What happens when it gets to be 90-something degrees around here? I put on sunscreen, a hat, long sleeves and pants even though it's hot. That's because I have skin cancer things (nothing serious, thank goodness) but I have to keep the sun off of me as much as possible. I'm training for a triathlon so that means staying covered up while running and biking. It takes effort, but I have to do that for myself.
Then there's the animals. How do they hold up in the hot weather? Some better than others. The sheep are my biggest concern right now. I have three Dorper sheep, Belle, Eve and Sam The Ram. They are classified as self-shedding sheep, which means I do not shear them, as their wool will fall/rub off on it's own. Kind of like most animals that shed naturally when warm weather is coming. Eve and Sam's wool is coming off in droves. It looks like material just hanging from their sides, and looks a little silly, actually. It's a good thing, as they need to have that large layer of wool off them. But Belle, poor thing, she's still got her full coat on with no signs of shedding. She shedded last year, so it seems like it would have started already. But no, she's got this enormous coat of wool on in the 90 degree weather. I did what any good Sheep-Mama would do, and bought me some sheep shears. No, I don't know how to shear a sheep, but I did YouTube it: 20 easy steps to shearing. Geeeezzz. Can you shear a self-shedding sheep? (I think that's a good tongue twister.) I googled that, too, and it appears you can. So, off I went to the barn with my ginormous sheep shears that I ordered from Sears online. They could actually cut my leg off in one fail swoop. I plugged in my extension cord, tied Belle close to the gate so she couldn't get away, and turned these monster clippers on. It scared the pee-doodle out of her, and she just about choked herself trying to get off the leash/collar I had her tied up with. She would rather die by asphyxiation, then with me accidentally cutting a artery. That's fair.
I turned the clippers off and freed her from the self harm of choking. That's not going to work, I thought. Now, I know you can tilt sheep onto their bottoms, and get them off-kilter so that you have control of them. But I can't do that - and clip her - all at the same time. Professionals can. Not me though. Moving on, she's just going to have to shed - or I need to find a professional sheep shearer. I called around. No luck.
My two Great Pyrenees, Levi and Whisper have 32 layers of fur (that's a made-up number). But that's just how that breed is. It's two-fold: 1) it protects them from the cold weather and living outdoors with whoever they protect, and 2) protects them from coyotes getting their teeth into their skin, esp around their neck. Last year, Levi's coat was SO thick, I did shave him with my regular dog shears. I know he was secretly grateful - and much cooler. This year will be no different, and I did begin this process yesterday. I got about 25% (if that) of him shaved, and will keep attempting to do so, as he's not a fan. He looks real crazy-looking until I get the job finished.
The donkeys also still have their winter coats and I've been brushing and brushing them. The ground where I brush them looks like a pack of animals have been slaughtered there. There's donkey hair all over the place. As I brush them, they stand patiently, enjoying the process. Papa doesn't stand as long as Mama does for this brushing event, but Mama would stand there all day, letting me brush her, if I would. Their fur will be as smooth as butter after their winter coat is shed. It just takes a little time. I also put "pour-on" fly-repellent down their backs, which will absorb into their skin and assist in keeping the flies off them. It's a necessity - as flies are damaging to their legs, creating wounds that are horrible. Flies and wasps, a lovely part of the farm experience. With the heat, comes bugs and insects.
My chickens are not fond of the severe heat, but they seem to tolerate it pretty well. During the heat of the day, they honker-down in a grassy, shady area trying to stay cool. They pant, with their little beaks open, trying to cool themselves. I make sure to have lots of water available - for all the animals - at all times. The chickens do molt, and that helps them get rid of their unneeded and old feathers. They also prune themselves, trying to keep control of the insects that want to live under their feathers. I put out plenty of diatomaceous dirt for the chickens - and sheep - to dust bathe in. This particular dirt assists with killing the lice, and repelling the insects that plague them.
The barn does get quite warm, but I have a fan in there, and all the doors and windows open. Everyone seems to be acclimating to the heat nicely, thus far. The animals just continue to live their lives no matter what weather comes along. They figure it out, no complaining. Sometimes, I think about what it would be like if I lived in the barn, too. If I didn't have to go to work, it would be okay, and I would adjust, too. I would be stinky, sweaty, and dirty. But if I had no where to go, and no one to judge me for my appearance, then it would be perfect. I could hose off, jump in the pond like the dogs do, or just not care. I have this tendency for wanting to live life off the grid. I can understand those people who live in the woods, or wander the country as they wish. I understand the people who live in the country, and go to Walmart looking dirty - and happy. They are just that, perfectly content in their own skin. Just as they are. That could be me.
Freedom = Happiness. That's my formula. And on this Memorial Day, I thank those who serve - and served - so that we can all be free. And happy. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
What a wonderful life.
I'm so grateful,
Cyndi
Monday, May 28, 2018
Thursday, May 17, 2018
3 years of blogging
It was back in 2015 that I decided to give blogging a try, in an effort to track my progress as I made my way on foot across the US. I would write each day about my adventures, and wanted to keep family and friends in the loop on what it was like to live life on the side of the road. From that experience, living with complete freedom every day, based only on what I decide to do, and where I was going, has been my life's biggest take-away thus far. Had I not experienced it, I would not know what it feels like. It has been the most impactive concept I've encountered in my life, and although I wish for it almost daily, it's not a sustainable lifestyle. It's a misunderstood phenomenon, whereby people who desire to roam the land on foot "appear" to be drifters. There's no doubt I was pity'd by many people on my travels, yet the ability to move down the road and see the U.S. on foot is the best way I have found to do so. Unconventional, yes. A form of nonconformity, if you will. Which seems to a be underlying theme in my little life. Which by the way, I renamed my blog (not my address to it, just the title of it).
Never during that time, would I have guessed I would end up on a hobby farm in Gunter, Texas. I may have thought it as a dream back then, but never thinking I would actually figure out how to do it. I am a big advocate of 'dream, then realize your dreams". Ironically, it wasn't like I sat down and planned it, although that would be the optimal way of making a drastic change - or realizing a dream - in life. I digress. I look back at my life now, and realize I always (quietly) wondered what it was like to live in the country, have farm animals and not have neighbors too close by. And just to think it all started on a warm day, early in 2016. I'm still not sure how I found it, but I'm pretty sure I was glancing at zillow online, and came across it. For Sale, it screamed at me. Come take a look, it said. I told David about it, and with the warm sun on us, we made our way to Gunter to see what this was all about. It happened so fast, as I remember it. The realtor cancelled as we drove there, and said the owner would 'show us around'. When we arrived, a gravel road led us to a old house with a barn and separate garage. On the first visit there, I fell in love with that gravel road that led to where I would eventually live. The acreage spoke to me, as did the nature sounds and abundant land. No HOA, no neighbors, just a simple life with the ability to do as you wished, without anyone watching. Freedom in how you live. The owner was kind and sincere, and we were kindred spirits in many ways (that is a book in itself). Her need to make a lifestyle change was sincere. God sent us there, for her family.....and ours. I could feel the opportunity, the flexibility and the free reign of life there.
That's what ultimately sealed it for me. The freedom of country life. If I was not to live a life of roaming the country on foot/bike, this was freedom along with my family, that I had been looking for, without even knowing what I was looking for. I could be with my family and feel what my heart desires - all at the same time. It was adventure, peace, and family all wrapped up in what would be known as The Graves Farm. The only place I have felt truly "at home". I've lived many houses, but now, I was home.
It's been a couple of years now, and we continue to adore this lifestyle. Then, another change came up on the horizon for me. After 14 years of working as a Operating Room RN, I began to realize it was time to make a change that would take me into the next 10 - 15 years, as I think about retirement. OR nursing is physical - and exciting. It's what I crave, and a lot of who I am. Yet, something happened though as I began to approach a year in which I would turn 55. I decided I needed to quit risking my back (injury) - and body - for a career that could be kinder to my physical self. Nursing has many great options, and I would pick a Medical Office as my new work destination. I will still be able to use my critical thinking skills, nursing abilities and OR knowledge in an office position with the same ENT physician group that I currently work with. If I'm going to risk possible injury to myself, I'll do it on my own terms with my chosen passions and hobbies. But at work, I'm going to have self-compassion, and give my body a break. Freedom to choose, with the power and privilege to make a choice that serves me (as well as the patients and doctors I will be working with) has been a blessing. I am so very grateful for my health, and desire to be more mindful and diligent in respecting myself physically. I need this body to last awhile longer, as I have more living to do. Change is not always easy. Tears will be shed. But starting this Monday, I've officially retired from the OR. I'll be driving (or biking in) to my new work establishment of a medical office. It's a start of a new chapter that will bring about a large learning curve, new people and different opportunities. It's frightening, exciting and calming all at the same time. Tomorrow I say 'see you later' to many coworkers that I've worked with for years and years. Seems I've cried a lot lately and tomorrow will be no different. I used to tell Lauren, "It's okay to cry", and tomorrow I will walk that talk.
So as I move forward in this little life of mine, I look forward to all the new things that are to come. Everything, every day is good. Even when it's bad, it's good. I will be brave when I am afraid next week. I have my Farm Sweet Farm waiting for me each and every day, along with Farmer Graves and Little LoLo close by. That's just what I need.
Grateful for all the freedom in my life,
Cyndi
Never during that time, would I have guessed I would end up on a hobby farm in Gunter, Texas. I may have thought it as a dream back then, but never thinking I would actually figure out how to do it. I am a big advocate of 'dream, then realize your dreams". Ironically, it wasn't like I sat down and planned it, although that would be the optimal way of making a drastic change - or realizing a dream - in life. I digress. I look back at my life now, and realize I always (quietly) wondered what it was like to live in the country, have farm animals and not have neighbors too close by. And just to think it all started on a warm day, early in 2016. I'm still not sure how I found it, but I'm pretty sure I was glancing at zillow online, and came across it. For Sale, it screamed at me. Come take a look, it said. I told David about it, and with the warm sun on us, we made our way to Gunter to see what this was all about. It happened so fast, as I remember it. The realtor cancelled as we drove there, and said the owner would 'show us around'. When we arrived, a gravel road led us to a old house with a barn and separate garage. On the first visit there, I fell in love with that gravel road that led to where I would eventually live. The acreage spoke to me, as did the nature sounds and abundant land. No HOA, no neighbors, just a simple life with the ability to do as you wished, without anyone watching. Freedom in how you live. The owner was kind and sincere, and we were kindred spirits in many ways (that is a book in itself). Her need to make a lifestyle change was sincere. God sent us there, for her family.....and ours. I could feel the opportunity, the flexibility and the free reign of life there.
That's what ultimately sealed it for me. The freedom of country life. If I was not to live a life of roaming the country on foot/bike, this was freedom along with my family, that I had been looking for, without even knowing what I was looking for. I could be with my family and feel what my heart desires - all at the same time. It was adventure, peace, and family all wrapped up in what would be known as The Graves Farm. The only place I have felt truly "at home". I've lived many houses, but now, I was home.
It's been a couple of years now, and we continue to adore this lifestyle. Then, another change came up on the horizon for me. After 14 years of working as a Operating Room RN, I began to realize it was time to make a change that would take me into the next 10 - 15 years, as I think about retirement. OR nursing is physical - and exciting. It's what I crave, and a lot of who I am. Yet, something happened though as I began to approach a year in which I would turn 55. I decided I needed to quit risking my back (injury) - and body - for a career that could be kinder to my physical self. Nursing has many great options, and I would pick a Medical Office as my new work destination. I will still be able to use my critical thinking skills, nursing abilities and OR knowledge in an office position with the same ENT physician group that I currently work with. If I'm going to risk possible injury to myself, I'll do it on my own terms with my chosen passions and hobbies. But at work, I'm going to have self-compassion, and give my body a break. Freedom to choose, with the power and privilege to make a choice that serves me (as well as the patients and doctors I will be working with) has been a blessing. I am so very grateful for my health, and desire to be more mindful and diligent in respecting myself physically. I need this body to last awhile longer, as I have more living to do. Change is not always easy. Tears will be shed. But starting this Monday, I've officially retired from the OR. I'll be driving (or biking in) to my new work establishment of a medical office. It's a start of a new chapter that will bring about a large learning curve, new people and different opportunities. It's frightening, exciting and calming all at the same time. Tomorrow I say 'see you later' to many coworkers that I've worked with for years and years. Seems I've cried a lot lately and tomorrow will be no different. I used to tell Lauren, "It's okay to cry", and tomorrow I will walk that talk.
So as I move forward in this little life of mine, I look forward to all the new things that are to come. Everything, every day is good. Even when it's bad, it's good. I will be brave when I am afraid next week. I have my Farm Sweet Farm waiting for me each and every day, along with Farmer Graves and Little LoLo close by. That's just what I need.
Grateful for all the freedom in my life,
Cyndi
Sunday, May 13, 2018
There comes a day
It all started as a family event, to drive 2 hours away and go pick out a Weimaraner puppy. The original intent was so I would have a running dog to be with me, esp in the early mornings and late evenings, as a safety element. This would be our first "big dog" and the thought of how to handle he/she seemed daunting. When we arrived, and saw a large litter of big puppies, and I knew this experience was going to be special. It was Lauren that picked her out. Thank you, Lauren, as you did indeed pick the perfect puppy for our family. The drive back home consisted primarily of ogling over an adorable grey, female puppy - and, of course what to name her. After much deliberation and disagreements, we all could agree on Bridgette. A beautiful name for a beautiful weimaraner puppy. Her paws were huge, and even though she was female, she would likely be a large sized dog for her breed, as her mom was over 100 lbs.
As we took her home and settled her in, we had a crate ready (although unsure of how to utilize it properly), a doggie door, and no idea of how to handle a high energy, large puppy. At our first vet visit, the doctor told us about a dog trainer that he used, and recommended we consider professional training to help mould our sweet Bridgey into the best dog she could be. That would turn out to be one of the best things for us all. We did indeed do that, and Bridgette did fantastic with it. We learned to be good pack leaders, and how to give Bridgette the things she needed to succeed.
During her first year, she and I began our running. It became a "job" she looked forward to, and she was great at it! We were told these types of dogs need a job, and running seemed the perfect fit. It's hard to believe now, that looking back, she had at many points run 30 miles at a time with me. She was always up to doing what I did, and had endless energy. She was a awesome running dog, and we spent many hours together doing so. For many years, she and I walked, and ran, and she also enjoyed riding in the car while I did errands.
As Bridgette aged, she ran less and begin a life of being a regular dog. We did much more walking, and still lots of car riding. She was well-mannered, and always loyal. She was "that dog" that never let you out of her site, never ran off, and could be let off a leash at any time and would stay near. Loyal. We could take her anywhere. David got her a Service Dog vest, and she really could go anywhere with us. No, she wasn't a Service Dog, silly us, and we didn't really use the vest, but her manners could allow her to be perceived as such. She was great with kids, and always loved being with us, wherever we went.
It's during these times that I never thought about end-of-life scenarios. Bridge would live forever, and that's just the way it was. She's healthy, happy, kind, and the best dog we have ever had. Then, hip problems arose. She had two hip surgeries, and they helped some. Later in her life, she had laser treatments for it, to help generate blood circulation in that area. She had realignments done, as if she was a regular at a chiropractor. Those treatments along with pain meds were her escape from her pain. What I found fascinating is she never complained, whimpered or let it stop her. Her little tail would always wag when it was walking time, and she followed me all around the farm despite her limp. She was strong when the struggle was so real. But I could see it in her eyes, and still can. Her eyes asking me Why? Why is this happening?
She has always slept on a crib mattress on the floor, and awhile back, I upgraded her to a twin size, so she could spread out even more on it. She would lay out so completely she could cover most of the mattress. I'm glad she was comfortable.
Not long ago, she could no longer get in the car. Nor could she tolerate the walks we used to take. She was only able to walk around the farm slowly, and would often find a place to lay and watch us. My heart knew what was happening, but my mind did not want to accept it. Then, it happened. The corner you never want to see turned. She was staying on her bed more, getting up less. Not really hungry, and looking up at me with those sad eyes. Why?
I have a lump in my throat when I see it all replay in my head. The corner now turned, and time is short. We assumed she would "rally" again as she always had done. A few bad days, then back up again as usual. This cycle of rallying back had run it's course. She was tired. Her body was not able to function as it once did. It's a hard thing to watch. And I'm sure even harder to be Bridgette and endure it all.
We wanted to allow her to be at home if at all possible, And she was, until her breathing was so labored that David and I could no longer allow her to suffer. We carried her to the car and headed up to the vet. I had called them earlier in the day to talk with them about her condition. They were so helpful in guiding us through this process. They are not advocates for putting any animal to sleep. To my surprise, the vet suggested it as the only option to alleviate her suffering and struggle. There was no rallying. They was no fixing her. It was time to let her go.
David and I were able to spend a little more time with her, but she was not able to focus or understand what was happening, which I suppose is a blessing. We said our goodbyes, kissed her sweet forehead and cried. The vet would make sure she was comfortable and take away the pain and suffering.
We all have that dog, that one dog that's different than all the rest. Granted, I have only written a snippet of who she was, and what our 11 years together consisted of. Yet, it's a record that plays in my head now, of all the wonderful memories. I come home now, and she's not here. It makes no sense to me, as somehow I was convinced she always would be.
I become so emotional at the thought of her passing, realizing how great the paw print she left on my heart really is. It's indescribable. Her loyalty, her smile, and her spirit are all displayed in a portrait that was drawn of her many years ago. It hangs on the wall, so that I can see her eyes when they were smiling.
Thank you, Bridgey, for all those years you blessed upon us. You are my biggest reward when I walk through those gates in heaven, as you will be the first I hug. And I know you'll be there waiting for me, as that's how you lived your life here on earth. Always beside us, always ready. Your sweet eyes always on us.
I Loved You Best
So this is where we part, My friend,
And you'll run on, around the bend.
Gone from site, but not from mind,
New treasures there, you'll truly find.
Your place I hold, you will be missed,
The fur I stroked, the nose I kissed.
And as you journey, to your final rest,
Take with you this, I loved you best.
-Jim Willis
I can't hide the tears when I say your name. God is Good, and together, my heart will heal, and I'll keep you there always. I cherish the joy you brought to my life.
As we took her home and settled her in, we had a crate ready (although unsure of how to utilize it properly), a doggie door, and no idea of how to handle a high energy, large puppy. At our first vet visit, the doctor told us about a dog trainer that he used, and recommended we consider professional training to help mould our sweet Bridgey into the best dog she could be. That would turn out to be one of the best things for us all. We did indeed do that, and Bridgette did fantastic with it. We learned to be good pack leaders, and how to give Bridgette the things she needed to succeed.
During her first year, she and I began our running. It became a "job" she looked forward to, and she was great at it! We were told these types of dogs need a job, and running seemed the perfect fit. It's hard to believe now, that looking back, she had at many points run 30 miles at a time with me. She was always up to doing what I did, and had endless energy. She was a awesome running dog, and we spent many hours together doing so. For many years, she and I walked, and ran, and she also enjoyed riding in the car while I did errands.
As Bridgette aged, she ran less and begin a life of being a regular dog. We did much more walking, and still lots of car riding. She was well-mannered, and always loyal. She was "that dog" that never let you out of her site, never ran off, and could be let off a leash at any time and would stay near. Loyal. We could take her anywhere. David got her a Service Dog vest, and she really could go anywhere with us. No, she wasn't a Service Dog, silly us, and we didn't really use the vest, but her manners could allow her to be perceived as such. She was great with kids, and always loved being with us, wherever we went.
It's during these times that I never thought about end-of-life scenarios. Bridge would live forever, and that's just the way it was. She's healthy, happy, kind, and the best dog we have ever had. Then, hip problems arose. She had two hip surgeries, and they helped some. Later in her life, she had laser treatments for it, to help generate blood circulation in that area. She had realignments done, as if she was a regular at a chiropractor. Those treatments along with pain meds were her escape from her pain. What I found fascinating is she never complained, whimpered or let it stop her. Her little tail would always wag when it was walking time, and she followed me all around the farm despite her limp. She was strong when the struggle was so real. But I could see it in her eyes, and still can. Her eyes asking me Why? Why is this happening?
She has always slept on a crib mattress on the floor, and awhile back, I upgraded her to a twin size, so she could spread out even more on it. She would lay out so completely she could cover most of the mattress. I'm glad she was comfortable.
Not long ago, she could no longer get in the car. Nor could she tolerate the walks we used to take. She was only able to walk around the farm slowly, and would often find a place to lay and watch us. My heart knew what was happening, but my mind did not want to accept it. Then, it happened. The corner you never want to see turned. She was staying on her bed more, getting up less. Not really hungry, and looking up at me with those sad eyes. Why?
I have a lump in my throat when I see it all replay in my head. The corner now turned, and time is short. We assumed she would "rally" again as she always had done. A few bad days, then back up again as usual. This cycle of rallying back had run it's course. She was tired. Her body was not able to function as it once did. It's a hard thing to watch. And I'm sure even harder to be Bridgette and endure it all.
We wanted to allow her to be at home if at all possible, And she was, until her breathing was so labored that David and I could no longer allow her to suffer. We carried her to the car and headed up to the vet. I had called them earlier in the day to talk with them about her condition. They were so helpful in guiding us through this process. They are not advocates for putting any animal to sleep. To my surprise, the vet suggested it as the only option to alleviate her suffering and struggle. There was no rallying. They was no fixing her. It was time to let her go.
David and I were able to spend a little more time with her, but she was not able to focus or understand what was happening, which I suppose is a blessing. We said our goodbyes, kissed her sweet forehead and cried. The vet would make sure she was comfortable and take away the pain and suffering.
We all have that dog, that one dog that's different than all the rest. Granted, I have only written a snippet of who she was, and what our 11 years together consisted of. Yet, it's a record that plays in my head now, of all the wonderful memories. I come home now, and she's not here. It makes no sense to me, as somehow I was convinced she always would be.
I become so emotional at the thought of her passing, realizing how great the paw print she left on my heart really is. It's indescribable. Her loyalty, her smile, and her spirit are all displayed in a portrait that was drawn of her many years ago. It hangs on the wall, so that I can see her eyes when they were smiling.
Thank you, Bridgey, for all those years you blessed upon us. You are my biggest reward when I walk through those gates in heaven, as you will be the first I hug. And I know you'll be there waiting for me, as that's how you lived your life here on earth. Always beside us, always ready. Your sweet eyes always on us.
I Loved You Best
So this is where we part, My friend,
And you'll run on, around the bend.
Gone from site, but not from mind,
New treasures there, you'll truly find.
Your place I hold, you will be missed,
The fur I stroked, the nose I kissed.
And as you journey, to your final rest,
Take with you this, I loved you best.
-Jim Willis
I can't hide the tears when I say your name. God is Good, and together, my heart will heal, and I'll keep you there always. I cherish the joy you brought to my life.
Monday, May 7, 2018
Chicken Math and Ram Raising
Ahhhh, Sam The Ram. Where do I start? He was a bottle-fed baby who, next to Belle, is the friendlist sheep I have come across. He loves to be loved, sticks his tongue out when he Baa's, and is looking to be a lamb-daddy pretty soon. Or so he thinks. He's still young, so we are not sure of the timing of him being a dad anytime soon, as he's still being a toddler and learning about life. David and I are new at this lambing thing. We have learned that it's around 145 days gestation period, but know very little about sheep sex. The Raising Sheep book I use as a reference tells me that his testicles should be about 16 inches around and that the sheep are most likely to breed around September. This brings Spring lambs, and who doesn't love a new lamb when the grass is turning green, the birds are singing, and the weather is mild. Luckily, I have more time to learn about breeding and having lambs of our own, as Sam continues to grow into the size of a small chest freezer. The idea of having baby lambs is that same feeling I used to get when the new Avon catalog showed up at the house when I was young. The excitement, the possibilities of new things - and affordable. Yes, my shepherd-wannabe life is slowly evolving. I want many sheep in the pasture, yet that thought scares me because I don't know if I can keep them all alive. I've done well so far, but is that a true predictor of the future?
Sam is already very interested in the ewes. They are fond of him, but the ewes do not appear to be in heat. What I did learn is that a ram is protective and sees the ewes as his very own. He has grown horns, and was butting us relentlessly for awhile, but lately, seems to have calmed down with that business. He enjoys having his head scratched and rubbed, and his tail just wags and wags when we rub and pet him, just like a dog's tail does. Speaking of, he's fond of the dogs (all the dogs) and wants to play with them. The dogs are not fond of his head butting rituals, and growl enough to "put him in his place". Sam knows when to stop, and he does.
One thing I've been combating lately is the misconceptions of sheep in general. Despite what people may thing, they are not just white blobs on a hill. They each have very distinct personalities. Some of the attributes people use to describe sheep are stupid, timid, meek, forgetful or damaging to grasslands. After having sheep, I realize they are very smart, desire nurturing from people, remember every nook and crannie of the things around them, recognize my car, know where to go when it's raining - and to get out of the rain, and who is going to feed them and exactly when. They react quickly to the guard dogs actions, they can run a lot faster than I ever knew, and feel comfortable talking to me whenever they see me. Maaaaaaaam. They can even smell me before they see me. The wind carries my scent, they smell it in the air, and start looking around for me. And it's not just because I'm sweaty or stinky. Sam always wants to interact with me no matter what I'm doing, and Belle looks at me as if I'm her Mama. I can see deep into her eyes as she looks into mine, and see the love. She smells me with her little nose, and would follow me around everywhere if she could.
While Belle and Sam were bottle fed and extremely tame and loving to people, Eve is getting there. She allows us to love her, pet her, and brush her, but is not as fond of other people. She's a bit leary of others until she gets used to the idea that the people around her are "okay". She's a beauty, and would win the beauty contest hands down. Belle is a ewe that me, as her mama, finds unconditionally beautiful. Some might consider her a big-girl. Happiness weighs more, Belle. Stay true.
The anticipation of lambing is a little overwhelming. No one is pregnant yet, but I still wonder if I will know enough to do this. Will I be able to help them if needed? Will I know when they are pregnant? So many questions. I have begin to read more in my Sheep Raising book about lambing, as well as internet sites like Sheep 101. Actually, lambing took me straight to Sheep 201. Oh dear. That story will continue and the next chapter in lamb raising will be a huge learning curve. Hope I pass the test.
The ground opened up and my heart tumbled in when we began this process of acquiring farm animals. My 12 year old self lives here on the Graves Farm. I consider it a hobby farm, a small-holding if you will. We don't make any money from farming, but that's not the goal - yet. I don't know what the goal is, I'm no pioneer women, all I know is I'm finally home. I no longer look for that perfect house, that next place we'll move to, or have a desire to be anywhere else. I'm home.
Many people - I have come to realize - never knew they were chicken-people. Along with my love of all my animals, I am a chicken person. We have had too much change in our chicken community over the last few months, mostly sad things. Chickens are fragile, and to go as long as we did with no "incidents" was certainly rare. The change is not over, as we came home the other day to one of our silkies who had passed. Out of the blue, dead, with no indications or prior understanding that something was wrong. My heart aches.
It's been hard, even for me, to keep up with the Chicken Math. We started with two, Ginger and Butterscotch. Then I needed more, so I decided on 4 more of two breeds. They were so beautiful that with time, I decided that I needed to add a different dab of color, and brought in two more. That's 6 now? Now wait, 8. I had promised David we would stay at 6. But do the two original ones really count in the total tally? My coop is too small now, so I must buy a bigger one. Perfect.
Now, I have too much room in my coop, and the feed store had the cutest lap-dog chickens ever! I buy them, and now have two polish with top hats to add to the mix. But can they be counted because I'm not sure I can let them free-range with the flock? So I get to thinking (which is often dangerous when it comes to chickens) if they aren't a part of my bigger flock egg layers, do I count them in my allotment?
However, to my dismay, I began to lose my sweet chickens. To illness, to predators, and a horrible hawk incident that I will need therapy for. Somehow, 2 chickens have turned into 14. Wait, I'm only supposed to have 6. After all, I have space for more now, with the new coop and all. And there's lots of room for chickens to free range around here. This chicken math includes all the accidental roosters that I've had to move to a "funny farm" somewhere. Oh yeah, don't forget the new purchase of two polish to heal my heart from the two polish that perished. I had to do that, I just had to. Plus three more silkies because the hawk incident left a hole in my heart, and I needed to show myself that I can protect them after all. David and I worked hard to create a coop for the sweet polish and silkies with a overhang that keeps the hawks out. They are just too small to be out on their own.
So my ways of leaving the house to go grocery shop, and coming back with a chicken seems normal now. I'm trying hard to control myself, as we have entered into nirvana with our chicken numbers. 2 + 4 + 2 + 2 - 1 - 1 + 2 - 3 + 3 - 1 = how many? 6, right? No, 13. Yep, we have 13 now. If I were superstitious, I would need to go get another chicken to round out that number. And you can't buy just one chicken at a time, can you? Chicken math is awesome, because you can rationalize everything. But they are so cute, but they were abandoned, but they are so cheap, but we have more room in the coop, but we lost one so we should get another.......but really, I just need them. I want them, I need them, and I love them so much. And it's not because I'm a big egg eater. Just like my sheep, my chickens each have a unique personality, and I adore them. My favorite thing about them? Is how they run across the yard. Run, I mean real fast, their little legs moving, their bottoms shaking back and forth. So cute, that I usually have to snapchat it. People HAVE to see this. Lifestyles of the Chicken Famous around here.
Happy Day,
Cyndi
Sam is already very interested in the ewes. They are fond of him, but the ewes do not appear to be in heat. What I did learn is that a ram is protective and sees the ewes as his very own. He has grown horns, and was butting us relentlessly for awhile, but lately, seems to have calmed down with that business. He enjoys having his head scratched and rubbed, and his tail just wags and wags when we rub and pet him, just like a dog's tail does. Speaking of, he's fond of the dogs (all the dogs) and wants to play with them. The dogs are not fond of his head butting rituals, and growl enough to "put him in his place". Sam knows when to stop, and he does.
One thing I've been combating lately is the misconceptions of sheep in general. Despite what people may thing, they are not just white blobs on a hill. They each have very distinct personalities. Some of the attributes people use to describe sheep are stupid, timid, meek, forgetful or damaging to grasslands. After having sheep, I realize they are very smart, desire nurturing from people, remember every nook and crannie of the things around them, recognize my car, know where to go when it's raining - and to get out of the rain, and who is going to feed them and exactly when. They react quickly to the guard dogs actions, they can run a lot faster than I ever knew, and feel comfortable talking to me whenever they see me. Maaaaaaaam. They can even smell me before they see me. The wind carries my scent, they smell it in the air, and start looking around for me. And it's not just because I'm sweaty or stinky. Sam always wants to interact with me no matter what I'm doing, and Belle looks at me as if I'm her Mama. I can see deep into her eyes as she looks into mine, and see the love. She smells me with her little nose, and would follow me around everywhere if she could.
While Belle and Sam were bottle fed and extremely tame and loving to people, Eve is getting there. She allows us to love her, pet her, and brush her, but is not as fond of other people. She's a bit leary of others until she gets used to the idea that the people around her are "okay". She's a beauty, and would win the beauty contest hands down. Belle is a ewe that me, as her mama, finds unconditionally beautiful. Some might consider her a big-girl. Happiness weighs more, Belle. Stay true.
The anticipation of lambing is a little overwhelming. No one is pregnant yet, but I still wonder if I will know enough to do this. Will I be able to help them if needed? Will I know when they are pregnant? So many questions. I have begin to read more in my Sheep Raising book about lambing, as well as internet sites like Sheep 101. Actually, lambing took me straight to Sheep 201. Oh dear. That story will continue and the next chapter in lamb raising will be a huge learning curve. Hope I pass the test.
The ground opened up and my heart tumbled in when we began this process of acquiring farm animals. My 12 year old self lives here on the Graves Farm. I consider it a hobby farm, a small-holding if you will. We don't make any money from farming, but that's not the goal - yet. I don't know what the goal is, I'm no pioneer women, all I know is I'm finally home. I no longer look for that perfect house, that next place we'll move to, or have a desire to be anywhere else. I'm home.
Many people - I have come to realize - never knew they were chicken-people. Along with my love of all my animals, I am a chicken person. We have had too much change in our chicken community over the last few months, mostly sad things. Chickens are fragile, and to go as long as we did with no "incidents" was certainly rare. The change is not over, as we came home the other day to one of our silkies who had passed. Out of the blue, dead, with no indications or prior understanding that something was wrong. My heart aches.
It's been hard, even for me, to keep up with the Chicken Math. We started with two, Ginger and Butterscotch. Then I needed more, so I decided on 4 more of two breeds. They were so beautiful that with time, I decided that I needed to add a different dab of color, and brought in two more. That's 6 now? Now wait, 8. I had promised David we would stay at 6. But do the two original ones really count in the total tally? My coop is too small now, so I must buy a bigger one. Perfect.
Now, I have too much room in my coop, and the feed store had the cutest lap-dog chickens ever! I buy them, and now have two polish with top hats to add to the mix. But can they be counted because I'm not sure I can let them free-range with the flock? So I get to thinking (which is often dangerous when it comes to chickens) if they aren't a part of my bigger flock egg layers, do I count them in my allotment?
However, to my dismay, I began to lose my sweet chickens. To illness, to predators, and a horrible hawk incident that I will need therapy for. Somehow, 2 chickens have turned into 14. Wait, I'm only supposed to have 6. After all, I have space for more now, with the new coop and all. And there's lots of room for chickens to free range around here. This chicken math includes all the accidental roosters that I've had to move to a "funny farm" somewhere. Oh yeah, don't forget the new purchase of two polish to heal my heart from the two polish that perished. I had to do that, I just had to. Plus three more silkies because the hawk incident left a hole in my heart, and I needed to show myself that I can protect them after all. David and I worked hard to create a coop for the sweet polish and silkies with a overhang that keeps the hawks out. They are just too small to be out on their own.
So my ways of leaving the house to go grocery shop, and coming back with a chicken seems normal now. I'm trying hard to control myself, as we have entered into nirvana with our chicken numbers. 2 + 4 + 2 + 2 - 1 - 1 + 2 - 3 + 3 - 1 = how many? 6, right? No, 13. Yep, we have 13 now. If I were superstitious, I would need to go get another chicken to round out that number. And you can't buy just one chicken at a time, can you? Chicken math is awesome, because you can rationalize everything. But they are so cute, but they were abandoned, but they are so cheap, but we have more room in the coop, but we lost one so we should get another.......but really, I just need them. I want them, I need them, and I love them so much. And it's not because I'm a big egg eater. Just like my sheep, my chickens each have a unique personality, and I adore them. My favorite thing about them? Is how they run across the yard. Run, I mean real fast, their little legs moving, their bottoms shaking back and forth. So cute, that I usually have to snapchat it. People HAVE to see this. Lifestyles of the Chicken Famous around here.
Happy Day,
Cyndi
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
I used to think I might be a hillbilly
I don't live in the hills, but have often felt like a hillbilly in my life. I'm not sure exactly why, as I'm a working white person who dresses in clothes that do not match, I might potty in my pasture when I'm in the middle of working out there, a bra is not required while at home, and my hair is dis-shelved much of the time when out and about on the farm. I'm not put-together when home, and care not to be. When a delivery person might drive down the gravel road to our house, to deliver a package, I know there's a strong possibility they may be judging me, as each person has their own term for "being a little too comfortable in their own skin". Yet, I now realize that because I did not have a proper definition of what a Hillbilly actually is, that I was using it incorrectly. It may have been okay in the slang form of the word, but I recently become informed and educated in regards to who this culture of people really are.
I'm intrigued with this term, Hillbilly, and when I came across the book Hillybilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance, I could not resist. This memoir revolves around the hillbilly culture in the Appalachia region of Kentucky, and follows the struggles and lives of people who are trying to make a better life for themselves. This region of the U.S. appears to be a forgotten area where people, over generations, are trying to improve they socioeconomic status and seek upward mobility. In this book, a Hillbilly is categorized as a working white person, who lives in the hill country (Appalachia in particular), and is often dreadfully poor. The author further explains his hillbilly family falls prey to alcoholism, abuse, poverty and trauma. These family's experiences cannot escape them even when they are finally able to move to a new state and begin to live in a more middle-class environment. The moral of the story is you can take the hillbilly people out of the hills, but that in itself does not take away their problems, previous experiences and history of what and who they are. This is such a universal take-away. It's just in this story, it's in regards to the hillbilly people. J.D writes this book from his personal experience, and never insinuates that the term 'hillbilly' is derogatory or bad. It's just who they are. And the attributes that come with it are what he lives with day to day, as he's now a lawyer who graduated from Yale. Yet, the suffering and struggles of his family, along with the dynamics of relationships that he learned as a child continue to haunt him. He wanted to share his story in a way that no other book had exposed. It's not pretty, and much of it is troubling. It was his way of sharing his (and his family's) story, while explaining the phenomenon of moving forward with demons that never leave you. He's a real hillbilly, from a hillbilly life.
With my complete understanding of this term, hillbilly, I now cannot even pretend to be one. I feel silly for ever using that term now. According to J.D. (in the book), he explains that people who live "like he did" with the exception of NOT being in the hills, would be a Redneck or White Trash. I have certainly heard those terms here and there in my life, but did not have a distinct definition for them. Now I understand, according to this book, they are the same as hillbillies, but do not live in the hills.
When I mentioned this book to a coworker, he knew instantly who was - and who was not - a hillbilly. He, himself, is a black man originally from Kentucky, and reiterated the fact that hillbilly's are predominately white. It's well-known from where he's from, who is - and who isn't. And what qualities the white people have vs what qualities the black people have. Interesting! He explained in vivid color, another side of this equation. How people who live around hillbilly's "view" them. We are all so alike, yet so different.
This whole cultural "defining" process is repeated over and over in life. Particularly at work, as culture is brought up in joking ways - and in serious ways. Usually as a personal method of humor to kid or laugh about it. I suppose that's a acceptable way to "discuss" culture, by being able to laugh at ourselves, and the things we may do.
As I began to think more about this awareness of people desiring to be around people of their own culture, it brought up the same aspect to me, but in an animal form. It's true, animals do the same thing, and they don't even know what culture is. So as humans do, we gave this phenomenon a name. Yet in the animal world, it's considered instinctual.
For example, as humans do, chickens have a complicated social network, although what is different about it is that it is strictly linear. Meaning only one chicken can be in the top rank, followed in line by another, all the way to the bottom of the order. This order can change when new birds are added or lost over time (which happened to us!). It sounds awful to humans, as you're never really upwardly mobile as a chicken. But that natural flock structure, that pecking order, makes chickens comfortable and happy. They only thing chickens mind? Being the ONLY chicken. And what do chickens prefer? To be in a group of those like themselves, even to the point to bonding with those that look like them, and ostracize those that do not look like them. They do this, for real.
And here I am reading this book on hillbilly's, learning of their plight of understanding each other and being misunderstood by others. Of their culture trying to move away from their strife and struggles, only to find they still have them after they have moved away from the hills. The order within the hillbilly community is much like chickens, as is most cultures. People want to be around others that look like them, they do not want to be alone, and they strive for diversity, with some success. Just as chickens do, some people are more accepting of others not like themselves, but it's something people will be working on through eternity. Diversity and the acceptance of others and their culture. It's not just a people thing, I see this occurring on the farm every day.
I have so much to learn in regards to other cultures. This book was an eye-opening one for me. The struggles the world faces, while those living in the hills of the U.S. face their own set of struggles. I was blessed by J.D to begin to understand their world, and am grateful for his passion and dedication to help others understand the journey of hillbilly's and what life is like in the hills.
I think my next story-time-on-the-farm will include a book that relates farm animals with diversity and culture, to show the children it's universal. I'll check with the family librarian on that.
Different, yet the same,
Cyndi
I may - or may not - relate everything to chickens in my life. I'm not sure, only time will tell. But what I do know, is that Brooke blessed me with some fake tattoos (of which David put one on his arm yesterday!) that have a chicken on it, and say Chickens Are Like Tattoos. OMG, I loved it! Thank you, Brooke, for the tattoos - as well as being a dedicated follower of a blogger just living her little life. Thanks, again!! Love them!
I'm intrigued with this term, Hillbilly, and when I came across the book Hillybilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance, I could not resist. This memoir revolves around the hillbilly culture in the Appalachia region of Kentucky, and follows the struggles and lives of people who are trying to make a better life for themselves. This region of the U.S. appears to be a forgotten area where people, over generations, are trying to improve they socioeconomic status and seek upward mobility. In this book, a Hillbilly is categorized as a working white person, who lives in the hill country (Appalachia in particular), and is often dreadfully poor. The author further explains his hillbilly family falls prey to alcoholism, abuse, poverty and trauma. These family's experiences cannot escape them even when they are finally able to move to a new state and begin to live in a more middle-class environment. The moral of the story is you can take the hillbilly people out of the hills, but that in itself does not take away their problems, previous experiences and history of what and who they are. This is such a universal take-away. It's just in this story, it's in regards to the hillbilly people. J.D writes this book from his personal experience, and never insinuates that the term 'hillbilly' is derogatory or bad. It's just who they are. And the attributes that come with it are what he lives with day to day, as he's now a lawyer who graduated from Yale. Yet, the suffering and struggles of his family, along with the dynamics of relationships that he learned as a child continue to haunt him. He wanted to share his story in a way that no other book had exposed. It's not pretty, and much of it is troubling. It was his way of sharing his (and his family's) story, while explaining the phenomenon of moving forward with demons that never leave you. He's a real hillbilly, from a hillbilly life.
With my complete understanding of this term, hillbilly, I now cannot even pretend to be one. I feel silly for ever using that term now. According to J.D. (in the book), he explains that people who live "like he did" with the exception of NOT being in the hills, would be a Redneck or White Trash. I have certainly heard those terms here and there in my life, but did not have a distinct definition for them. Now I understand, according to this book, they are the same as hillbillies, but do not live in the hills.
When I mentioned this book to a coworker, he knew instantly who was - and who was not - a hillbilly. He, himself, is a black man originally from Kentucky, and reiterated the fact that hillbilly's are predominately white. It's well-known from where he's from, who is - and who isn't. And what qualities the white people have vs what qualities the black people have. Interesting! He explained in vivid color, another side of this equation. How people who live around hillbilly's "view" them. We are all so alike, yet so different.
This whole cultural "defining" process is repeated over and over in life. Particularly at work, as culture is brought up in joking ways - and in serious ways. Usually as a personal method of humor to kid or laugh about it. I suppose that's a acceptable way to "discuss" culture, by being able to laugh at ourselves, and the things we may do.
As I began to think more about this awareness of people desiring to be around people of their own culture, it brought up the same aspect to me, but in an animal form. It's true, animals do the same thing, and they don't even know what culture is. So as humans do, we gave this phenomenon a name. Yet in the animal world, it's considered instinctual.
For example, as humans do, chickens have a complicated social network, although what is different about it is that it is strictly linear. Meaning only one chicken can be in the top rank, followed in line by another, all the way to the bottom of the order. This order can change when new birds are added or lost over time (which happened to us!). It sounds awful to humans, as you're never really upwardly mobile as a chicken. But that natural flock structure, that pecking order, makes chickens comfortable and happy. They only thing chickens mind? Being the ONLY chicken. And what do chickens prefer? To be in a group of those like themselves, even to the point to bonding with those that look like them, and ostracize those that do not look like them. They do this, for real.
And here I am reading this book on hillbilly's, learning of their plight of understanding each other and being misunderstood by others. Of their culture trying to move away from their strife and struggles, only to find they still have them after they have moved away from the hills. The order within the hillbilly community is much like chickens, as is most cultures. People want to be around others that look like them, they do not want to be alone, and they strive for diversity, with some success. Just as chickens do, some people are more accepting of others not like themselves, but it's something people will be working on through eternity. Diversity and the acceptance of others and their culture. It's not just a people thing, I see this occurring on the farm every day.
I have so much to learn in regards to other cultures. This book was an eye-opening one for me. The struggles the world faces, while those living in the hills of the U.S. face their own set of struggles. I was blessed by J.D to begin to understand their world, and am grateful for his passion and dedication to help others understand the journey of hillbilly's and what life is like in the hills.
I think my next story-time-on-the-farm will include a book that relates farm animals with diversity and culture, to show the children it's universal. I'll check with the family librarian on that.
Different, yet the same,
Cyndi
I may - or may not - relate everything to chickens in my life. I'm not sure, only time will tell. But what I do know, is that Brooke blessed me with some fake tattoos (of which David put one on his arm yesterday!) that have a chicken on it, and say Chickens Are Like Tattoos. OMG, I loved it! Thank you, Brooke, for the tattoos - as well as being a dedicated follower of a blogger just living her little life. Thanks, again!! Love them!
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Dostadning = Death Cleaning
I've done routine house cleaning for years, spring cleaning, deep cleaning, cleaning when we move from house to house, downsizing, nesting for the arrival of my little girl (years ago), decluttering, daily chores and now-a-days, barn cleaning and mucking of stalls. But wait! I can now add a new aspect and type of cleaning to my life. Death cleaning or Dostadning (Swedish). Cleaning like your going to die tomorrow. I never even knew it was something people consciously did. Granted, maybe most people don't do this. Maybe I'm just getting to the age where I'm thinking more about it. Is there an age this starts happening and it's a secret until then? I mean, when do I start doing this? And how do I go about it? Shall I talk about this to others? Are they doing it too? So many questions.
It all started with a pan-in-the-face thought of "if I die right now, who's going to have to clean up all my stuff?!' I about gave myself a stroke, 3 TIA's and a heart attack all at one time just thinking about how much work that would be. There's only one thing certain in life when we are born, and it's that we will die. Everything else in the middle is life, and life is never certain. Sometimes I really think I may be in control of my life, or know the direction it's going, but I really don't. Every time I think back 10 years, I know I would have NEVER guessed I'd be when I am now. Did that make sense? I'm 54, and my 44 year old self would have never imagined myself living in Gunter, on acreage, with cows as my neighbors and farm animals of my own. At 24, I would never have known that at 34 I'd be married with a beautiful baby girl. I have never been able to project out the "next" 10 years of my life, and have no idea where I might be at age 64, or 74 and beyond. I'm not necessarily interested in knowing my future, but planning is a big part of life. I don't live willy-nilly day to day, I'd like to think I sort-of have a plan. Or do I? One minute I'm practicing being mindful of my day to day activities, and the next minute I'm thinking of plans in a month from now. As I mentioned, I really don't know what's going to happen in my life, I just think I do.
So with this in mind, I started looking around me a little closer. It was so easy to say, "David has SO much stuff! So many material things, collections and things he does not use". Yep, I thought that many times in my life, and seemed convinced that I didn't. Yes, I've gotten rid of many, many things of my own over the last few years, but I've also bought many new things. It seems I haven't really downsized like I would have expected to. I donate things, and give things away, but if I keep buying things, I'm not really making the progress I'd like to. I needed to acknowledge the out-with-the-old and in-with-the-new was not a good idea while practicing the notion of non-attachment. The two do not go hand in hand.
I digress. So as new revelations have occurred to me, like all these materialistic things I own are going to be someone else's problem when I die, and since the only thing I know for sure is that I'm going to die, I better get on the stick and do something about this. And so I did. I sent David an email stating my intentions of Death Cleaning. I'm going to clean up my life so that others won't have to, and I outline this in my email to him. (By the way, I send David emails far more often than he may prefer.) I receive a reply back from him shortly that basically said "okay, but leave my stuff alone". Okay then, I think. I'll get my own stuff cleaned up so fast, I'll be back with you soon.
That was where I went off track. Getting my own things cleaned up so that others won't have to was - and is not - an easy task. At first it feels like deep cleaning, decluttering and downsizing all in one fail swoop. But then I looked up and realized that I still have so much stuff left. I rationalize it like this: but I need it to live, I need those clothes, that bedding, those towels, etc. Those gloves, those jackets, oh my goodness I have so much stuff still.
I went back to square one to collect my thoughts again. First of all, I tell myself because I'm trying this 'death cleaning' doesn't mean it's morbid. After all, I've been practicing non-attachment to things for a number of years now. But this is different. It's one step further than non-attachment. And I can reap the benefits of it while I'm still alive. I realize I've begun this process because of my own recent thoughts of mortality. One day, when I'm not around anymore, my family would have to take care of all my stuff, and I just don't think that's fair.
My plan? Keep what I love and get rid of the rest. And so I began with a bang. I took car loads (of my stuff) to Goodwill, began giving things to other people, and got my 'stuff' down to a more manageable size. But there's still more work to do. It's a matter of shifting my mindset, over and over, as I widdle my things down to having only the things around me I love. I realized I love a lot of stuff. Yet, already I have noticed my fondness of less-is-more. I've been riding this train of tidiness for a few years now, and I love the ride. I love the look of less things in a room, which creates less chaos in my soul. I used to tell Lauren when she was younger, "Your spirit is in chaos because your closet is in chaos." Cleaning up your environment will clean up your spirit and soul. And it has, as I have embraced a new chapter of cleaning up my life, in preparation for the only thing certain in my life. Death.
It's also created an outlet to talk to family about death, our possessions and what's really important in life. I look back at my life and think I've really been death cleaning all along. All those types of cleaning I've been doing is really about decluttering and sorting out the things around me......just in case I step off the curb. I've also come to the conclusion that death cleaning is never truly finished. It only ends with death. Then it stops.
Until then, I'm having fun with it. I'm going to see how minimal I can get my stuff. It's a process that I now have a whole new outlook on. My 64 year old self will thank my 54 year old self for starting early. Your welcome.
I better go streamline some more,
Cyndi
It all started with a pan-in-the-face thought of "if I die right now, who's going to have to clean up all my stuff?!' I about gave myself a stroke, 3 TIA's and a heart attack all at one time just thinking about how much work that would be. There's only one thing certain in life when we are born, and it's that we will die. Everything else in the middle is life, and life is never certain. Sometimes I really think I may be in control of my life, or know the direction it's going, but I really don't. Every time I think back 10 years, I know I would have NEVER guessed I'd be when I am now. Did that make sense? I'm 54, and my 44 year old self would have never imagined myself living in Gunter, on acreage, with cows as my neighbors and farm animals of my own. At 24, I would never have known that at 34 I'd be married with a beautiful baby girl. I have never been able to project out the "next" 10 years of my life, and have no idea where I might be at age 64, or 74 and beyond. I'm not necessarily interested in knowing my future, but planning is a big part of life. I don't live willy-nilly day to day, I'd like to think I sort-of have a plan. Or do I? One minute I'm practicing being mindful of my day to day activities, and the next minute I'm thinking of plans in a month from now. As I mentioned, I really don't know what's going to happen in my life, I just think I do.
So with this in mind, I started looking around me a little closer. It was so easy to say, "David has SO much stuff! So many material things, collections and things he does not use". Yep, I thought that many times in my life, and seemed convinced that I didn't. Yes, I've gotten rid of many, many things of my own over the last few years, but I've also bought many new things. It seems I haven't really downsized like I would have expected to. I donate things, and give things away, but if I keep buying things, I'm not really making the progress I'd like to. I needed to acknowledge the out-with-the-old and in-with-the-new was not a good idea while practicing the notion of non-attachment. The two do not go hand in hand.
I digress. So as new revelations have occurred to me, like all these materialistic things I own are going to be someone else's problem when I die, and since the only thing I know for sure is that I'm going to die, I better get on the stick and do something about this. And so I did. I sent David an email stating my intentions of Death Cleaning. I'm going to clean up my life so that others won't have to, and I outline this in my email to him. (By the way, I send David emails far more often than he may prefer.) I receive a reply back from him shortly that basically said "okay, but leave my stuff alone". Okay then, I think. I'll get my own stuff cleaned up so fast, I'll be back with you soon.
That was where I went off track. Getting my own things cleaned up so that others won't have to was - and is not - an easy task. At first it feels like deep cleaning, decluttering and downsizing all in one fail swoop. But then I looked up and realized that I still have so much stuff left. I rationalize it like this: but I need it to live, I need those clothes, that bedding, those towels, etc. Those gloves, those jackets, oh my goodness I have so much stuff still.
I went back to square one to collect my thoughts again. First of all, I tell myself because I'm trying this 'death cleaning' doesn't mean it's morbid. After all, I've been practicing non-attachment to things for a number of years now. But this is different. It's one step further than non-attachment. And I can reap the benefits of it while I'm still alive. I realize I've begun this process because of my own recent thoughts of mortality. One day, when I'm not around anymore, my family would have to take care of all my stuff, and I just don't think that's fair.
My plan? Keep what I love and get rid of the rest. And so I began with a bang. I took car loads (of my stuff) to Goodwill, began giving things to other people, and got my 'stuff' down to a more manageable size. But there's still more work to do. It's a matter of shifting my mindset, over and over, as I widdle my things down to having only the things around me I love. I realized I love a lot of stuff. Yet, already I have noticed my fondness of less-is-more. I've been riding this train of tidiness for a few years now, and I love the ride. I love the look of less things in a room, which creates less chaos in my soul. I used to tell Lauren when she was younger, "Your spirit is in chaos because your closet is in chaos." Cleaning up your environment will clean up your spirit and soul. And it has, as I have embraced a new chapter of cleaning up my life, in preparation for the only thing certain in my life. Death.
It's also created an outlet to talk to family about death, our possessions and what's really important in life. I look back at my life and think I've really been death cleaning all along. All those types of cleaning I've been doing is really about decluttering and sorting out the things around me......just in case I step off the curb. I've also come to the conclusion that death cleaning is never truly finished. It only ends with death. Then it stops.
Until then, I'm having fun with it. I'm going to see how minimal I can get my stuff. It's a process that I now have a whole new outlook on. My 64 year old self will thank my 54 year old self for starting early. Your welcome.
I better go streamline some more,
Cyndi
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
So how is the flock?
I have held off giving an update on our flock due to the unknown. The unknown of if they will live, who will be okay, who won't? I'm hoping now, that I can safely say our chicken flock is on the road to recovery. The respiratory illness that swooped down and took hold of our flock is beginning to let up and let go. Most every chicken we have had a varying degree of this sickness, either with sniffles all the way to runny nose, swollen eyes, a cough and chest congestion. Some chickens rattled when they breathed, a very audible disturbance to my ears. They were breathing with their beaks open, and fighting for their lives. Now, those chickens with their eyes swollen shut, are open again. Those chickens who honkered down, and would not move about, are all free ranging again. During this time, we continued providing antibiotics to them through their water source, a warm place to be and lots of TLC. Each day I would check on them in the barn, I did not know what to expect. The progress seemed so slow. Throughout this multi week process, we had one casualty. Butterscotch. She was the chicken I took to the vet to help them understand the symptoms my chickens were experiencing. She was the sickest at the time, and the one that represented all the others, so the flock could receive the proper assistance. She did her job well, as the vet was able to diagnose and treat the entire flock appropriately. Yet, she could not overcome the respiratory illness that was taking over her little body. When she passed, the other chickens were around her, waiting for her. My heart broke when I checked on the chickens that fatal day, and saw her. What I learned about chickens was that they stay together, even when they are sick and dying. That's what made this whole illness harder to fight, as they all wanted to be together through it, and therefore no one would go outside to free range or move about. If one chicken was honkered down, the others will stay close. Since our chickens have never been sick, I had no idea this would occur.
There are several difficult aspects of Butterscotch's passing that changed the dynamics of the flock, as well as my own thought process regarding chickens in general. Butterscotch was one of our first 2 chickens we purchased. Her and Ginger were raised inside our house, from days old, to transition to a newly built (thank you, David) coop out back. As Rhode Island Reds, they are hearty, strong and great egg layers. They were sweet, gentle and allowed petting and holding generously. Little did we know they would become the leaders of our flock. They were the head hens, and worked together as a team. When we did decide to grow our flock and add more chickens, they readily accepted others into the group and led the way. I never thought about losing one. Never. My chickens will live forever, right?
Unfortunately, I learned what happens when the flock loses an alpha hen. Previously, as co-leaders, Ginger and Butterscotch would gently dominate and guide the flock. Hierarchy in a flock is an interesting phenomenon in the chicken world. What I noticed was the sicker Butterscotch got, the more everyone rallied around her. It's as if they knew, and they were there for her. I was amazed every time I witnessed it. Another issue was that Ginger was one of the "sicker" chickens, as well. The hierarchy of the flock made a natural progression of change. Ruby, a Rhode Island Red who was given to us by a friend, stepped up to the plate and took over the alpha role for the flock. She is a strong chicken, as she was the only chicken (in a friend's flock) who was left standing after several predator attacks. Even though she is a recent addition to our group of chickens, she's the one who told everybody else that "things would be okay". As Butterscotch passed and Ginger was still sick, it was Ruby who cheerfully, and kindly, took over the dynamics of the flock.
Then, as another few days went by, the chickens all started getting better, one by one. It was a miracle. This illness could have easily taken a hold of our entire flock to the point of no return. Instead, somehow the chickens were slowly improving. There was less coughing, and less audible breathing noises. The chickens were beginning to venture out of the barn again, and Ruby was leading the way. Ginger lagged behind in her recovery, but she did pull through. I worried about her so much. My heart could not take losing her, too. And she did it, she made it through. God spared our chickens, healed them, and is allowing us the opportunity to enjoy and cherish them.
As everyone began to improve, they begin to go about their normal daily activities again. They started free ranging outside, laying eggs and standing tall again. It warms my heart to see them outside, together, doing what chickens do. I am forever grateful to have my existing flock make it through this journey. Our loss is softened with the lives of the others spared.
I've learned many things from this experience:
1) That it's okay to take a chicken to the vet. Butterscotch's brave visit helped save all the others.
2) Chicken illnesses are quick to progress, and a whole flock can be gone in a matter of days.
3) TLC and warmth are invaluable in the recovery process, and cannot be underestimated.
4) My chickens are my world. They are each their own distinct self, and I love them all for who they are, more than ever. I smile every time I see them out and about.
5) I now know why people do not name their chickens. Chickens are fragile and can be gone in an instant. It's easier for people to not get "too close" to them emotionally.
6) I will always name my chickens.
And I thank everyone for their kindness and understanding while we walked through this dilemma together. Our story has a happy ending, and I'm so elated! Gratitude has no limit. My farm life continues, and with love, there is loss. As we celebrate the life given unto us, we do so with (of course) more chickens.
Welcome:
2 new Polish girlz, Thumbalina (missing a few toes) and Tinkerbelle.
3 new Silkies, Freckles, GiGi and Shadow (Shay Shay)
Yes, I'm that lady. That chicken lady,
Cyndi
There are several difficult aspects of Butterscotch's passing that changed the dynamics of the flock, as well as my own thought process regarding chickens in general. Butterscotch was one of our first 2 chickens we purchased. Her and Ginger were raised inside our house, from days old, to transition to a newly built (thank you, David) coop out back. As Rhode Island Reds, they are hearty, strong and great egg layers. They were sweet, gentle and allowed petting and holding generously. Little did we know they would become the leaders of our flock. They were the head hens, and worked together as a team. When we did decide to grow our flock and add more chickens, they readily accepted others into the group and led the way. I never thought about losing one. Never. My chickens will live forever, right?
Unfortunately, I learned what happens when the flock loses an alpha hen. Previously, as co-leaders, Ginger and Butterscotch would gently dominate and guide the flock. Hierarchy in a flock is an interesting phenomenon in the chicken world. What I noticed was the sicker Butterscotch got, the more everyone rallied around her. It's as if they knew, and they were there for her. I was amazed every time I witnessed it. Another issue was that Ginger was one of the "sicker" chickens, as well. The hierarchy of the flock made a natural progression of change. Ruby, a Rhode Island Red who was given to us by a friend, stepped up to the plate and took over the alpha role for the flock. She is a strong chicken, as she was the only chicken (in a friend's flock) who was left standing after several predator attacks. Even though she is a recent addition to our group of chickens, she's the one who told everybody else that "things would be okay". As Butterscotch passed and Ginger was still sick, it was Ruby who cheerfully, and kindly, took over the dynamics of the flock.
Then, as another few days went by, the chickens all started getting better, one by one. It was a miracle. This illness could have easily taken a hold of our entire flock to the point of no return. Instead, somehow the chickens were slowly improving. There was less coughing, and less audible breathing noises. The chickens were beginning to venture out of the barn again, and Ruby was leading the way. Ginger lagged behind in her recovery, but she did pull through. I worried about her so much. My heart could not take losing her, too. And she did it, she made it through. God spared our chickens, healed them, and is allowing us the opportunity to enjoy and cherish them.
As everyone began to improve, they begin to go about their normal daily activities again. They started free ranging outside, laying eggs and standing tall again. It warms my heart to see them outside, together, doing what chickens do. I am forever grateful to have my existing flock make it through this journey. Our loss is softened with the lives of the others spared.
I've learned many things from this experience:
1) That it's okay to take a chicken to the vet. Butterscotch's brave visit helped save all the others.
2) Chicken illnesses are quick to progress, and a whole flock can be gone in a matter of days.
3) TLC and warmth are invaluable in the recovery process, and cannot be underestimated.
4) My chickens are my world. They are each their own distinct self, and I love them all for who they are, more than ever. I smile every time I see them out and about.
5) I now know why people do not name their chickens. Chickens are fragile and can be gone in an instant. It's easier for people to not get "too close" to them emotionally.
6) I will always name my chickens.
And I thank everyone for their kindness and understanding while we walked through this dilemma together. Our story has a happy ending, and I'm so elated! Gratitude has no limit. My farm life continues, and with love, there is loss. As we celebrate the life given unto us, we do so with (of course) more chickens.
Welcome:
2 new Polish girlz, Thumbalina (missing a few toes) and Tinkerbelle.
3 new Silkies, Freckles, GiGi and Shadow (Shay Shay)
Yes, I'm that lady. That chicken lady,
Cyndi
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