Clean.

Zen in the barn

All through the night I thought about lambs.

Or lambing to be specific.

Every time I woke up to roll over or check the clock or to scoot over for a kid climbing in beside me.

Lambs.

Lambs.

Lambs.

 

Maybe I should have gotten up and walked to the barn to check.

Instead I was just grateful for the warmer weather, and lay in bed wondering who would go next.

 

It's been almost two weeks since our first farm babies were born. That left eight ewes to go.

Eight is a lot.

Before bed I asked Pete to check on the girls and see if anyone seemed close.

And Sage? He was adamant that he didn't want to go to town today.

He needed today to be a "quiet day on the farm".

 

Sage was the first out the door this morning, heading down to the barn to feed the bottle lamb from the first lambing.

"If you find any lambs -," I began,

"I'll run full speed to the house!" he said.

And he did.

 

Three lambs were born last night to one ewe.

One was stillborn, the other two were weak by the time we got to the barn.

 

Goodness.

It seems adrenaline is the new coffee over here.

 

So the morning was spent doing all that we could to help them get strong.

Heat lamp.

Tube feeding.

Something reminiscent of prayer.

 

Truly, we don't know if they'll make it.

We can't know.

And I'm thankful to be finding some peace within the uncertainty.

A soft, zen inner voice saying, "What is, is."

 

That's new for me.

A little Rescue Remedy, a couple of phone calls, and a heap of allowing.

Yeah. And lot less worry.

 

And so it's easier today.

Easier to let go of the one that didn't live.

Easier to think of what will happen if the weaker one also lets go.

 

Because the nature of life is death.

Some will make it.

And some won't.

 

Because I'm realizing that all the Rescue Remedy in the world won't change the outcome of this day.

As long as we keep doing our best, worry will only pull us down.

 

And now?

We have seven ewes to go.

Plus one goat.

And gosh, that's still a lot.

 

But today it feels a little different.

Today I'm starting to think that maybe we can do it after all.

 

And yes. What will be will be.

 

 

And with that, I'm off to the barn.

 

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

 

"Patchwork throw pillow" is only a metaphor

Sometimes we start something that we don't know how to finish.

Sometimes we have a vision in our mind, but lose confidence along the way, and we want to give up.

Sometimes we get frustrated. Confused. Overwhelmed by what we've bitten off.

Sometimes it all feels like too much.

 

On the farm I've been feeling this way lately.

As in: we really have no idea what we're doing.

 

It's a familiar feeling.

One I remember from early parenting.

Pre-teen parenting.

Homeschooling.

Food choices.

Owning my own business.

Writing a book.

And more.

 

Like I'm a little lost and in over my head.

Like I need to shine a light somehow on my own path but I can't find a headlamp.

 

And unlike the pillows, those other things I wasn't about to give up on.

 

I made two patchwork blocks on a whim almost a month ago.

I thought they would be cute pillowcases.

For pillows that I didn't have.

 

I thought I could make pillows.

You know: skirt, scour, and card some wool.

Sew and stuff some muslin cases.

And it sounded like a good idea at first, but felt more and more epic every time I thought about it.

 

So I gave up. For weeks.

 

And then I went thrifting.

But once I had pillows to cover (thank you, Goodwill), I stalled out again.

Now what?

I've never made that kind of pillowcase before.

And so those pillows just sat on my couch as is - in their rust colored taffeta thrift-store-splendor.

 

Sometimes we set out without a plan.

Other times we have a plan but lose it along the way.

 

I finally got sick of looking at those fancy pillows.

I would finish what I started.

And I did.

Without having a clue as to what I was doing.

 

And so the pillows are a metaphor.

For your kid's eczema.

For going back to school or choosing a new career.

For that book you long to write. (Ahem.)

For homeschooling your kids when you're not sure you have what it takes.

For whatever you want but are't going for right now.

 

The pillows had this to teach me:

1. What do you want? Keep that beautiful picture in your mind as you embark.

2. You have what it takes to make it reality. You might forget this when you reach step 3.

3. Know that you may lose your way. It will be hard. You'll even want to quit. Over. And. Over.

4. When you hit that wall, taking a break is a really good idea. Regroup.

5. After your break, you might need a fresh new plan.

6. Revisit step 1. As often as you need to.

7. And then get back at it. Time and again.

8. And when you've done what you set out to do, don't forget to be in that joy and dance around the house like a happy fool.

 

As for my pillows, they weren't as epic as I'd made them out to be after all.

Once I got over my frustration, my feeling of not knowing what I was doing, they were done in fifteen minutes.

I waited a month. And they took me fifteen minutes.

How many other things have I abandoned fifteen minutes before I hit my groove?

 

So I'll try to remember.

The lessons of the pillows.

And I'll keep at it.

Whatever "it" may be.

 

(Now. To get back to writing that book.

Because that does feel pretty epic and overwhelming today...)

 

 

Can we talk about something other than the cold? Okay. Homeschooling.

Oh, my. It is all kinds of cold out there.

The sort of cold that chases even the sheep inside to escape the wind.

The sort of cold that has the eggs - just laid this morning - frozen solid before we can hurry them into the house.

Last night the wind shook the whole house, and I gave thanks for the strong branches and deep roots on the trees outside our bedroom.

That kind of cold.

Yes, this is Wisconsin. And yes, it's January. But still. That cold wind means business.

Enough so that schools are cancelled for the fourth? fifth? time this winter. 

 

I briefly contemplated us taking the day off, too. A homeschool snow day! How fun is that?

And then my kids, just in from farm chores, set to work on their learning projects.

No one asked them to. Or told them to. Or even hinted.

It's just what they do. Day after day.

 

Sage is making a model of a nuclear reactor out of straws, bottles, and cardboard.

Lupine is creating her own letter book with each letter representing a country ("What 'I' words come from Japan?...ooh! Island!")

I guess that settles it. Homeschool as usual.

 

Because we don't follow a curriculum.

We don't sit down and "do school".

We learn - all day, everyday.

But that said, I'm not sure there is a name for what we do.

 

When the kids were small I identified myself as a Waldorf-inspired homeschooler.

I think mostly I liked the soft colors and the wooden toys, an understated contrast to the flashing lights and bright plastic found in most playrooms.

I loved the dolls. The blocks. The songs. The magic.

I loved that children are not taught to read until eight or nine years old.

Okay, mostly I loved the gnomes.

Love, love, love.

 

But as the kids got older I discovered that I wasn't really Waldorf.

What I adopted was mostly the aesthetic and the commitment to natural materials.

Waldorf homeschooling schedule for learning? Not so much.

I wasn't ready to dig in and do school at home in a Waldorf way.

But I took so much away from Waldorf that we still enjoy, day after day.

 

So I sat with it a bit and realized that what we were doing was much more like unschooling than Waldorf.

Everything in it's own time.

Self-taught readers.

Math from real life.

Children in charge of their own reality; their own learning.

No pressure.

No schedule.

Freedom.

 

Oh, yes. That felt so right... at first.

 

But lately I'm realizing that we might not be unschoolers either.

Not in the "radical unschooling" definition that has become the norm anyway.

Because unschooling as a philosophy can bring with it a whole package of things we just don't do either.

We limit media.

We actively encourage projects (nudge! nudge! push!) that will help our kids acquire skills.

We make our kids do chores. (Lovingly, yes, but we make them do it just the same.)

And we hang out around the table every day, doing lessons - working on skills that we want to develop, even if they are hard and we sometimes want to quit.

 

I think I was drawn to the freedom of unschooling, but just enough to fit our personalities.

 

Maybe that still makes us unschoolers. But maybe not. I don't really know.

 

So today I'm not sure what we are.

Like other parts of my life, I'm happy to just make it up as I go along without having a name for it.

I think if I had to choose a name for what we do I would call us "interest-led, project-based unschoolers."

 

Because our days are driven by our interests.

And almost everything they learn comes through hands-on, real-life projects, of their own choosing.

Like the business my kids are starting (together).

Like the lessons they take each week in town.

Like the only "schooly" thing we do - math lessons - around our table each morning. They chose that. They wanted to take their skills further. And I'm pushing them along to stick with it.

And the thing is, even when we don't make time for math around the table learning is happening.

Through exploring the world.

Through walks in the woods.

Through projects and baking and crafts and books.

Through this life, lived deeply every day.

 

Because, you know what? We couldn't stop learning - even if we wanted to.

 

 

 

 

I will

Today I will...

 

give thanks,

Breathe,

And nourish.

 

I will pause in my work,

Look up

And find beauty.

 

Everywhere.

 

I will slow down.

Connect.

And listen.

 

I will make space for play.

For laughter.

For living.

 

I will let go of hurry.

 

Let go of the attachment to busy.

 

And I will rest.

 

Today I will be here -

Only here.

With all of my heart.

 

Whatever this day brings.

 

Because today is

always

 

Everything.

 

 

Join me.

 

Normalcy

Last night there were no tears at at bedtime.

Last night we remembered without so much grief.

Last night we played and laughed and got back to normal.

Each day it's a little bit easier.

No matter who or what you've lost.

 

Time heals.

 

After heartbreak it's natural to reach for normalcy.

Carrying fresh eggs in from the coop to cook up for breakfast.

Hot coffee and hot tea.

Wool socks.

 

Homeschool math each morning around the kitchen table.

Sledding.

Checking in on our friends in the barn.

And snuggling those that remain in the house.

 

We're jotting down meal plans, preparing warm and nourishing food, and then as the sun slips behind the hills, tucking in early with time for extra snuggles.

 

And the friends we sent home early after Dusky died on Friday?

They came back for a do-over last night.

 

Oh, yes.

We've found our rhythm again.

We've even found our sense of humor again.

And our sense of play.

 

We've giving out extra hugs at every turn and taking time for quiet, for connection, for friendship and for remembering.

Wishing you all well this cold January morn.

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

 

Life and death on the farm

I have a friend with three children, a couple of dogs and cats, a coop full of chickens and a barn full of milk cows.

She has vetoed having any more children -or pets - or farm animals even - simply on the premise of what she describes as "holding too many hearts" in her hands.

So many souls in her charge. She couldn't handle even one more.

Because her heart can only bear so much worrying.

 

And while normally I'm of the more-is-better mentality when it comes to critters to share love with, I'm starting to understand her point.

 

Because every animal we say yes to we also will eventually say goodbye to.

 

Living here on the farm we've invited life and death deep inside.

It's part of the deal. Part of living this juicy, messy life that we've chosen.

I'm thankful for what that brings us.

But still. It's intense.

 

So far it's been fairly easy. Yes, we've lost a few hens, some chicks, a duck, and a couple of guinea hens.

We also watched a young bantam hen get broody and hatch out a clutch of six babies like magic.

And yes, we butchered 50 chickens in the fall.

And then there was a woodpecker who met his demise in our kitchen window.

 

But then...Friday.

 

On Friday we greeted both life and death with wide eyes and open aching hearts.

 

Lupine and I were in the chicken coop marveling at the giant hidden stash of duck eggs in the corner when we heard Pete's call.

"Lambs in the barn! Lambs in the barn!"

Our first ever, and a couple/few weeks earlier than we had thought they would come.

(The new flock we adopted arrived already bred with a very wide lambing date - January through March.)

 

We were all adrenaline, running top speed to the barn to see the newborns.

One lamb had become separated from it's mother in the night and was weak and cold.

I scooped him up and brought him inside when we was unable to nurse. All the while I was shaking with excitement and adrenaline as I whispered in his little ear, "Please don't die. Please don't die."

Thankfully he didn't.

His brother was just fine, staying with his mama in the barn and nursing contentedly away.

Of course, you know me well enough to know that I did (and still do) worry about him. It's in my in my bones.

I was born to worry. It's my gift.

And as we nursed that tiny black lamb back to health in the house, he lay by the heater on a blanket beside our ailing cat Dusky, sick since before Christmas.

She had started to come back around. For almost two weeks we thought she was better.

But on Thursday I started to think she was still sick, despite our and our vet's best efforts.

 

And then it happened.

So, so fast.

 

In an instant I saw her slipping away and called the children and Pete by her side.

Though it took less than a minute, we were all there with her.

We touched her, spoke to her and then let her spirit go as she died in our arms.

 

Maybe thirty seconds.

And she was gone.

Our family huddled together around her, crying. Confused. Angry. Heartbroken.

 

And yes, I am so thankful we were home.

Not at school. Or work. Or anywhere but here.

I'm thankful we were with her.

Speaking calming words, helping her along on her journey.

I am grateful that somehow I saw it coming and we could gather around her and say goodbye.

 

But for now our hearts are broken.

Dusky was just a baby. Not yet two years old.

A stray who adopted us a few weeks before we moved to the farm.

I've never been so enamored with a cat before.

This girl was all kinds of special.

As to why she died, the vets have no idea. We have no idea. We did everything we could and lost her just the same.

And Spike, our old man cat - an earless, cancer-riddled almost hairless Rex who's pushing 20 - hasn't left me alone since Friday afternoon.

He knows. He's holding that space.

 

And it's hard not to wonder why he's still here and she's already gone.

Things are more confusing when the come out of sequence.

 

I pulled the kids into the big bed for stories and snuggles on Friday night. There were lots of tears. Lots of confusion. Lots of grief.

And later as I lay down to sleep myself the tears came fast for me as well.

I wondered at how all this heartache helps any of us, as we cry ourselves to sleep.

 

But in my heart. I know.

Grief and death and goodbyes make us feel more deeply than we'd otherwise feel.

 

We're more alive, even in the heartbreak. On account of the heartbreak perhaps.

 

Because right now it feels like someone is standing on my heart. And that means I have loved, and said goodbye.

And the truth is I'll take this over self-preservation any day.

 

As for the lambs, both are still strong today.

The black lamb was rejected by his mama and went home with a friend on Friday who was eager for a ram for their farm and up for the challenge of a bottle lamb.

The other is hanging close to his mama, getting stronger every day.

 

And yes, so are we.

 

We are still grieving, but feeling stronger every day.

 

And now every morning as we go out to do farm chores, there is a different awareness in each of our hearts.

We know that today we might greet new life and we also might greet death.

It's just how it is.

Because life and death are always dancing together in that shadow space between here and there.

 

There are eight more pregnant ewes in the barn, plus one pregnant goat.

Maybe another sixteen? eighteen? babies yet to come.

And I doubt that will be our last worry over a struggling lamb this year.

Or our last bottle lamb this season.

 

Or, yes - come to think of it - our last goodbye.