The Expectant Mothers of The Homestead

If you’ve been keeping up on this homestead tour, you’ll know that Mama Duck is sitting on her clutch of eggs and Lula Mae is growing wider with her expected kid(s) by the day. It’s a privilege to watch how these mothers take care of their not-yet-arrived little ones and how their behavior changes as time gets closer.


Guarding her eggs and stuffing the nest (note how much bedding she's gathered)

The LulaBarrel is packing babies!

But I’d be remiss if I failed to tell you the other anticipated arrival on our homestead. Yes, Mr. Bee and I are expecting our first Baby Bee!

Baby Bee's first closeup!

We’ve waited a long time to share in this forum for a variety of reasons, but now that it is so close, it doesn’t make sense not to share. It’s an exciting time and I’m happy to be in the company of other expectant mothers. As my time draws nearer, I am amazed at how similar all animals act when nesting—including humans.

Let’s just hope Lula Mae and I don’t have too much in common. Our due dates are 2 weeks apart. And we’re both planning on birthing at home. =/ Did I mention she had some ovulatory complications when we were trying to breed her?

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.

Radical Love

Perhaps I, like the rest of Americans, have been subconsciously influenced by all the candy hearts and chocolate boxes. I try not to be too consumer-focused, but it is true that I've spent the last month contemplating love. And here it is Valentine's Day and I've got a love-filled post ready to go. Coincidence? Perhaps. All I can say is that correlation doesn't indicate causation and you never know the other factors influencing the outcomes. Right?



Zelda reference or otherwise, bringing your heart along for love is the difficult part of the journey.

In any case, I'm beyond expounding the wonders of puppy love and cheap love wrapped in low-quality tissue paper. I'm talking about Radical Love. It's hard to define, but you know it when you see it. And you know, in the funny little way that you feel small yet as expansive as the Earth, when you practice it.

It is the silent chant inside your heart, as you stare at the screen watching a heartbeat and listening inattentively to the doctor speaking her foreign language of abbreviations. "Please don't die, please don't die..." is all you hear inside.

It happens when, after you hear that dreaded diagnosis, the nightmares return, recovery gives way to relapse, or life requires you to move in a direction that you otherwise wouldn't, you step out of the shame and anger, and say, "I can do this. We can do this. We get through things. Remember?"

It courageously surfaces when you decide to take on the great risk of vulnerability for the equally great reward of authenticity. You purchase baby clothes before the doctors are certain the life inside you is "viable" outside your protective womb. You get excited about the great interview and let yourself tell a few friends about its potential. You open your heart to a foster child and come to view that child as your son, before you know if they'll even stay another week. All the while, you remind yourself that allowing yourself to move forward doesn't diminish or increase your sorrow if things don't go as planned.

It is not some "name it, claim it" doctrine that guarantees great outcomes if you ask right or act like they are coming your way. Nor is it willful ignorance of the facts, or a belief that you'll beat the odds this time (because, trust me, I have a tendency to lose even when the odds are in my favor). In fact, it doesn't impact the outcome at all.

Radical love is knowing everything you can know, leaving room for everything you don't know yet and may never learn, and choosing to be vulnerable enough to love wholeheartedly anyhow.

<3 <3 <3 Happy Valentine's Day

Establishing Roots

Sometimes, it's hard to remember that I am not going anywhere anytime soon. I feel like a spring start that's been hardened off in preparation for the outdoor weather.

I'm ready. Prepared. I've been acclimated and adjusted, theoretically I'm ready to be planted.

(read more after jump)

Replenishing Our Stores

I feel it. Deep inside.

The urge to can the last of the tomatoes; boil a few more gallons of duck, ham, and chicken stock; and
purchase bulk quantities of fabric and yarn for the coming months is welling up. I'm itching to construct
our wood shed. I'm plotting when we'll finish the roof of the duckmahall. I've already started labeling the
pantry shelves and adding organizing racks and hooks to every storage space.

I've got crockpot recipes pinned for dinners. I'm pulling my sweaters out of their closet hiding and
contemplating the purchase of more fleece socks or at least another pair of boots.

Never mind that it was in the 80s this weekend.

Or that it's been one of the longest, warmest summers in our history.

I know what's coming. I know how quickly 75 degrees and sunny transforms into a cloudy mess of precipitation that won't let up again until May, or April if we're lucky. Don't get me wrong, I love the dreary gray skies; I feel most at peace curled up by the fire with a good book and a rainstorm. But I'm not going to let it catch me off guard.

Not this year.

There's work to be done. Inside and outside of our little homestead, on the land and in our hearts & minds.

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

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:

Ah, family planning.

How many? Will you bother finding out the gender? How do you know what to expect? What do you want a new one's arrival into the world to look like? How do you prepare for something you've never done before?

The past two weeks, Mr. Bee and I have tackled these questions with the same strategies we've used to make all of our other important life decisions. We first scoured for book reviews, then scoured those books, interrogated knowledgeable friends, heard the warnings from family, and dug deep down in our beings for some sense of guidance and, well...made a decision.

Neighbors (part I)

We have the most amazing neighbors you could ever imagine. I know, I know. You didn't realize we'd found a place? Well, we did! It's wonderful and you will hear all about it later. First, I have to tell you about our neighbors.

J&E are the couple on the East side of us. They are in their early-thirties. Educated but not pretentious. J teaches and manages land for wildlife preserve nearby.  E? She works from home as a consultant (full-time no less!) doing important social and environmental sustainability work.They are outgoing. Kind enough to lend us a shovel during our dreaded Snowpocalypse.* Have tons of friends coming and going all of the time. Married for the same length of time as Mr. Bee and I. Expecting their first child in a few months. Did I mention E is social? She can carry on a non-awkward conversation with some of the most awkward people I know (Mr. Bee and myself!)

And they compost. I'm sure they do. I think they might also be vegan. Or at least eat lentils on a regular basis. Like I said, they are a-mazing. Yes, I just hyphenated that word. Our neighbors are that great that their existence warrants the use of unconventional punctuation. I might be a little obsessed with them right now, but how could I not be? They've got the future that we are working toward!

*A crazy snow event that may or may not wreak destruction worthy of the term "apocalypse."

day one.

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