Beauregards Farm

Loved writing this blog for several years now...with farming and photography and other dreams I have not mastered yet, I have certainly and finally decided to let True Calling rest.  Visit me at Beauregards Farm on the web and see what's new, what's up and what's what.  Thank you for your consideration and kindnesses through the years...therapy came from nowhere I could see but everywhere, from you- I could feel love and concern;  it made all the difference.  Semper Fi.

The dumpster dive, the tuna salad, the story...

(originally published 02/02/09)

A retelling of a tale... about a Big Fish.

Big Fish hooked!

The lunch room was empty, he had forgotten to bring along a companion to his tuna salad sandwich- a reading companion. And the remnants from the lunch crowd earlier produced no magazines, or even a snippet of the sports page. So he took to digging in the trash...for reading material. He was desperate, bored- tuna salad made too blandly could only be savored by reading material- taking one's mind off not enough mustard and too much mayo. His dumpster dive produced a Sunday edition of the Bangor Daily News- and even it was only a segment- the sappy kind that women read or sissy boys get all emotional over. An AP article caught his eye because of the gardening byline- he loved to garden. The tuna salad experience was looking up. He read and ate...finished up his lunch and threw the BDN back into the bin. And worked his way through till the end of his day- punched the time clock and headed home. That's it. End of story?! 

Man goes to work, has tuna salad for lunch, reads sissy segment in paper only because there was nothing else more he-man like to entertain him, tosses paper into garbage and finishes out his day.

Except- something he had read in that article tugged at him as he pulled into his driveway, some 20 odd miles away from his work place. Something weird, mysterious- so alluring, he turned his Toyota around and drove back, willingly- to the place of hard work for some 30 plus years- parked his truck, nodded to the guard (who probably thought it was pretty odd to see the man back at work after only clocking out some 40 minutes ago...) made a beeline (well, maybe not a beeline- more like a pilgrimage...OK, this part I'm trying to make sound more interesting) for the lunch room. To go dumpster diving again. Only- this time, there was no tuna salad, no need for passing the time with a good read...this time- the need was- truly, he didn't know. He only knew that something made him silly enough to waste time and a gallon of gas. So- for the second time that day, the man dug through the trash- this time more excited, more deliberate, more...nuts.

The dumpster dive, the tuna salad, the story... for whatever reasons, these strange combinations drove the man right out of his mind...and into his heart. He picked up a pen and paper and wrote to the subject of the story on gardening...just to say hello. Just to say I'm thinking about you, just to say-

"I've never done anything like this, I hope you don't think I'm odd- I just felt compelled to write to you and tell you I think you're a beautiful person. I just wanted to get in touch, hoped it would mean something to you, to let you know you should keep doing what you're doing..."

That's what Big Fish do...out of the ordinary, extraordinarily kind, wondrous things. They send an envelope to the Community Center in the local nearest little town, with a note explaining-" Please put this lady's address on this envelope if you would, and forward it to her. I'm from Maine and just needed to get this message to her. Thanks."

As of September 2007, this Mainiac and I have been pen pals. He didn't even own a computer or cell phone- he preferred going to the ocean, gardening , walking in the woods, listening to the radio. The Radio!!! I have since transformed him just a little bit- now there's a CD player, a computer (he hates it), and he did own a cell phone for a little while, but chucked it somewhere, probably into the deep Atlantic off some rocky shore.

He flew out here last March...and the rest, as they say- is history. He now commutes infrequently, meeting folks from all over the globe in his travels. He doesn't know a stranger, gives his seat up in busy airports to little old ladies and women with children. Tips his hat, and says stuff like-"Hey Bud!" and "Wat an Aushol!" and "Deah-could I have a drink of watah?" On his first ever trip here, he was a bit nervous- so the guy next to him, naturally charmed I'm sure- gave him a red key pass. (Apparently, there are secret little wonderful club rooms in certain airports where, with one of these keys- you get treated like Mick Jagger.) And now the guy(from Seattle) visits Maine to see the Big Fish and they've formed a friendship. Every time my BF flies, he meets, or better word- connects to other folks through his friendly, Maine-bear hug-like charm.

(So many times I get- "Why'd you come to Maine?!!  How did you meet The Big Fish?"...well, this story is how and partially why.

 And, our story continues...I am now a Mrs. Big Fish as of 12/21/12 and could never have conceived of this particular happiness.  We grow together.)

ebb and flow

Schoodic Point~Maine

"Only when the tide goes out do you discover who's been swimming naked."

Warren Buffett

"You must know that you can swim through every change of tide."

Yogi

“We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of time and resist in terror- its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible in life, as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom.”  

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Fifty One

Wonder is my religion and love is the only answer to most of the questions.

 There are more questions than answers.

 Question answers.

Think for your self and you'll always have the answer to your own problems.

Thinking for your self is extremely difficult made especially more so if you're overtly concerned of what others think of you.

Spontaneously letting go in dance, laughter,  blowing milkweed seeds, trudging through the woods hoping to encounter some unknown, going left instead of right- is truly living.

Hugging someone when all others seem repelled by their extreme vulnerability is kindness, is compassion.

Express your self, it's what you're here for.  With pen or brush, camera or sewing needle, wood or plant material- build it, create it.  Should you enjoy this, I promise at the end of your work- the piece will speak to you of you.  And you will know it and smile, without a care if anyone else gets it.

I am weird.  I have always been weird.  I hope I continue to be weird.  Being weird is a big way to live,  I cannot live marginally...I tried, but I couldn't do it.

I started writing a blog in 2007, I don't know why.  Contrary to popular belief, I hardly know anything- I hope that people will turn to the outdoors for wisdom.

You cannot know just how truly resilient and strong you are until you test your self.  TV, internet, newspapers test your patience not your resolve- get out and move something, anything- just go.

Few books have affected me since my son died like John O'Donohue's writings...his words bring peace of a different sort and I cannot say for sure just what sort, I only know there is recognition for me in his writing- I owe him the same effort so that others might feel comforted too.

It is true when something is lovingly created, you can feel it, taste it- see it.  Not so when something is manufactured to be "natural", not even close.

Cross country skiing in a silent pace is a lovely experience- hearing only your own breath, your dog's breath, the  muffled poke and pop in the snow of the poles and the gentle gliding swish of the skis upon a white fluffed insulated earth.

I love the outdoors every day- more...and am always elated to find that is ever true with each passing experience.

I find I say "I don't know..."  more often than I ever did.

My favorite color is still green, green, green!!!!

I love homemade wool socks and mittens, and cherish each pair I have.

I have a little statue by my laptop, an auction find "The Thinker"...just looking at him studying the unknown with his hand upon his chin reminds me to assume nothing and yes, here we go again- ask questions! (This is especially helpful when using the internet...data overload makes one dumb!)

Above the desk is a bulletin board where all things interesting to me, have been messily saved- like words from a newspaper stated in a particular way-"Beau tugs at heartstrings from a distance.", or tea bag  encouragement- "You must live for something higher, bigger and better than you." or "You must know that you can swim through every change of tide." (That's a really good one...if you know that, you know all you need to know.)

I still love my Levis!

Forgiving is harder than giving birth, getting stitches, breaking a bone, getting smacked- it's a real zinger to all stations of your psyche because at issue is trust.  Once trust has been abused, it's really hard to forget that and you shouldn't...forgiving is one of those gentle strength issues, when one can master that balance, one can learn to forgive.  But do remember where the infliction came from, that is being aware and being aware saves trust before it is completely lost.

I have learned not to waste my time on folks who are mean spirited.  That's a deep meanness and it serves no purpose trying to reach them- they are lost and like being so.(But it doesn't hurt to check in every now and again...)

I used to think if you smiled at the world, it would smile back at you.  I don't find that to be so true anymore although it used to be more common.

I told my Dad once that I do gather information from others much brighter than me, but in the end- I use all that information and make my own decision regardless of another's belief.  Dad had said I would have to be careful with that kind of thinking since I was a girl. Yep.  Us girls can't be trusted to think our own thoughts and act accordingly....HA! (This was a loooong time ago, he might have changed his tune a bit...)

The older you get, the more you lose- friends, family, time.  It's hard to reconcile one's feelings towards losing what once was so commonplace to you, what was once so comforting.

I find something to be grateful for every day.  I suppose ten years ago I might have said "tried", but it is so- one can find something to be grateful for every single day.  On your pillow, say the thing or things that brought unexpected joy that day...your dreams that follow will be rich in meaning.

I pray every day for all.  Love, joy, peace and beauty to bless each and every one of us.  I do not forget to pray...I hope some day we will know what we pray for.

In the garden, if one looks deep enough- is an answer to any life question.  See how a seed germinates in the cold dark, soil.  See the little plant struggle to survive as it finds itself growing in the shadow of a too tall sunflower.  Watch the way it turns toward the source of light from which it came, spindling, stretching bending and sometimes simply going to seed so that it's offspring might outgrow the shadows.

This saying is true- love isn't love until you give it away.

I used to think "so and so" didn't love me because they didn't say so...I learned to look for their love instead of waiting for an announcement that most probably would never come.  People often show what they fear to say, and that is good enough for me.

I still love the Ozark Mountain Daredevils.  Their music and lyrics are a rare mix of youth, delight, nature, wisdom and laughter...they have been my favorite band since 1977.

I think consumerism is man's way of inadequate living.  He knows something is missing but instead of  feeling, dreaming, becoming...he buys his way towards a fulfillment of stuff.  And realizes some day- how empty he still is.

I feel there is a source of all life in all creation, the clouds do form to inform us- the stars mark the darkness with an eternal light source, the sun brightens more than the shadows, the moon guides the tide and forces change in us too.  There is not a flower that blooms without a message of hope.

 When a child loses their way, we should be there to guide- not to condemn.

We should not provide for the capable, it renders them incapable.  There are far too many folks with two good hands out and we fill them.  Why should they try and test their own capabilities when we max out our own in order to "help" them?

I have been preaching sustainable living long before it was cool and trendy.  My children used to be embarrassed by their "hippy" mom.  Now- they think hippy mom was on to something.

Used to be the Hippie couldn't be trusted and the government could be.  Now, it's the other way around...thank goodness for old hippies.

It's time people quit listening to donkeys and elephants and started listening to each other- farmers in particular.  And women.  But most definitely, themselves.


So much of what I have learned has come after many, many too many trials and errors...I have no regrets* with the exception of hurting someone other than myself, for that I am deeply sorry and hope my actions speak of my sincere regard for changing what I am sorry for.  Too many people go on making mistakes in life that affect everyone around them while they come out smelling like a rose.  If you make a mistake and there are a hundred people in line paying for that mistake while you go on unscathed, then perhaps it is not love in your heart but something else.  One should feel shame if others pay for your mistakes.  If you feel no shame, you will continue to hurt the ones you  love, over and over.  I think feeling shame and feeling guilt are two separate things.  Guilt comes from another making you aware and perhaps, then you'll change- this is the way of the world and not the right way as far as I'm concerned, guilt is a fear tactic and is used like a weapon- keeping everyone in line yet out of love's reach.  Shame is something deeply felt by the offender and makes one want to change for the sake of all concerned because love is at the helm and desires more love.

Am I wiser?  In many ways, yes.  In other ways, no... perhaps when I am 99, I will still be wondering.

(*Selling my old 1972 gangrene Ford Pickup truck.  I regret this every day.)

A New and Now Time

Heck if I know...might have to spend the rest of my life wondering.  To wonder, to ask questions as to the why and the how, scratching my head a bit and then finally go on with the love of living.  Good as answer as any, I suppose.

I know it's been awhile since I've been on here.  Who needs to write a blog anyway?  Similar question to the photo above.  Heck if I know, I just do.  It helps in some ways not to think too much, because I am riddled and rifled with that process.  Writing is like a spitting it out, exercising the brain, squeezing my mind muscle that produces an energy that builds thoughts into words and out...splerrrrt!  Here it is.  Oh my.  It's been too long since I have written, so a spittoon may be in order here.  

Looking back over the last year, much had caught up with me.  Or, had weighed me down, I'm not sure- feels the same either way.  I got too far away from me and my particular spark and tried to light the way for so many others...exhausting.  See, I can't do that. See, that's not what this True Calling is about.  Our true calling is to ourselves, to what lies within us.  And it is here, now and only here, now.  Not there- not back.  Right here, right now is the truest calling I know.  And I'm it.  Rather- I'm in it, up to my eyeballs and seeing what it's like to truly see things as they are.

On the wall, a clock is ticking.  I don't care much to mark time on days like this, I just like to hear that sound.    Behind me the blower of the fan on the woodstove whirs on and on, encouraging the orange flame to glow and heat the place up;  this is sure a peaceful way to start a day.  I've already got a pot of soup going in the crockpot.  Swiss Chard, Italian Sausage, homemade Turkey Broth, garlic from the garden (oh I hope my supply holds out...!)

The beginnings of a good day.  A new and now time.  Every moment.  Thanks for visiting,

Take care-

the mask

 Smiling, bubbly-

she says,

"How are you,

you working yet?"

"No"

I say-

"Not Yet."

(Do you really want to know how I am?  I'm settling an estate, and taking care of several broken hearts, you know, since my son passed. Work?  Hell, I just recently started breathing and walking at the same time again.)

"Are you feeling better now?"

and I respond,

"Oh yes, much better, thank you."

(I don't know how to reply to you, if I tell you how I really feel, you shrink away, so I'll wear the mask that makes you most comfortable, we will not speak of death.)

"You must have been so proud of him, serving his country, at least he made it home alive."

and I squeak,

"Oh, I am proud, and yes, what joy we shared!"

(How trivial you make it sound, like him coming home was the most I should expect, I expected- dreamed of his future, what might have been, I was most proud of him for believing in himself,

his mark was not fully cast on this world.)

"You know", she says "God always opens a window when he closes a door."

"Yes, I know that, thank you."

I seethe.

(Lady, stand here in my shoes, look for windows, they must be covered in the thickest of veils, because all I see is he's gone.)

Finally, she offers-

"Well, take care, call me if you need anything, and smile honey, it's not the end of the world!"

Weakly I reply,

"Thank you for your concern."

(I don't know your number, shall I look in the book and call you when I'm so desperate for him that I could just melt away? Not the end of the world? Maybe not for you, but my world ended when his death collided with my life, oh how I wish it were the other way around.)

For They Existed

"And when great souls die, 

after a period peace blooms, 

slowly and always 

irregularly. Spaces fill 

with a kind of 

soothing electric vibration. 

Our senses, restored, never 

to be the same, whisper to us. 

They existed. They existed. 

We can be. Be and be 

better. For they existed.” 

― Maya Angelou

5:10 In the Deep A.M

The thoughts that occupy my mind these days are mainly on seeds, growing, transplanting and mowing.  There seems to be little to no time for any sort of non-productive recreation, the time to plant is now and seedlings- much like infants, demand full care and attention.  Thankfully, I arise very early.  My coffee break begins then around 5:10 in the deep A.M, just as the sun peeks over the Pocomoonshine knoll.  I travel to a spot in the yard where I might sit in the finest first sunspot, out by the chicken coop- near the Wysteria yet nearer to the Oak tree.  It is so early that the owl in the west woods still calls and the chickens barely whisper as they must hear too, an early warning of mealtime talk from a great predator’s beak to her babes-

“We are not only nocturnal, little ones.  In this first luster of light, many new and bright young things wander out into the sunrise glow and welcome the new day with songs that announce their position.  Breakfast time chicks, I’ll be back soon…”

The old hens stay put, but the young carefree rooster flies up to crow on a fence post…just like his brothers did and I can’t help but wonder if he wonders where did they go?  One morning, they were here too- the next, POOF- out of the thin air something plucked them up in mid-crow.  This farm does not much need a rooster so if he crows and goes,  I’ll heed to nature’s way and not make a big deal out of it. Although that fine cocksure Bantam is sure a welcome sight with his glistening black long tail feathers and white though dappled plumage.  Truly, I would hate to seem him go but what can you do when there are hungry babies in the woods with a sharp-eyed mama owl always on the prowl, vigilantly feeding her young?

Sip my coffee, listen to the birds- breathe deep and long and never shallow for the work of the day waits patiently as a keen eyed owl and can overwhelm just as quick as her swooping nature- one must be fit mentally, physically and perhaps most importantly to this wide eyed grower- spiritually attuned here by this light, this new day sun to take in each grateful breath and exhale just as thankfully for the opportunity to work with the earth. 

I am one year older- true, but my back is stronger and holds up better or perhaps I move slower and surer- maybe it’s the fluid way I work into the day, no longer rushing head on in but first, adjusting my heart to the love of the doing.  Every day I wonder still…and am filled with just being.

 Here…now.

Take care-

Fly

It's been far too long, really.  I have so little time to keep in touch this way and I'm not so sure it matters to so many but I do know it matters a bit to one young lady, so- I'll keep it going.

~Bleeding Heart~

  I can get along with just about anybody;  I really like people and truly it could be said that I love most people but don't always like their behavior.  Just about everyone I meet gets met with a smile, no matter even if there's a ten foot tall elephant balancing on one of my toes- I smile alot these days and it certainly is always a joy to meet someone new, so- SMILE.
There's a fly in the ointment in certain social obligations I have made.  A real negative fly.  In the ointment.  A cantankerous, venomous fly in the salve.  No one smiles at this fly.  I think secretly everyone fears this little fly... with the exception of me.  I can see most plain this little fly is about the fear-fullest being around and for that reason, gets stuck in the ointment and goes around scaring the bejeebers out of people.  If we would call the sky blue, this fly would buzz that it's purple and if we all weren't so idiotic- we would see that for ourselves.  I'd like to swat this little fly.  Hard.  I can't help but wonder if that's what is needed or even wanted. This fly likes to bully people too.  Did I say how much I'd like to swat this fly?  But I'm not real sure what purpose that would serve.  Everyone might feel a little better and I would certainly enjoy it- but what about that little fly?!  What would it mean to it to be swatted?  This little fly appears to be alone, I mean reallllllly alone.  No friends, no chums or confidants...I know, it's not my problem.  But it is.  This fly is getting a little long in the tooth, should know better by now on how to win friends and influence people- but it's always relied on buzzing meanly and rudely.   Just in case you are wondering, I have talked with this fly on a one to one level and there was no buzzing, just pure sweet conversation- but the minute the fly gets in a group setting, off it flies into everyone's eyes and hair and bzzzewt, into the ointment.

Not much of a lesson, I haven't one solution.  Not one.  I do not understand this behavior.  I do not understand at all.  I do not like leadership roles, it makes one narrow minded.  Meaning- even though I know some rather sharp words, I cannot utter them.  Even though I'd like to help this bug right out the door and don't never come back, I cannot escort anyone out or in.  My role is mediator.  My ears are all hearing.  My eyes must look but not too close.  My hands can shake in greeting but not in an educational manner-"Lookee here you, that's enough of your crap.  A little less negative talk and alot more positive action or fly the you-know-what-off!"

Sigh....

It's a dilemma for sure.  I wish I was in my seedshack, dealing with little seeds and dirt in those predicaments when flies fall in the ointment.  I simply was not cut out to be in a leadership role and did not ask to be put here.  I'm a helluva navigator when the going gets tough but this isn't such a tough time, although it is a tense time and it seems that everyone is looking to me to make the right move.  Well, I just did a little.  I am discussing it.  With you, whoever, wherever you are because surely someone else has been in my uncomfortable shoes and walked away straighter and a bit humbler when all was said and done and the damn fly was dislocated.  From the ointment.  Solutions?!


Take care-

slushy, mushy love...

It's cryin' time again, as the old song goes.  The filling station will more than likely be known as the dripping station if the price of gas increases much more.  With that in mind, I'll share a laugh or two- get your mind off the serious and onto the absurd.  Wait...no, we've had enough as that as well...hmmmmm.  How about onto the medicine of laughter?!

The Fish and I (don't have much time this morning so, we'll go with shortened names to protect the hurried...)

went to town yesterday.  He needed bird house makings and I needed to shop for a birthday present.  I suggested the man take me to lunch.  Appalled he was-  Sunday is the big day for the big meal...WITH dessert.  Never mind him- Chinese food seemed about right so we headed that a way.  One look at the parking lot and he said "they're packed, let's not go there."  I readjusted his chronic-crowd-phobia-attitude and pointed to a much available parking space.  This did not sit well with Big.

The man slammed some food on a plate from the available smorgasbord while I dithered here and dallied there, as I was fixing to find our seat I noticed a seemingly confused white headed stranger to my right.  I smiled at her, she sweetly smiled back.  "I do not know where I am supposed to be..." she said just as natural as if I were the tour guide for a cruise ship.  I surmised that miss sunshine probably got out as about as often as I did and got lost dallying and dithering too.  "Did you come with someone?"  "Yes", she said- "my husband."  "Oh, OK...what does he look like?"  She was so sweet, even when she looked as though she might flick my head with her fork.  "He's a man." 

 "Gotcha..." 

 I've been around seniors enough to know when Sometimers or Alzheimers has a person in it's sights.  I looked around the restaurant, hoping that I might help and not cause her any alarm or embarrassment.  I spied a single gentleman, 80ish..."Oh look, is that him?!"  She looked the way of my finger pointing and again met my gaze with the fork flicking attitude of a woman who was getting mighty tired of someone as dull and ignorant as me.

She let out a long sigh and proclaimed loudly for all the sweet and sour crowd to hear-

"No, my husband has hair!"

Surely there's a special place in heaven for people like me who only try to shield others from adversity in buffet lines.  My face turned red, a soon to be hot flash took notice and flared right then.  All eyes were on me while the white haired angel glared and thrust her fork in the air ready to jab when suddenly out of the corner of my eye in booth 22, I saw an old hairy man.

"Look!  Is that him?  He has hair and a beard and looks to be your age and...."

"Well, thank you honey." 

 And just like that, she walked away, leaving me with a plate half full at a buffet.  Such is life...

Take care-

(Need another laugh this morning since you're probably catching on to the fact that everything other than locally produced items now too have mighty hard to swallow fuel surcharges attached to the price?  Well then go here, giggle a little and 

snort through your tears...)

The Truth About Squirrels

morning offering

Here comes the sun...

Brrrr....so cold in here, stumble down the steps bleary eyed-
Feel for the light switch, fingers numb- ahhhh, wait...  Here comes the sun
such a delicate glow 

Or is the glow from the inside fearlessly showing itself in this gentle light...?

Granny's rag balls, now high and blissful art in shine, in shadow, in morning.

Out my back door- see how the feathering white finery settles;
visible for just this occasion... for you Mom.

Too soon, long gone- beauty, magic in moments...
take care-

current

Often in the evenings, I go outside to the woodshed to fetch a few logs for the fire.  The Big Fish wonders why I don't stock the rack inside or allow him to do so, obviously this would make keeping the fire roaring an easier venture.  Well, I've been doing alot of figuring on that kind of thing...easier, convenient.  Seems to me, the more convenient this modern life gets, the less I see or take notice of;  the less I see or take notice of then becomes backdrops, secondary or somewhat invisible...as do any current thoughts.

I am misguided then by the newspaper or the Facebook, and too oftentimes in the winter- television.  The news-feed clouds the future with grave concerns, the past that deserves a look in hindsight becomes more of a focal point and once again, I lose sight of the moon.  Of the stars.  The magnificent sun and the tiny sparrows at my feeders.

So I'll keep my log racks empty but the woodshed full.  I'll not fill the hopper with birdseed just so I can become inconvenienced by dragging out the forty pound bag of sunflower seeds once again in the frosty, frigid mornings- even if it means tromping through iced paved snow banks in my jammies.  My backstepping kind of discipline is probably not gonna fly with the experts- but, this sort of habit keeps me sane and thankful- otherwise, I'd forget to look for the wondrous, the fragile and the current...

I will wait on the moon then, and read the stars...I'm not certain what they say, but all in all- the verse up there is current and freely open to interpretation.  I think they say, as best as I can tell- shine on and on...

If. And. Then.

Loyalty

If:

 Proverbs are short sentences drawn from long experiences. Cervantes

And:

The best substitute for brains is silence. Anon.

Then:

May my pictures not speak a thousand words but heal a million wounds. 

The clouds reaction.

What Alice found there....bread and butterfly.

Bicycle petal.

I have entered the Maine Photography Show for the last three years, limited to only 3 submissions in any category- I decided to submit some runner ups from the Abstract category...I had a very hard time choosing.  Wish me well, it surely would be a feather in my cap to even place- the competition is extraordinary.

Thank you T.M, a photography blog it is...

Take care-

I will not let you go

  It is the sweetest things in life that float on by like feathers and we can only hold them for a moment, their softness reveals our heart to us.    It is the sorrows of life that burrow deeper, cutting and shredding until their harshness instructs the soul. 

Dear Sorrows of Life,

  For the longest time, I could not figure out why I would hold on to your prickliness, your razor like hurt.  Why your acid words would be allowed to echo in my heart, why such dark memories I'd let enter in to some new found light now.  Such struggles I have allowed and wrestled with;  there are still  shadows presently in  life that deserve no place within my bright circle-  that sorely have fashioned a singular prison with no space for light and yet, I will leave my own sanctuary, entering that cell even if I have to stand upright against a cold wall balancing on a single toe like an awkward ballerina because Sorrow, you have something I need.

 Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks  quoted a writing on suffering and tears welled up in my eyes as I listened  to The Pursuit and Practice of Happiness..."   per the On Being Blog (American Public Media).   Profoundly understanding, I felt I should write to you Sorrow on these new fresh days of 2012.  Another year of your lessons are welcomed, I sincerely hope you will allow my continuing correspondence and holding on because..I will not let you go until you bless me.

Take care-

Back To The Circle

With growing interest in growing one's own food, I'll share a bit of my second year on New England soil.  From the Midwest I came with little remnants left of my former farm.  I felt shame in uprooting plants and didn't want seeds tainted with whatever might have been floating around the fields bordering my well missed old farm possibly tainting my new pristine environment here.  And so, I pretty much started from scratch...again.

With that mindset, why not follow through then, in all ways in my it's-a-new-day life? Starting from scratch isn't truly the beginning of a beginning when you're just this side of 50, no- it's more like taking life as a huge compost pile and using the best of the steaming hot mess you're left with.

Kale and garlic scapes, lovely neighbors.

This year, the Big Fish and I started our whole garden from seed, with the exception of Kale seedlings from a local organic grower as the slugs and deer combined devoured my tiny starts again and again.  And some local, though with deep regrets as the man brought these suspect seedlings home- canning cukes.  If I don't give the man a little leeway in the garden, his pride and feelings seem to get a little sore, so of course- comprises were made.  The Big Fish never thinks I plant enough cucumbers, (although I must have set out close to 40 plants) well, not enough to thoroughly wet his appetite for pickles.  I wonder if I would have entered into this relationship so heavily if I had only known of his pickle obsession?  Too late now, I'm in deep with canners, ball jars and a highly sought after prized recipe for Russian Bear pickles with a flavor such as I had never encountered before- sweet, spicy and fruity.  If it were up to him, I suppose several thousand jars of these pickles would be as good as money in the bank, trouble is- he'd never let anyone else withdraw.  He is by far one of the most giving guys I know, except when it comes to pickles...a chink in the armor, my prince has fallen from grace, he is seriously deeply pickled.
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Winter rations

Oh there I go again, off the subject...I intended to write this post as a welcome to new and old lovers of food and gardening;  of nostalgic stuff with a touch of sentimental craziness.  When you start a new venture from scratch or leftovers- in the beginning,  it is exciting!  My seed shack in the hoopcoop started just this way- spruced up and everything in it's place.  Labels- got it.  Water source- got it.  Organized set up with stereo to boot- got it.  Photo albums full of used seed packs, with hand written linear notes included! Got it!  It looked really swell and I sure enjoyed my late winter days out there with the seeds and smells of compost mixed with unhibernating dirt;  a soily earth perfume wafted all around and kept me romantically in tune with my surroundings.  (Including my chicken and guinea neighbors as they shared  the next compartment over in a Florida like winter home- their music of soft clucks and scratching was as fine as any melody.)

March lingered a little longer than need be, April sure as heck didn't kick up her heels hardly at all, but May whispered first with Raven's call, when I hear and see more of those big birds- to me, they are the harbinger of Spring. ( A well written observation of a Raven's nature Ravens In Winter- I highly recommend.) I could go into a whole interesting to me tirade on my neighboring Ravens, but I won't...yet.  Like the Ravens and every other bird, lizard and bug around this farm- I got down to the business of Spring. Earnestly and gleefully, composing the garden seed by seed and row by row.  Every day, something else half haphazardly compiled in the seed-shack while little transplants exited out into the protected cool air of a hardening off room and then finally out into the great big world of wonder.

Disarray in the seed-shack.

Chaos consumed the formerly tidy seed-shack, and like life- there is now little order to be found in it.  My winter gardening plans include a much needed clearing of that chaos, I plan to spend many a hard winter day occupying that room, trying to make some sense again of the clutter.

Gardening, growing your own food is a circle, not semi or partial-  but full.  It takes you through all seasons if you are truly sincere in your occupation of it.  In my experience, it is best to not become dismayed by all the troubling chaos of any aspect of life.  In the fullness of time it takes to tend to any endeavor- the moment will come and it will feel and be right, you will recognize it if you but learn to trust your self and your surroundings.

 I always come back to the circle, not where it started or ended- that is invisible as it should be;  I come to the center and try to see it all.  It was a good year I can clearly see now;  of trying new things, experimenting with new ideas and expanding old ones.  That my friends, is what growing anything- is all about.  It's a well thought out plan turned upside down by the experience of actually doing it.  Sometimes you trust your self and other times you simply just have to trust the moment and work with it as best you can with your two good hands and brain muscle. Two quotes I am left with and may be worth pondering to others-

Weather plays havoc with organized plans, but loosely made ones stand to reason with a stormy day.

Leaps of faith are not reasonable or well planned after all- their opportunities often come unannounced.  I don't think you can be too prepared, but it helps to be open and ready to rise to the occasion.  

Little chick lifts off towards some high oats.

An essay of a post by golly, I need to write more often...see you then.  Take care-

From Seed, To Field, To Harvest, To Plate

I'll be getting back to the farming way of life in reporting here as so many are seeking new ways to live in a sustainable manner.
The Big Fish and I have created 13 new raised beds, made out of local hemlock.  Last year's cold, wet growing season affected the yields negatively, so we decided if we can't control the weather perhaps we can at least try to somewhat control the growing environment.

My back, neck and shoulders cry out in pain from yesterday's shoveling of manure, and don't it feel good!  My no till method does not appeal to my Big Fish, so these raised beds helped us reach a compromise there...less weeding, no need to till and hopefully greater bounties of garden produce will soon offset the price of lumber used to create the beds.

I am planting all my garlic in raised beds as a local homesteader wowed me with his crop and abundance of the biggest, healthiest cloves I have ever laid eyes on.  Incidentally, he has provided me with 30 plus year old strain from Maine garlic bulbs.  I hope I do him and the garlic proud.  He is a younger grower with his partner, I had stumbled upon their place on one of my many meandering drives.  One day I decided to invade his privacy by stopping by and picking his brain- mainly due to the interesting welded sculpture out front of his raised bed gardens.  A farmer who creates art out of cast aways?  I had to acknowledge my own history of rusty tree hanging Pterodactyls I had made out of auction finds, unable to believe there wasn't still some useful life in old farm tools!  The BF and I pulled right in and were instantly welcomed.

Farmers, gardeners are like that; friendly, open and all about helping another learn something or two about their operations that might lend a hand to your own.  I discovered this kindly cooperation a few years back when attending classes through U of I Farm Beginnings classes.  Through an internship I found many experienced  farmers who were more than happy to share their knowledge and experience if one would help out occasionally with onion planting and other muddy jobs that require physical labor.  I learned along time ago from my Dad,

"if you want to gain something, you must give something in return." 

 Pretty simple logic, tried and true- and a way of life for many years in rural communities.  I'm happy to see that many are returning to sustainability, golden rules and just plain common sense;  you may not be able to see much of that in newspapers, financial institutions, Wall Street, television or what Hollywood puts out- but one can find it in Countryside, a magazine/journal written mostly by people living off the land life.  I subscribe to this magazine as it hits close to home- living, working and sharing experience of one's own way.  Also- talk to your food growers at the farmer's market you attend.  You'll be amazed at the knowledge found there and much of it free for the asking- recipes, growing techniques, seed purity and story.  If you can't ask your grower why, when, where and how, then you've missed an opportunity in learning something truly worth pondering.  From seed, to field, to harvest, to plate- the food we eat has it's origins and your food provider can and should supply that knowledge.  That's as about as honest and common sense as it gets, most difficult these days to find such opinions unless one looks to the earth and to those who coax life from it- giving back more than they take.
Take care-

Pay Dearly

love fiercely

The colors are still brilliant.  The stars overhead are bright, the sun shined today and left a pink reminder at day's end that everything will be alright.  But...my sweet dear Grandma passed yesterday and even though her life was long and sometimes good, I don't quite know where to put my heart.  She's been with me since the day I was born.  She, the eagle in human form would die, of course- we all do.  But it was her dying, her slow limbo like dance between here and there that really got me.  I found myself praying that she'd just go, so she wouldn't suffer and yet- did she or do I?  It's awful hard to let people go, and it's even harder to feel it.  I think I'm fighting the feeling, I'm on here tonight with dinner dishes still stacked in the sink.  Apple sauce waiting to be finished, laundry and travel arrangements, a scanner that won't scan the most beautiful pic I could find of her for the obituary because the printer is shy of one cartridge which I don't even need- I just want to scan.  Dammit.

I will say that I miss her, will miss her even more- will miss that one voice of wisdom that I could count on.  That one wobbly way of standing as she did.  Her voice, her handwriting even...I pulled out an old card, looking for that elusive photo and her handwriting was on it.  Precise.  Upright and as plain as it gets and yet, the quality of the way she signed her name will never be again.  I am lost without my grandma, I haven't held her hand in so many years and yet right now, if only she could take mine and steer a bit, well...my mind seems flooded with images.  All the stories of all the moments ever in my life, included her.  I wish for the world then, a grandma like that.  One who never pretended to know all the answers, one who often encouraged me to simply forget and go on.  One who never hardly ever cried but when she did, it broke your heart into a million little pieces that could not be put back together until she gathered herself up and went on.  She knew that, could see that so she always held together...for us.
I'm an orphan.  A forty nine year old orphan and I want my Mocko...she'd just cluck at me.  Roll those brown piercing eyes and run that forget it line by me again.  She'd probably offer me candy, a pink peppermint tablet or a chocolate star.  She wouldn't have much to say, she always just was...I could count on her just was.  And now she just was was...sounds like a pity party going on here.  Dammit.

Tell me grown up orphans left to fend for yourself, do you feel this way- did you feel this way at a later age and thought you'd handle it better?  For gosh sakes, she was ninety something- she couldn't live forever.  A part of me, the innocent dot of me- very well thought she could.  I guess I have to convince myself that tomorrow I'll rally and all will be well.  That grandma flew to where grandma's fly and gather up all the lost loved ones left before...and I'll think of her smiling and maybe she stands again tall and straight, voluptuous and lovely, kicking up her heels in a hell bent for heaven polka.  Oh I hope so,  I hope she joined with a certain young man that I'll miss forever and said-

"She needs us now, sure hope she settles down enough that we might get through in some pink way..."

Maybe, oh maybe that was her smile in the sunset.  And maybe I won't cry anymore and be so damn bitchy.  Maybe I'll quit licking my wounds and go out and greet the world again.  I've been avoiding it and it doesn't stop you know, not for me or you or Grandma Mocko's passing.
It should though, it really should.  She was something and this world hardly knew her, that's the saddest part of all.  Folks like her, plain and hardworking, soft spoken and private, never meddling yet always ready to steady you.  She knew her mettle but she never boasted about the fact that she could kick any body's butt that needed it and she would if it would help them, otherwise- she didn't trouble.  Humble and proud in an old lady way.  Wore Mocha Red lipstick every day that I knew her...looked this side of seventy and still blushed.
Surrounded herself with things I thought, but those things I see now- were gifts bestowed on a good lady who never wanted for much and rarely purchased a thing for herself except the occasional cookie.
Off she goes then, out of sight.  And I can only reach her now, backwards through thought and memories.

I'll tell you finally then, this.  It doesn't matter how old or young they are when they die, they're just as gone and they take a whole lot of you with them; it empties places in you that will remain so unless you fill them again with the stuff that shaped you.  And that's the hardest part because those who love fiercely give it freely and over fill us.  There's always more and you never even once had to ask for it- you see that clearly the unclearer they get.  Best I can do is be like that to those I love, fill them up overflowing- like she did.
She wasn't a praying woman.  She just accepted everything, pure faith.
Damn.   I wished I would have asked her about that.

Recognition

Good morning, and only one week between posts- Me?  Somewhat organized?  I'm really not...although I do trust my internal orneriness, stamina and damned stubbornness in getting done what needs to be done.  Lists would be easier, I do keep those but they're pretty jumbled up too.  I get hard to live with when I cross things off the list, and the Big Fish just hums as he is apt to do when he knows it's far better to hum than to cross my pluckiness.  Imagine a broody hen with menopause... afraid of nothing!  Bound and determined!  Incorruptible!  Emblazoned!...

... as the leaves dripping with color that tastes like wine to the eyes!  Vivid is the ending of the day when the full moon shines her face upon the sun's last efforts-  Does she long to share the sky with the sun, a romantic time for two to hold sway there in the last and full light adorned below by rapturous color?  And I wonder more and said out loud on a rocky romantic road-trip with the fella,

"I understand the logic behind the science of leaves falling, season's changing, the temperature fluctuating and the sun and moon phases...but I do not understand, why such beauty that goes along with it?  I mean, what would the point be?  As long as those seasons change and unfold, change and unfold- what could possibly be the logic behind making it more?!

Why not garble it all up in a cement mixer, like man does when he lays a foundation- rocks and dust, water and motion, grey is the outcome and yet, there lies a strong foundation after it dries...
But I must question that logic further when I wonder- what if love was part of that man made mixture?  Would the rocks not be then, the most beautiful to be found?  Would the dust blend beautifully with but never totally saturating the rocks?  And wouldn't that foundation touch more people as they strolled by it,  I mean really touch them in such a way that would bring about a harmony of hearts, echoing each others joy at such a marvelous sight?!

And I can't help but wonder then, if each would recognize in the other a similar spark of adoration for what is created with love?...."

"Take the picture...." he hums.

And so I do.

Shuttering at all the Beauty

Leaf Laden Path

All along the roadside, trees are covered in jewels.  Again I find myself thinking about the old year, the droughts and rain, the sunny days too few- but all resurrects itself in the colors that greet me at every bend.  Maine- Washington County to get specific, is one of the most wondrous places I've ever seen and I get to live here.  I had to drive to Addison for a part time job testing,but even in the rain- how could I be testy?  So what if I'm following an inconsistent moving log truck or a car with across-the-river-license-plates that speeds then pokes, speeds then pokes- these colors are to die slowly for.  Even in the rain, an oil slick upon my windshield- how does any of the little miseries compare, how can any sorrow stay when what I'm seeing still cannot fully be absorbed- fall in all it's splendor, even right out my back door?

Dress rehearsal for the peak season...

I hope the sun shines as it will or won't on Thursday, I'll take my Canon and shoot; shuttering at all the beauty.  My oh my, I wonder if I'll cry should I come upon a Moose?  Only if he steps quicker than I can brake, otherwise- even a silhouette as big as a barn door is welcome.  In fall, in Maine- is a glad time.  Happy or sad, bumbling to boot- it won't matter, I haven't got a care when the moon is hanging and the pantry is almost full of my garden's goodness.  You can frown at me, sigh long and hard, merrily I'll swap smiles with you and wonder out loud, do you see it too?  The Autumn way, the roadside paved with the golden rush of all the fallen.  Mother, please take them in- the leaves so full of rich blood red with deep bright veins of the last of the greens for the year.  It is enough then, to simply see and be ever so grateful for valuable sunshine, worthless rain and the glow- the golden gracious glow!

Mama Moose beautifully drab next to the fallen 

I aim to bring you plenty more color in the days to come...
Take care-