It's all how you look at it

Things have been keeping me up at night lately.  It's spring, which means that life is sprouting up everywhere.  Here, on my 3 acres, the Stinging Nettle is sprouting up, taking over and disrupting my sleep.

Last year we were in the process of moving in and getting settled when the weed season started, and being new to the property and farming, certain things were left undone or done too late.  What irks me about this is that I should have known better, in fact, I DID know better and yet I was too concerned about babying the cute little chickens that came with the property and picking oranges and blah blah blah....reaping the benefits without doing the work.  I should have known better because I am a Trained Horticulturist with many years of experience and KNOW what happens when you ignore weeds and let them go to seed.  When we did get around to the weeding and I was hand pulling while Dr. Farm Hand was manning the industrial strength Weed Wacker, I saw the carpet of seeds that the mustard and nettle were leaving behind.  I saw it, I cringed, and I thought, all of those seeds can't sprout....there are MILLIONS!  We don't get enough rain to support all of those seeds!  The birds will eat most of them!  Then, in walks Fall/Winter 2012/13 and it's never ending rain storms.  And seemingly overnight I walk out to this.

only half the real picture....

This year, mother nature conveniently scheduled weed season to start right at the same time as Dr. Farm Hands annual surf trip.  She also must have had the universe send an electrical or magnetic pulse or whatever to cause all of my power lawn equipment to break the very same weekend.  I'm left powerless, no batteries, no gas, no brawn against these attack weeds as they try to take over. It's just me, my gloves, and my bum shoulder against Millions.

This past week I have shed tears over this stupid weed more than once.  I'm sure the tears were in part induced by recognizing my lapse in horticultural judgement and being unforgiving towards that part of me, and in part fueled by the fact that my Right Hand was conveniently on a 5 acre island in the South Pacific, indulging in his favorite pastime, drinking Fiji Bitters and eating fresh caught sushi.  But none the less, when faced with the understanding that I had to do what i could to get the nettle out before it set seed again, I was less than enthusiastic.  I did, however, farmer up and filled one lawn bag a day with the stuff, lining the curb with brown bags on trash day felt like an accomplishment, but in looking at the square footage that I had cleared I was left heartbroken.  I have had nightmares about nettle, which morphed into that recurring anxiety dream that most of us have had at one point or more in our lives. For some it is forgetting to study for a test, or your football helmet not fitting right before a big game (you, Dr. FH) for me it has been various things, usually school related.  My farm anxiety dream, however, is a new one to me.  It consists of goats that have babies daily...sometimes they're goat kids, sometimes lambs, sometimes piglets all while I watch helplessly while fighting through the 12 foot tall nettle plants that are keeping me from the corral, unable to feed the starving mothers who are birthing themselves to death.  Hows that for an anxiety dream?  Bet you never heard THAT one before!!

As part of my goat endeavor I joined the Pygora Goat Breeders Association, since, with the birth of Jheri, I AM one (squee!) and it is a good educational resource.  Welp, the $20 annual fee paid off in full when I got my first newsletter yesterday.  There it is, in black and white, nettle is one of THE BEST things you can feed your goat.  Highly nutritious, lots of calcium, good for digestive issues and circulation.   I did try, in fact, to get Petey to weed it for me....but I didn't know the secret trick of letting it wilt or dry before hand to incapacitate the spikies.  Here, the author is stating that she wishes she could plant and bale an ENTIRE FIELD of nettle for her goats. And this is where the outlook shifts, where it is, in fact, all in how you look at it.

Suddenly, I am excited and eager to get out there and weed.  Pulling nettle has just jumped up to the top of the To Do list, and instead of being a dreaded chore, is now a way to provide for my dependents.  It's funny, isn't it?  One day, this task is overwhelming me and causing tears and anxiety dreams and the next, I am feeling like this nettle is my Green Gold.  It is true that the worth of the job changed, from meaningless  property maintenance to harvesting a farm product.  But that shouldn't account for the very dramatic shift in attitude.  I'm accounting most of it to one of my defining characteristics as a person, I am a nurturer.  I liken this newly found love of hand pulling stinging nettle to the absolute joy and fulfillment I received my making all of my kids baby food from scratch.  It's pretty much the same in my book.  I'm sort of second guessing leaving that last sentence in for the viewing public to read.  Ah  well.

laid out nicely for wilting

So, days after actually starting this post, I am still pulling and feeding the never ending patches of nettle to my little goaties.  The LOVE it, I am swarmed by 7 running furry little bodies when they see me coming to the gate with it.  Yesterday, I thought myself a tough farmer chic, hardened with experience and tried to pull the weed while wearing short sleeves.  I was being lazy, yes, and I paid for it.  The rash really isn't that bad, it goes away after a couple of hours in case you are wondering.  Oh, and the opening picture?  If anyone is interested in combining a morning workout with nettle pulling, beware of squats and lunges while sweating in jeans.  And if your old farm jeans DO rip, don't continue to pull nettle in them, I should have only had to learn that lesson once.  

Goats eating nettle, Petey, the 'special' goat is having trouble reaching it

Another week another.....

Little Jheri, only an hour or two old with momma Fatty

Yep.  You got it.  Exactly 10 days after the first kids were born, I was graced with another baby buckling.  This experience was quite different, and much more enjoyable.  I'm pretty darn proud of how I handled it all in all,  no hysterics, just joy!

Look at those glossy black waves!!!!!

The cool thing is that I pretty much knew it was going to happen.  I noticed in the morning that Fatty Patty's udders had grown pretty much overnight, and after sending several graphic goat booty pictures to a goat friend of mine, she confirmed that the arrival was eminent!  This farmer is learning, slowly, but learning all the same!  The bummer part was I missed the birth...again.  I had been checking on her pretty regularly, but ended up dealing with various clerical and family issues on the phone for 2 hours....and the next time I checked, there was that little black lump. I am pretty proud of momma Fatty, too.  She has been a great mom, on the overprotective side, but what first time mom isn't!!  I'm just grateful that the delivery went on without a problem and that she only had one babe.

Jheri hiding while his momma calls frantically for him

This boy will challenge me a bit more with my farmer/animal husbandry prowess.  Being a pygora goat, I have the option of having him disbudded so that he doesn't grow horns.  Most goats will naturally have horns, but the practice of disbudding young kids is commonplace for many goat keepers.  It is safer for goat and person, there is no chance of getting gored, or having other goats injured when goats are just being goats.  Since these are not domesticated animals they don't need horns for protection, and being kept in a fenced area provides lots of opportunity for horns to get stuck in fencing.   Goats used in 4H or the show ring can't have horns for safely reasons.  The previous kids, being full angora goats, need to keep their horns as a cooling mechanism.  They grow thick fleece rather quickly and the horns provide an area for blood to circulate and cool their furry body.  The disbudding process is nasty, though, and I am very much NOT looking forward to holding this sweet week old 5 pounder while his little horn buds are cauterized.  I'm also not looking forward to removing him from his overprotective and slightly neurotic mother for an hour.  She just might have a coronary.

Hercules on my lap, he is so much bigger and fuzzier now!

So, in a matter of 3 months I went from 4 goats to 7.  I have the added pressure of deciding who I am going to keep and who I am going to try and sell.  I had anticipated this problem, but thought I had many months yet to get a plan together.  Now the time crunch is forced due to the fact that all 3 babies are boys.  To keep peace in the herd, I only want one buck and Chupacabra (Chupie) is the man.  By about 8-10 weeks I will either need to have the babies castrated or have a  buyer/plan in place to sell them intact as a breeding buck in which there is less demand.  Argh!!  The choices of farmers!!!  To remove the horns or not, to remove the testes or not!!  My brain is quite challenged at the moment with such things, very foreign thought processes for me.

Chupie as a young buck, cutie-pie!

Creating wethers (castrated males) is very common with livestock, in fact, I would bet most male horses, cattle, sheep and goats you see are castrated.  From my research I have found that the added bonus of a wether is that his fiber stays finer, longer, so many of those who have what we call in the biz  "spinners herds" have wethers.  But once castrated, their sales value drops about 10 fold.  Another brain bending fact to consider.

That's it for now, I have been a little energizer bunny lately, so soon I will be actually be able to show you some shearing, fiber dying and ohmygosh maybe even knitting???  Isn't this in part what this path is all about???

Til then, enjoy the pictures!!  I have no idea why I like this picture.  This is little Billy trying clover for the first time, one of his first solid meals at 2 weeks old!

Bluebell, Billy and Chupie eating fresh clover

Now, I have officially done it....

Welp, where do I begin.  The past week+ had been wild around here.  We have suffered through the fluey/cold that is going around.  I think I went 14 days straight with sick kids at home only to then come down with it myself the very day they were both back in school.  I love my kids, but holy crap, I don't deal that well with having no peace and quiet for days on end.  I couldn't even shovel poop without someone whining at me from the house, wrapped in blankets wanting more tea and honey or  just to whine or dribble on about Mineraft.  Who would have thought that the sheer desire to shovel 4 kinds of crap uninterrupted would be the stuff of daydreams.

As a celebratory move, once we were all healthy, I decided to treat myself to some new hens.  The 7 chicks are Ameracaunas and Cream Legbars, which once they start laying (in June!), will help create my rainbow egg basket by adding shades of blue and green eggs.  Here's a cute pic of the buggers.

Cream legbar girls

I was thinking this would be a good warm up for some baby love.  All this examining of goat rear ends I previously mentioned,  lead me to believe that my goats are most likely pregnant and in a couple of months, I'll have some cute kids to dote on.  And so, Monday last, my earnest research on goat pregnancy, supplies, immunizations, gestation times etc began.

Well, that research was started weeks too late.  Tuesday, on my mid-morning rounds I noticed a rather large wet spot in the goat area.  I believe I was muttering "oh no, oh no" under my breath as I approached, knowing it meant something was going wrong with someone and worried at what I might find.   I was so intent on trying to figure out what might cause a large wet spot like that, I failed to notice, right to the left of the large wet spot was Bluebell, my angora doe, and on either side of her were two white, wet moving lumps. Then they mewed the sweetest little high pitched sound you have EVER heard!  Upon the registration that my goat just had TWINS without me knowing or supervising or knowing for sure she was even pregnant, my response was as you might imagine.  I started jumping up and down screaming "Oh my God, Oh my God, What do I do, Holy Sh+t".  Repeatedly.  For minutes.  Many minutes. To no one, except the goats and chickens. Until my brain started to function again and I decided the next best course of action was to interrupt my good friend in the middle of her hair appointment only to start yelling the same obsenities into her ear. She told me what to do (um, breathe?) and assured me that this happens everyday and everyone was fine and to see if I just had girls or boys!!!  Luckily, I was meeting this friend for lunch a few hours later and she promised to help me with supplies, come check out the little blobs and to ply me with margaritas.  I did say she was a good friend.

Left baby has yet to try and stand, probably 30 minutes old or less.

Two days old

Now, looking back, this seems kind of funny, and a natural process that happens everyday, yes, that is true.  But few things in my recent past have traumatized me so much.  Seriously.  I'm still not sure I'm over the drama almost a week later.  I have been in agriculture for 23 years, but there is little guilt and certainly not the same level of concern when you are tending plants.  Even when you have found a one of a kind flower that you are responsible for tending and bringing to market, there is pressure and stress, yes, but not like this. Chosing to bring life into this world and having the responsibility of supporting a small family with which you cannot communicate and know little about is kind of freaking me out.   I haven't fully digested my thoughts on all of this yet, I'm sure that will be the subject of a future blog post.  But in basic terms, this birth is symbolic of the trajectory of a dream.  Every other decsion along this path had secondary reasons that were more important and certainly more justifiable than following my hairbrained, halfcocked dream.  There is nothing BAD about moving your kids to acreage, a better school, and surrounding them with the natural environment.  There is nothing BAD about exposing them to where their food comes from, how to care for different types of animals and teaching them responsibility through animal care and farm work.  A good friend of mine kind of nailed it.  She is also a plant farmer and when she told her boys who are similar in age to my kids, their response was to BEG her for animals that they don't fix so they can have babies around.  There you have it, this is my first animal birthing experience and now I am responsible for deciding the lifes path of these two cute little angora bucklings. Gulp.

Introducing, Hercules and Billy McLarney of Ourstillunnamed Farm.  Date of birth, February 12, 2013.

Billy's on the left with the one black curl

First favorite day of 2013

Can you guess what this might be???  Don't ponder too long, my artwork is, well, my artwork.  I'll reveal in a bit, don't worry.  It has to do with one of my three favorite days of the year, the first of which occurred this past week.

As long as I can remember, I have believed in self improvement and practiced it regularly.  When I was younger it was things like trying to master a new skill in soccer or trying to overcome jealousy when a grade school friend spent time with another friend.  Once I hit college, which was my first real chance to be myself and self discover, the opportunities were endless.  But perhaps the biggest, most meaningful opportunity I have been blessed with in these 41+ years to really examine every thought, action and moment I create began at 9:43pm Saturday night, October 11, 2003.  The minute I gave birth to my first child.

I  had always wanted to have a family, initially for the same reasons most people do, because it's what you do when you are grown up and married and financially stable.  It took us nearly 4 years to get pregnant and carry to term which gave Tim and I plenty of time to think about the real reasons we were doing this.  For me, it came down to life's experience.  I wanted the opportunity to teach, to share, to experience what it was like to create life and nurture and guide that life into adulthood.  I wanted to experience what I had heard was a love like no other.  And lastly, when I leave this world behind, I wanted to leave in my place, a person that is better than me.  Not the first female President, not a Nobel Prize winner, a whole person who is kinder, more well rounded, a person capable of doing more good in the world than I, no matter how small the gesture.  This to me, in many ways, is how I will judge the success of my life. (should note at this point that any serial killer I may have given birth to will be considered Mr. Farm Hands contribution, not mine.)

So, in order to accomplish this, self improvement happens daily, if not hourly at times.  In parenting, you can't predict, EVER, when the next teaching moment will present itself.  This is what I have learned from 9 years of experience.  What I knew at 9:44pm that Saturday night, is that love like no other I mentioned before is the greatest motivator I will probably ever encounter.  That transformation happened immediately.  That very minute was the start of what internally I think of as the New Me.

That change was the best thing that has ever happened to me.  It has allowed me to live a fuller, happier life, to confront issues and flaws that I had happily been living with and ignoring for years.  It pushed me to finally take that final step in becoming the person I wanted to be.  And for that reason, the three days that mean the most to me in the calendar of 365 are my children's birthdays and of course, Mother's Day.

G experimenting with a birthday present

Now, back on track.  My Boy turned 8 last week.  Eight.Years.Old.  He looks like such a big kid and he himself has made so many changes this past year.  I am so proud of him.  He is a sensitive, old soul that feels deeply and in the eighth year of his life has made tremendous strides in learning how to control his emotions and not take life so seriously.  Yesterday we had 10 boys here, at our house, to celebrate.  And while I adore the actual anniversary day of my childrens' birth, I actually detest  throwing birthday parties.  They stress me out like not many events can.  I don't like the type of entertaining where there is a lot of planning or anything formal.  Having a bunch of kids at my house means a bunch of parents too, and I tend to be a bit shy (or antisocial, depending on who and when you ask).  Plus, I have enough problems keeping my own wild, creative kids under control...they don't need help or an audience.  Anyway, I digress.  I acquiesced this year and let G have a party here since we are in a new school, a new house and he really wanted to show off his farm.  Having just completed all 8 of the Harry Potter movies over holiday break, it was to have a HP theme.  You now know what the above is, huh!!  In the past I have referred to myself as the Ghetto Martha Stewart, but more accurately, I am probably the Slacker version. Turns out, we didn't even have to play 'Pin the Scar on Harry Potter' because all that the 10 boys needed were chopstick wands, a list of spells and 3+ acres.  It was fun watching and listening to them.  One boy found two eggs in the chicken coop and was beyond amazed and excited!  Once I told him he could save them and take those very eggs home he freaked out, putting them in the kitchen for safe keeping, but checking on them about every 20 minutes to make sure they were still there.

One of the party favors, note the excellence in cutting and stapling

The party was worth the hassle, I wasn't embarrassed with my art work, and most importantly, G had a blast.  I think I am very lucky that these 3 days I cherish so much are spread throughout the year.  It never allows me to get very far away from what I love or forget to appreciate each moment as it happens.

Goat Mamma to the Rescue

I saved a life last night.  I am absolute certain I did but I know there may be a few of you to argue my point once you read the full story, that is fine.  I'm still convinced of my udder (yes) farmer brilliance.

Miss Fatty Patty the Pygora goat

So, at some point during the night last night Dr. Farm Hand (Timothy) starts talking to a deep sleeping me about a goat that is making noise.  He kept going on and on and I honestly could not grasp what he was really saying and was waffling between yelling at him to shut it and incorporating said goat noise into some type of distressed nightmare.  It took me a good while to actually realize I had to wake up and address this.  (That, I am blaming on the all too common decision lately to  have a second margarita after dinner.)  After I decided he was serious and it needed my attention, I went to the cracked bathroom window to get a better listen and sure enough I could hear a goat that sounded very distressed.

Now, the things going through my mind were varied.  Of course, it could be coyotes.  I haven't been too worried about them before and by most accounts, goats can take care of themselves.  What I was most convinced was happening was that I was going to walk into a goat birth.  I have two does and a young buck, so eventually this will be the case.  The buck is still young though and might not be tall enough to actually get the job done just yet.  I spend serious minutes every day looking at goat privates and bellies to get a feel for what is normal in appearance in hopes that I will eventually know what I am looking at when one is pregnant.  But alas, there was no baby being born.

What I did find was my sweet faced Fatty Patty sitting outside her bedroom with a cocked neck, her mouth stuck open at a very strange angle wagging her tongue around and making a hideous racket. At first glance I was sure she was having some type of neurological fit, the way she was carrying her head and only moving to one side and the very curious angle of her neck and jaw.  It was NOT pleasant to watch and I indeed started to panic that she had a serious issue and was going to need to be put down.  The Life of Fatty Patty flashed before my eyes. After a couple of minutes watching her, though, I realized there was something caught in/on her lip. I quickly grabbed her by the fleece and stuck her neck and shoulders between my legs to secure her, all the while with her resisting and protesting VERY loudly.  She sounded alarming enough that Dr. Farm Hand actually walked outside the bedroom in his imaginary pajamas to see what I had found and assess my need for assistance.  Turns out, it was a matt of fleece that she had gotten stuck in her side teeth when she was scratching an itch on her neck.  I was able to free her lower jaw from the matt of hair and massage her jaw and little chiny chin chin without even getting bit!  She immediately ran over to the matriarch goat, and hid behind her, as if looking for reassurance.  Then, she burped.  She burped a bunch.  I have no idea how long she had her jaw caught, but after about another 10 minutes of observation I was convinced she wasn't going to die and everyone was ready to return to sleep.  It's worth noting, though, that this entire time I was saving Fatty from Certain Doom, Petey, the goat that thinks he's a dog, seemed to think I had just appeared out of the blue, at 3am, solely to rub his chest and head.

So there you have it.  I was cool in the face of crisis.  I muscled in and wrangled a desperate goat in need of medical attention, unaided.  I used all of my faculties and tools available, which last night consisted of a flashlight and a cell phone in case I had to hysterically call a neighbor.  And I did all of this at 3 am, in the mostly dark, without my glasses.  I am, a Lifesaving Goat Mamma.

The big disappointment

One of my biggest excitements about our new house is the pomegranate tree.  About 10 years ago, after we had been in San Diego county for a while, I passed the strangest looking tree-bush while driving home from work.  So strange it was to my horticultural eye, I had to pull a U-ey at the next opportunity to make sure I saw what I saw.  And yes, it was my first glimpse of a pomegranate tree.  I was beyond excited that they grew in our environment, but alas, living in subdivisions doesn't allow for wild, sprawling fruit trees, just maybe a dwarf....if you're lucky.

When we took our first look at the three acres surrounding this house, the first thing that made me catch my breath and squeal like a child was the fact that the previous owner had GOATS.  Why?  I have no idea.  I guess because I couldn't imagine why any 'normal' person would just have goats around.  (Now I have 4 of my own, and will reserve comment.)  The next discovery, that caused me to jump for joy was the HUGE pomegranate tree in the orchard!  Oranges and lemons, yes, those are typical around here, but pomegranates...not so much.  And by the looks of it, this tree-bush was going to produce DOZENS for me to hoard, or share.  Maybe.

So, flash forward to the fall when the property is ours, the rest of the orchard has been harvested and the last fruit of the season to ripen are the pomegranates.  And there were, in fact, dozens.  And I did share, just a few, though, to select special people.  I had some grandiose dream that I could somehow consume 100 of these delectable fruits.  THEN, I read that you can actually store them for months in the refrigerator, so we have had most of our produce drawer storage full of ripe pomegranates just waiting for the right occasion and recipe.

My plan has been to make jam.  I made several batches of plum jam from our fruit this summer with great success, so this seemed like the logical way to preserve my bounty.  This week, the time seemed right, and despite the fact that several friends commented on the mess and amount of work required to free so many arils from their tough casing and in turn, liberate the juice from said arils, I proceeded unfazed.  That may have been my first mistake.....

The recipe called for juice from 8-9 pomegranates (totally 5 cups of juice).  This lady must have had soccer ball sized fruits because I ended up peeling around 30 freaking pomegranates if I peeled one. I did half the first day, and then had to stop because my allotted time to make the jam start to finish was used after obtaining just 3.5c of juice.  I was still undeterred and giddy.

The next day, after finally obtaining enough juice, and staining about 4 dishtowels, a tshirt and cleaning the kitchen counters and floor half a dozen times, I started with the rest of the process of jam making; boiling, adding sugar and pectin, boiling longer, testing gel stage, pouring into jars and processing in a hot water bath to sterilize.  Let it sit on the counter overnight and in the morning, wake to a beautiful deep, vibrant jam ready for your toast.

If only that was the case.  So, after washing, peeling, separating, blending, straining, pressing, skimming, boiling, mixing, pouring, canning and sterilizing.......I have sweetened, slightly thickened pomegranate juice.  I let the jars sit for an extra 12 hours, hoping some miracle late gel would occur, and when it didn't, I covered the jars with a dishcloth so I didn't have to touch them or look at them.  And there they still sit, 3 days later. 

I've been ignoring them for days now and get this, they STILL have not decided to gel.  I have been consumed with what to do with them.  Recooking them and processing the jam again would be more time I don't want to commit to something that failed so miserably.  Yet I have so.many.hours. into this project I can't just toss it either. It's not even thick enough to use as syrup on pancakes!

This morning I woke up to a light, steady rain.  The kind of rain that makes farmers and transplanted Midwesterners breath extra deep to capture the earthy smells while a little extra spring appears in their step.  I walked the orchard in the rain today and noticed I have buds forming on my plum and peach trees already and some of the oranges have finally lost that last tinge of green, ready to be picked.  Another cycle begins, another opportunity.  And while the pomegranate substance in those jars, on the counter, under the dishcloth could not even be mistaken for syrup, I found a GREAT recipe for mixing pomegranate juice with tequila.  Not all was lost.  Maybe next fall I will hoard less and share more.  You can all hope......

Getting my Zen back

The past few weeks, I have had a hard time not sweating the small stuff.  I get glimpses of reality where I realize my lack of housekeeping isn't really a big deal, or that what is meant to happen will happen and for the right reasons.  But in general, my anxiety levels have been high over things like finding a soccer team for G or learning how to sheer my goats perfectly the first time.  These two items in particular have struck a chord with me, because I have realized this weekend that it's a prime example of me creating a situation where if my kids are paying attention (which is not guaranteed) they can learn some really bad habits. I'm a perfectionist, I always have been.  I want to be perfect the first time.  Couple that with my need to be efficient and not waste resources, it's a dangerous combination.  My  kids have tendencies towards this already and I want them to LEARN to be more patient, to enjoy the experience of gaining experience, two things I am not good at doing.  Two things they can only learn by example.

Fatty Patty needs a trim

Two of my pygora goats could use shearing.  They are off schedule, so it's too cold, but if I leave it on then it could ruin their one and only kid fleece. What do I do?  How do I process the fleece? How do I maintain the lock structure?  Will it be too coarse if I don't have the guard hairs removed?  Will I waste length if I use hand shears versus trying my hand at electric shears?  Should I dye it? Should I put it in a mixed batt or spin alone?  I suck at spinning!!  I need lessons!! I need help and I hate asking for help!! I'm going to fail!! and last but not least...I suck!!  That old negative, circular argument that keeps me paralyzed from even starting something has returned.  There will be more fiber and more shearing opportunities, obviously.  But I'm not enjoying the EXPERIENCE of gaining experience.  I'm putting pressure on myself to be perfect at something I've never even done before.

Saturday I tried to work on finding my Zen through a rough workout, outdoor time and dinner with good friends.  Sunday I tried to find it through family time, football watching and knitting.  Monday, it was back to the gym for boxing which very therapeutic for me.  Beating on something helps.  But what made me turn the corner was a conversation with a friend about a memorial service for an 8 year old boy.

I knew this boy, his parents are friends of good friends and I have spent time with them over dinner and at parties many times over the past 7 years.  Max was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor at age 4.  For 4 years we have heard stories of experimental treatments, unthinkable side effects; we have participated in fund raisers and silent auctions.  As an outsider, it is easier to ignore or stay ignorant to the trials and heartbreak of caring for a child with a terminal illness, I think.  You don't know the details of what they are going through and it is harder to imagine something so hard and tragic and obscure.  But now that Max's journey in this life has gone and he has moved into something free of pain and limitation, that is easier as a parent to imagine, I think.  Death is permanent, there is no ambiguity for those of us left here.

I was recounting my conversations with my friend to Tim last night.  We were trying to put ourselves in the shoes of the parents who had just lost their only child, who was only weeks younger in age than our oldest.  Yes, we would be heavily medicated.  Yes, we would be going through the motions.  But what....what event would cause you to change from that state?  How do you recover from that and live your life?  In our case I would think that still having one child would help pull us through.  But losing your only child after knowing what that experience is like and fighting for it for so long.  How cataclysmic does that event have to be to pull you back into living a life that is a constant reminder of what you have lost?   I just don't know.

One thing that Tim and I both realized though, was that the small stuff has to step aside.  We've been guilty lately of being tense with each other, not engaging enough with the kids, worrying about things like money and a messy house. We have forgotten how very fortunate we are, and how perhaps, we need to be more appreciative and grateful of the people and things that cross our paths, however long we might travel this journey together with any of them.  What these two situations that I have described have illustrated to me is the importance of understanding one thing.....Control.

I like to view life in the lens of one of my favorite outdoor activities, hiking.  I picture myself on this beautiful path through untouched landscape.  Sometimes the path is a single track, sometimes it is wider.  There are many forks in the path, there are hairpin curves and steep rocky sections as well.  One thing about being out in nature that is a given for me, it is always beautiful.  There is always something of wonder in your field of vision whether that is a emerging mushroom on the forest floor, the bubbling breath of a sand crab coming through the sand as the waves retreat or a wide, expansive vista at a mountain top.  There is always beauty.  We have the opportunity to see beauty every day if we chose it, whether it is rare glimpse of a bluebird in your yard, the gentle sloping curl of your child's hair right behind her ear, or the way your dog takes ultimate care in choosing his spot in the sun making sure to tuck in each and every pug toe to keep them warm.  When I am hiking and I see a steep, hairpin curve up ahead, I don't stop in fear of whats beyond it, I feel excitement at what might be on the other side.  When I come across a spot that is rocky and requires the use of hands and maybe even knees to get over, I don't stop and cry because it's going to be hard and I might fail.  I don't get paralyzed by fear, I look around for a more practical option to reach the same outcome and if none present themselves, I press on without hesitating. I just do it.  These are the two aspects that I need to remember to bring back my Zen.  Picture the trail.  Enjoy the experience.  Enjoy the journey.  You don't have control of the trail, but you have total control of the decisions you make on it, and how you greet it each day. See the beauty in life, it is there, everywhere, you just have to pick you nose up and not allow your vision to be obscured by the things that are less important, like money or clean houses.