Fear

Early on, my life was framed in hyper-vigilance and matted with a fat border of fear. The glass covering was so thick you could hardly see the picture underneath. Still, I worried it might shatter if some foreign, unpredictable object or action came in contact at just the wrong/right time, in just the wrong/right way.

I was terrified of doing the "wrong" things, of saying the "wrong" things, and ultimately, being the "wrong" person. The only encouragement I needed was an environment fraught with the unpredictability and criticism hallmark of a family centered around addiction--from there, my biology and temperament were happy to take over.

As I grew, those dreaded wrong/right things happened (sometimes by choice, sometimes by mistake, sometimes by chance). Each time, the glass covering indeed shattered. And each time, I would replace the glass, perhaps with a lighter, less foggy version of its former self. But the fear never went away.

To this day, fear, or some iteration thereof (i.e. anxiety) is my most commonly experienced emotion. I worry about meeting deadlines, about what I said to a stranger in line at the grocery store, about being perceived as incompetent, about whether my dishes are actually getting clean and whether I am working hard enough in my relationships, all within a 5-minute time span of an average day.

Note: It's impressive, really, when you take into account how much mental coordination it requires to keep all of those things at the forefront of your mind for instant recall. I suppose it is also exhausting, but do give me credit where credit is due!

I have done well reducing the influence these "daily" fears have on my life or my actions. I'm now more inclined to let them pass by unengaged like clouds on a windy day rather than fixate on their shapes and try to make meaning out of them. Instead, it's the big things that paralyze me.

Or should I say big thing, singular?

You see there is one thing I am terrified of still.

Joy.

Yes. You heard me right. (And if you are honest with yourself, you may be equally afraid of this powerful emotion too.) As usual, researcher/storyteller Brene Brown put it into words before I could find my own, in a recent interview. As she puts it:

How many of you have ever sat up and thought, ‘Wow, work’s going good, good relationship with my partner, parents seem to be doing okay. Holy crap. Something bad’s going to happen'?...You know what that is? [It’s] when we lose our tolerance for vulnerability. Joy becomes foreboding: 'I’m scared it’s going to be taken away. The other shoe’s going to drop…' What we do in moments of joyfulness is, we try to beat vulnerability to the punch.”

She goes on to say that when joy is in the moment or just around the corner, instead of practicing gratitude and vulnerability, we "dress-rehearse" tragedy. I'm very familiar with tragedy and trauma. Most of us are in some capacity. I know what it is like to hurt more deeply and more fully than I ever imagined humanly possible and wise enough to know the depth of future pain is not bound by the threshold I've previously experienced. I am more comfortable hiding from my vulnerability through known and self-induced fears than sitting with the joy that is inside me knowing that at any time it may end and bring about worse hurt than I've known to date.

Of all the secrets I know about myself, this is one I am most ashamed of. It is the one that keeps me from moving forward from my past, achieving my personal goals, and ultimately relishing the beautiful life I know I already have.

Now, its usefulness is no longer as relevant to my life and it's time to find a way to let it go.

Morning Meditation

Sunrise is free.

 

The overly analytical part of me disagrees and insists on refuting my point before I've begun. Everything costs something. Even wonderful, beautiful things come at a price. The payment is often time or money, and at minimum,  the cost of any now foregone opportunities that exist because you chose an alternative.

 

I digress.

 

I mean to say that sunrise requires almost nothing of you. It gives without hardly asking in return.
 

It does not demand of you the herculean task of pulling a giant rope to hoist the sun into the sky like the raising of the grand curtain at the playhouse. It does not leave you  wondering whether the sun will indeed show up for her morning debut or worrying that today the moon will shine brighter than its daytime counterpart. It doesn't matter whether you've cursed its summer heat or resented its lack of warmth and compassion during these dark winter months. It will continue on in the same monotonously beautiful way regardless.

 

You are free to tilt your head toward the Eastern sky, breathe the fresh mountain air deep into your warm lungs and relax as you lean into your insignificance knowing that you played no part in the making of this routine wonder.

 

All you have to do is show up.

Birthday Boots

Mr.  Bee surprised me with a nice pair of rubber boots for my birthday. They are blue with a slight red trim,  and a gray lining that keeps my toes from getting too chilled while completing morning and evening outside chores. Oh, did I mention they are waterproof too? An important feature for any work boot in the rainy pacific northwest.

Something strange happens each time I put them on though.

Within moments of stepping outside, my head is lifted high and my steps are determined. I feel my body call my muscles into action and coordinate each task with a foreign deliberateness. I muck out the duck house, milk the goat, collect the eggs, and stack the wood...and notice something different.

I lack the self-consciousness I've grown accustomed to. In my new boots, I stomp out the idea that I'm a homesteading imposter, and trudge past the belief that I'll never be good enough at life on our mini farm. I wiggle my toes and trust the experience I've gained, and the generations of strong women who have filled this role before me. I firmly plant my small feet in the tall grasses, the sticky mud, the fresh straw, the mound of gravel or the backdoor of our house for it makes no difference where I stand. I even wore them to the grocery store in a country dress and felt more like an accomplished lady than I've ever been in heels, nylons, and enough hairspray to support the beauty industry for a year. 

Call it a placebo-effect if you are scientifically minded, or the Emporer's New Clothes if you draw your knowledge from folktales. Tell me that you gave your six-year-old daughter a cape and told her she could now ride her bike without training wheels or that your son swore his blankie gave him the power to go to bed each night without bad dreams until he was nine. Whatever you say, I won't be persuaded out of my practice. All I know is that it works.

New Kids on the Block

"So, I heard you got goats yesterday."

The voice on the other end of the receiver wasn't asking a question so much as stating a fact she already knew.

"Yeah, yeah we did. It's pretty exciting," I eeked out the words, a little bit taken aback by the rate at which news travel in this news community. We might have spotty reception, but word still gets around I guess. Gossip chains aren't a favorite societal function of mine--however it's a price you pay when your community is small. Mrs. D was one of J&E's friends. She and her partner live a few minutes away. They have a dog that likes to chase sticks and are expecting a little one in a few months. She and J see each other almost daily. I shouldn't be surprised that J&E already told her.

"That's so great! Was it Lula Mae that I heard?"

I paused. Maybe the community gossip chain wasn't that strong after all. I cringed. "Does that mean you...could hear her from your house?"

She laughed, a kind and gentle laugh mixed with no hint of annoyance.

"She was, er, a little upset by her relocation. I think it's settling down now?" This last statement was less of an educated guess and more of a desperate hope. Lula Mae had been making awful, heart-wrenching noises--multi-tonal, throaty bleats that felt more like screams than anything else. Mid-bleat she'd drop her bottom jaw and stick out her tongue to further prove her point.

"Lula Mae's a..sensitive goat," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I'm sure she'll settle down soon. It just takes her some getting used to."  You see, Mrs. D used to help milk Lula Mae in exchange for the milk, and was ifact the neighbor that helped us make the move to becoming her new owner.  She'd probably know. "Anyhow, do you think I could come by some time and visit them?"

"Of course! How does Tuesday sound?"

"Great! See you then!"

I hung up the phone and beamed with pride in our new goats mixed with a feeling that I could finally contribute to the community I've gained so much from.  Integrating into a community is tricky business for the inexperienced. When the natural community of childhood fades away with life changes like relocation and radical personal transformation, it becomes much more difficult to find a friend group, a neighborhood of connections, a "tribe," or any other name you call a community. Social institutions like school and faith groups are great facilitators, but where does that leave those of us without such ties? Homesteading can be an isolating lifestyle by default, so it takes intentionality to avoid that fate.

As we find ourselves with an abundance of eggs and goat milk, we want to share our good fortunes with others. It's simply a fine line between feeling like you are "paying  your way' into a community and finding a way to give back after you've benefited. Community may contain elements of bartering, however, it's hard to remember that transferring goods isn't the only transaction that counts. As individuals in Western Society, it can be challenging not to judge your sense of community worthiness and belonging by what you bring to the table instead of who you are. Well, it is for me at least.

As for Chloe, she is still small and cute and surprisingly calm for such a transition. The day we got her, I gathered a bribe of over-ripe blackberries in my palm, hoping she'd forgive us for uprooting her from her known world and transplanting her into this foreign patch of land overrun with brambles if I made an early offering of peace. She pressed her muzzle into my hand and snatched up the gushy fruit. Ah if you can feed a being, it will know it's loved. Red staining juice lingered where the berries had been, and Chloe cleaned it up with her velvet tongue. Yes, you're home now. Welcome to our family. Welcome to our community.

Under Construction

It's hard to acknowledge our progress on the homestead. We've been consumed with life off the land lately (read: working). What little time we've spent on the land has been spent responding to immediate needs (read: ant infestation, failing refridgerator, and integrating duck flocks).

This means the things that can wait to get done, have waited. We still have incomplete floors (they are missing the molding and some transition strips) and half-painted walls. I'm not sure I've even unpacked everything. As one of my dear friends noted on her brief stay, "you really haven't decorated or anything yet!"

Our yard. Oh our yard. It's on the verge of becoming one of "those" yards in the "country" with overgrown vegetation and random junk in piles throughout the lawn. Really, all we need is a rusted out car and we'd achieve the image.

"starts" from earlier this summer. we'll see how they grow.

Somehow I've been able to close my eyes, hold my breath, and have our friends and family over despite its imperfection. I cringe reflexively as soon as someone I love comes driving up. I try to remind myself that I truly cannot fix our house to the standard I want with the time and money that we have right now. Then I remind myself that part of this process I'm involved in requires that I put people first and connect with my community before saving my own pride or slaving to my own perfection.

I'm grateful to al our friends that have come to visit, come to help, come to stay the night and ultimately come along with us on this journey. It's worth the vulnerability to have you along.

Death & Taxes

I shy away from controversial topics. Unless you count things like recycling, water conservation, living off the land, and eating meat. Which, really aren't all that controversial in the Pacific Northwest. Except the eating meat one.

But faith is something that I'm realizing is embedded more and more into every day life as I continue my journey so  I find it cropping up here, though not in a way I could have predicted.

It's strange because I used to think I lived my life walking by faith. I wondered why a mustard seed or any other smidgeon of faith was so hard to come by for the remainder of the population. 

Turns out, I used to be a person of certainty--not faith. I knew what I liked. I knew what I didn't like--even without trying it. From the time I can remember, I knew what I wanted my future to look like and set about achieving it. I knew what I believed. Sheesh! I even knew that what I believed was right. 

It was so easy. Life went like this: Something predictable happens. I respond in a predictable way, with confidence that this particular way is the "right" way. Predictable event ends. Repeat.

For years, this is how life played out. Sure, things occassionally deviaited from the predictable plan, but for the most part I got what I wanted and I wanted what I got. Certaibly there were times, large periods of time in fact, when things didn't happen the way I wanted, but they happened the way I expected. Even in the worst of times, I knew they were coming, and had a detailed plan on how I'd handle it according to my familiar set of rules. "There are advantages to being a pessimist," I'd tell myself. "Expeccting the worst means you are prepared for the worst. And never disappointed." It felt good.

Do you know what I am talking about? How can I articulate the safety and comfort that comes from  the rigidity only certainty can provide? It's cautiously wonderful and, dare I say, beautiful? For those of you concerned, I say "beautiful" fully knowing that beauty is only beauty to you when it is subdued and possibly sedated. After all, when you are that guarded against pain and surprise, you are equally guarded against the pleasure and goodness you can take in. And for good reason: When you live within the columns of a tightly controlled spreadsheet, where all inputs are automatically tabulated and summarized at the end of the page, you come to believe that beauty rests in the order and that all pleasure is best when muted. Anything more than that might impact your tightly calibrated system in unanticpated ways.

All of this goes along smoothly as it always has. Maybe you go to college and concentrate on your already decided major. Or maybe you've done your research and know that "higher education" isn't needed for your career of choice, so you save yourself the debt and take pride in your risk-benefit analysis at the ripe age of 18. At some point you may choose to find a partner (or not), start a family (or not), and maybe take on your own flock of ducks (or not). 

 

Then it happens.

 

A small, unexpected thing. A huge NIMBY. A series of events that individually wouldn't matter, but in sum amount to more weight than you can handle. A repition of the family cycle you worked so hard to avoid. A birthday or milestone that snuck upon you in a way nothing else has. Whatever it is, it wedges itself beneath your foundation, pushing itself under the fulcrum of your grounding and tips you over into a new reality.

Then suddenly you are left with the profound shock that you have nothing you can truly count on. Something as simple as turning on the light in the kitchen requires a trust and faith in electricity, your light bulbs and your ability to flip the switch, and something as natural as ducks laying eggs is as out of your control as the length of harvest. Death and taxes are likely occurances, not certainties.

I wonder if most people started out where I've ended up or if others go through a transition like this at some point in later in life. I'm still learning what life looks like on the other side of the mirror, and mostly, how to cope with it.

"The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty." Anne Lamott

A Eulogy for Jerome

The real slaughter day came and went. It was nearly a week ago. Somehow silence seemed superior to an instant recap without reflection.

I still don't have many words. In truth, it's hard to know what conclusions to draw so I'll begin with our unanticipated slaughter day.

(read more after the jump)

Firsts.

Those who know me consider me an "over achiever." But those who really know me, know that I do well at what I attempt and only attempt that which I know I can do well.

Did you catch that? Most of my success rests in the fact that I don't take a lot of risks. Overall, I'd say it's a pretty decent plan. It leaves you feeling competent. You never have to put yourself out there. You get good results.

And that's all that matters, right?

Er, I guess you could say, well, that's all that used to matter. This whole homestead adventure has gifted me ample opportunities to attempt new things at a pace so rapid I forgot to be cautious. In fact, in the past 4 months, I have done more new things than I usually allow myself to try in 5 years. In case you are wondering, yes, I do treat "new things" like a controlled substance." Don't all risky things require regulation?

Since January I have:

Slaughter Day--Rescheduled (part two)

I have no [adequate] words.

And for your sake, I will post no pictures.

Farming, as I suppose you could call our little venture if we stretch the word, is by no means glamorous. As farmer, you embody the role of pseudo-life-giver as well as life-ender. "This one will go," you say. "This one, I like this one. He will stay," you casually decide. Then nature takes its course and you realize once again, plans are just plans and your capacity to take a life doesn't translate into the capacity to save a life.

It is heart-wrenching and sweaty. It is terrifying and an unnatural way of life when you've been raised in the city. And yet, it is a good life for me. Perhaps the best I could have right now.


I had no idea how our new life in the country would turn out. Revision: I still have no idea. Everyday I just keep flipping the pages of my life. I'm usually a pretty fast reader, but I can't control the pace on this one. I rarely know what's coming up. I can't even pick up on the foreshadowing until after the events have taken place, which ends up being more ironic than anything else.

I haven't eaten any meat since Tuesday evening's slaughter. At one point in my life, having a single animal-based meal once each week was the norm. Now, it is rare that I go even a meal without meat. The change was gradual and mostly driven by our health--mine and Mr. Bee's. I feel weak and I physically crave the nourishment of flesh.

All the while there is a carcass in my fridge, waiting to be consumed. We plucked her little body void of the duck-distinguishing feathers and removed her entrails. She's waiting like a small chicken body reminiscent of that very first carcass I ever put knife to.

Before we plucked that mix of fine baby down and those emerging adult feathers, we buried her head at the edge of the garden. It seemed like the right thing to do. And hopefully, the neighbors out walking didn't worry too much over our sniffling selves or the fact that we were burying something with flashlights and shovels at 10pm.

Until Tuesday evening, I had never been implicit in taking the life of another living being (except occasional spiders). Since arrival day, I've focused on preparing myself for the eventual slaughter of our male ducks. We've been reading books like this and this one and even this one to help prepare. In this case, Jerome (the injured duck) was a girl and one we planned on keeping around for many years. But in the end, death is death.


I went to "the slaughter" because I knew if I sent Mr. Bee away to take care of it alone, he'd come back a murderer in my eyes. And while I am a firm believer in marriage therapy, the good stuff is expensive and not covered by insurance, and I didn't think we'd have enough cash reserves to work through the trauma. I carried Jerome half-way back into our property and prepared to place her in the makeshift cone. We held her close and vowed to make good use of her body after she passed. I had planned to watch and be fully present but I couldn't. Instead, I took a few steps away, turned my back, plugged my ears and sobbed. The deer that share our backyard, stood by and munched on our flowers and tall grasses.

Then it was over.

Over for me and over for Mr. Bee. Over for her short little life. We held her body again and we cried more. I cried for losing this precious duck that I never meant to lose at all. Then I cried because we chose to end her life and for the overwhelming feeling of responsibility that comes with that knowledge.

The smell of blood and wet feathers washed over me. I cried all over again for all the meat I've ever eaten unconsciously, which if I am honest with myself, is every piece of meat I've ever consumed. I've never allowed myself to be vulnerable enough to know the true cost of meat.

That brings us back to the carcass in my fridge, waiting, waiting, waiting to be honored by its consumption.We plan to have her for dinner tomorrow night. I feel like I owe it to Jerome to feast on her flesh and nourish my body if she can no longer live in hers. I don't know if I can do it, and I am going to try anyhow.

I don't think eating meat is necessary for our survival as individuals or, perhaps as a species. I'm not even sure that it is morally superior to vegetarianism. I do know, however, that Mr. Bee and I did our best to provide a good life for this duck and that, by consuming her, we can complete the circle to enrich our own lives.

Sweetening the Lemonade

"When life hands you lemons..."

No, it's not the 1990's all over again. And I'm not about to force you to read "All I Ever Really Needed to Know I learned in Kindergarten." Well, you can if you want to.

In general, I hate cliches. (I try not to think about the fact that hating cliches is cliche.) This whole lemon/lemonade saying isn't one that I am particularly fond of either. So when someone who I consider very dear to me and very wise, asked me what I sweetened my life-made lemonade with, I paused.

I knew what she was getting at. I did that mental scan thing where you try to pull up the brain file labeled "sweeteners, life" and nothing came up. There was a whole file for "sweeteners, artificial" and "sweeteners, alternative" but no amount of Splenda or Stevia would answer this one.

I know I am good at working, good at being productive, good at achieving goals. I'm pretty sure I'd have no problem reading through this new book and check off my hidden talents on every page. It's not that I lack the ability to identify my strengths. Or even lack the strengths themselves. Like I said, I'm really good at making lemonade. Out of anything.

The truth is, I am not sure I really know what sweetness is--let alone how to add a few scoops to my life. I wonder if most people do and they seek after it or if other people don't and it just comes naturally. For me, I think seeking out the sweetness is something that will require intentionality and commitment. Now, all I need to do is learn the definition.

On Unpacking & Sorting

Moving has a way of making you realize how much stuff you've been carrying around. We all have stuff. You know what I am talking about. Things have a way of piling up over the years. Gifts from family, hand-me-downs from friends and neighbors, things you picked out yourself and brought along for the journey--It's all there, with all it's weight and bulk, when you move.

Pardon blurry cell-phone picture.

Raw Chicken, French Braids and Tennis Shoes

Let’s rewind. It’s summer 2009, and I've spent the last five minutes staring at the grocery bag I just brought home. The thick paper of the Whole Foods bag begs me to keep the cold plastic wrapped flesh and carcass safe in its confines. Deep breaths. I look around. Cutting board? Check. Really big knife I’ve never used before? Check. Rubber gloves? Check.

Somehow, I manage to hoist the chicken body onto the counter. It looks just like that: A chicken body. Without feathers. Or a head. Or wait? Did the guy at the meat counter say the head was inside? Maybe that was just the neck?

Remind me why I’m not a vegetarian? I ask. It was more of a meta-comment than anything else. But Mr. Bee begins to answer in his matter-of-fact every-question-requires-a-serious-thoughtful-answer sort of way that I really do appreciate. Most of the time.

Because you love bacon.

I sigh. He’s right. I do love bacon. And I don’t actually want to be a vegetarian. The chicken under my knife was raised at least somewhat humanely and I don’t mind the taste of the stuff once it’s cooked. Until now, I’ve always dumped in the saline filled, flash-frozen breasts straight into the crockpot or used tongs to place them (still frozen!) onto a cookie sheet to bake. But this, this fresh, floppy and juicy carcass on my counter top, felt like a whole other beast.

You don’t have to do this, Mrs. Bee. I can do it for you if you want.

Mr. Bee always deals with the meat. We pride ourselves on having a very egalitarian relationship and rarely conform to gender norms and roles without having seriously thought them over first. This one, was different though. I needed to be able to cut up the chicken. I needed to do it because I didn’t want to be dependent on Mr. Bee's availability for cooking dinner. I needed to do it so I could justify my meat eating. (There is a part of me that says if I can’t kill it and cook it, maybe I have no business eating it.) Plus, everyone knows that whole chickens are the most economical choice if you use the whole thing.

I needed to do it for myself.

Sometimes, you’ve spent so long listening to what everyone else wants you to be that you lose yourself. Other times, you work hard to be your “independent-self”, only to realize you’ve somehow squandered your authenticity in a well-meaning quest for originality. While rebellion might be the catalyst to find your own voice, it rarely leads to your true self. Or, if you are anything like me, you’ve you have spent your years whittling and refining the already narrowly defined “you.”

You know what I am talking about.

“That’s a great outfit, but I could never wear something like that. I’ve been wearing this same style for years—I wouldn’t recognize myself in anything else!”

“I love people who are artistic. I really have no talent at all. Have I tried before? Well, I don’t think you understand; I’m just not that kind of person.”

“Oh that’s okay, I’m not much of a [insert anything outside of your normal behavior here]. I’ll just watch.”

And handling raw meat, in particular, cutting up raw chicken, is one of those things that I “couldn’t” do. The capacity to rinse the smelly carcass, peel back that goosepimpled skin and cut out bits of slimy fat was something I considered myself born without. This notion was reinforced by Trader Joe’s individually frozen chicken cutlets and even family members who unintentionally critiqued my spastic cutting skills. It fundamentally contradicted who I was who I thought I was.

But not anymore. 

Things I “can’t” do by virtue of “who I am” but I am doing anyhow

1. Cut up a raw chicken.

2. Learn to French braid

3. Buy & wear real cross trainers

4. Learn to knit

5.  Go hiking

6. Start my own business—for real

7. Run

8. Raise ducks 

9. Host a family gathering, at my house

10. Become an integral part of a community