energy fighting the current,
but moving with the strength of a swordmaster or a dancer,
waiting for just the right moment. 
Waiting for peace to return.

One breaks from the branch and
float-dances in the air right up to my window.
Tap. Skitter. Tap tap tap as it twists and spins along the glass
then drifts softly to rest on the frosty earth.
A ghostly reminder of how to let go,
Of how to say hello,
Of how to say I will always be here
Even though my form will change.

s. barker
January 2019

                                                                 

Holding On

Holding On 

Mother, give me pockets
deep enough to hold 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.

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.

The Mess

The Mess

“Ignore the mess.”

I used to say that sometimes.

I sometimes say it still; 

A prayer for understanding and 

Release from expectations that the

World has carried us so far beyond 

that they should be a

Memory as old as cave paintings. 

Which mess, anyway?

The art project pile of cardboard nearly as tall as my head.

The earthly remains of puppy toys 

Scattered like ashes across the floor.

The garden gone wild, miscellaneous 

Debris from last growing season 

Left behind like crime scene 

Evidence of fatigue.

Maybe social skills 

Grown rusty and hard to open like the

Seldom used gate with the latch that sticks.

The conversational tongue that stutters around awkward silences when the words can’t find their way.

The other that spills pent-up words and emotions like the weight inside his chest 

Broke the levee wide open. 

The bare and aching spirits left out in the open

Like last night’s dishes still in the drainer

For anyone to see.

Unkempt, but not forgotten, 

Not unloved. 

Living. 

Breathing. 

Being. 

Fallow and trying to rest; 

Eager for Spring.

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

Memories of My Grandmother

Leaning into the strength and resilience of my ancestors. 

Mae Augusta Curtis Barker - my Gramma Barker. Today would have been her 106th birthday.

Gram was not an easy woman to understand, but I will always wish that I had spent more time with her and that I had never known things that children need not know.

During my early childhood she lived right around the corner from us on East Walnut Street. She had grand skills with needle and thread, as well as with crochet and knitting needles. I wish she had been inclined to teach me. One of my earliest memories is of my little towheaded self clutching my precious dog, Spot, and running as fast as I could to her house so she could stitch up his ear to keep the bell from falling out. She made slippers and mittens and the many squared afghan that was kept on our couch.

She was the Christmas morning tree guardian, and the story teller when I walked with her to church or the beauty parlor or the grocery store. She was Lipton cup of soup in Tupperware mugs, Bachman's cheese popcorn, jam and butter sandwiches, and TV dinners on trays while we watched old movies. . "For goodness sake, Sheri Ann, stop fidgeting. Every time you move the reflection catches in my glasses." 

She was handmade lace doilies on her furniture and pretty pins on her sweaters. She was hospital corners, chocolate oatmeal, and washing your face before going to bed. 

As a child she roller skated on slate sidewalks in the same neighborhood in which I grew up, and on one Sunday morning walk to church she told me about her skates and the key that helped to fit them and that she wore that key around her neck on a ribbon. It was hard to imagine her so. Gram was the only adult I knew who understood that the old stone gate markers that stood in various places around the block bordered by Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets were magical. 

She was a shared stick of Wrigley's juicy fruit or spearmint gum in the pew at the Methodist church, coffee hour after service, and helping with a church dinner. She was the most magical winter evening walk to the most magical church bazaar, and the giver of the little crochet dolly that I still love. 

She was the stern and disapproving look that could break a heart.

She was the keeper of mysterious things that belonged to the half-sister I adored, and bazillions of salt and pepper shakers and the red cabinet that was a joy to have in my own home. She was butter mints in a crystal dish and a box of saltwater taffy tucked away in a drawer.

I remember just once that she held me, during a time when I was terribly ill. Her hands were kind and strong as she held a cool compress to my forehead.

My grandfather died young, two years before I was born. She surprised me by telling me stories of frequently seeing and hearing his ghost in their house in Durhamville. I once asked her why she never remarried. She answered, "Because there is no one like him." 

I don't think she ever realized that there was no one like her, either. 

That which is honored and remembered, lives. Happy Birthday, Gram. I love you.

Raymond C. and Mae A. Barker

Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks

Mae with her sons, Ray Jr., Donald, and David