How Much is Too Much?

           My mother loves to forward me things, often involving outrageous political happenings or things I might not have seen in the news for being so busy with dogs and goats and gardens. (Sadly I see more than she knows.)

Between ISIS beheadings and the Holly Bobo updates alone, I admit, tis week I turned off my TV…I confess...thinking on these things in detail puts me in fetal position, then again, to observe the news passively while microwaving a pizza feels even more wrong…So I replt to my mother with, “I’m sorry, no, I didn’t hear…I’m on a news sabbatical. My heart can’t take it anymore.”

            Her reply was something about an ostrich, which didn’t set well either. On the other hand, if a caller in my past life had said it, I’d have given it more thought…and so I did so here...for her...the woman who birthed me.

            In truth Mom, I am watching the news. (Like an addict, I feel I should confess this to someone.) What’s more, I am mindful of just how MUCH news I am consuming...How much we all are.  As it pertains to my own personal consumption—I find myself asking, how much is too much?  (Truth be told, I get so much more done creatively on non-TV days and I so admire my writer friends who don’t have a TV at all.) But for me, there’s still a gene that gets on a roll from time to time when wanting to catch up, but once I do…it doesn’t take long until I want to unplug all over again.

            I was in such mood when the ostrich note came through…which exacerbated my thinking all over again on the matter.

            I have found that my intake of news works in inverse proportion to my ability to write, think, create, or grow a garden. When my heart becomes too heavy for trying to imagine the horror some have endured (the Holly Bobo story alone I cannot fathom. I want to cry every time I hear the girl’s name and if I allow myself so much as a minute of imagining her fear, or the grief of her family's loss, I grow fearful myself, and after that, helpless, and after that, hopeless)…It leaves me so utterly derailed …I don’t know what to do.

            So the question becomes: What is the responsible approach to news? Where am I to file beheadings over which I have no control (save to become furious and more fearful)…Killings so brutal the details only add more hatred and anger in a world already too dark already?

            At one time I naively suggested: “Call your congressman…Express yourself. Be sure and vote!” But anymore, given how we feel about government, well that just adds more fuel to the flame…More frustration, anger and resentment…Great.  Now that I know this WILL be my reaction …Do I really want to go there?

            My own approach to this question has changed with time and with age. At one point I sincerely believed that focusing my attention and yours on the problems we all face, while debating both pros / cons and every alternative in between was the highest and best use of a journalist’s talents and time. But after about 20 years of seeing no real solutions, but instead a digression into an angrier, less civil audience, well,  I changed my tune. I no longer felt I was helping matters. Instead, I felt I was contributing more to the problem than any hope of a solution. I recall one boss asking if I could “save the world on someone else’s dime” and I remember thinking “He may have a point."  If anger is what you’re looking for, and anger is what I am NOT looking for, maybe it WAS my time to go.

            With that I did what I always do when troubled by something to my core. Moments like these, I stop. And I listen. By stop and listen, I mean I eventually unplug entirely, pull away from the maddening crowed, get silently alone and ask, “What possible good can I contribute, for which others may be served?” With this I usually go away somewhere (to a monastery; out of the country…or (as is the case today) maybe just TO the country)….In these sacred spaces, I can honestly say, I have always found my answers.

            To be clear, my own inner answers are not everyone’s answers. Right now, my mother’s voice prompts her to forward emails she feels we should all be aware of; she’s feeling very politically vocal right now, and if that’s what she’s being led to do, may I just say "You go for it Mom!"

            For me, I did that once. Who knows; I may be led again someday (can’t imagine that, but that’s the thing about the inner voice; it demands a day by day inventory).

            My answer as I shared it with my mom was this:

            Today's news is precisely why I farm. Whether worried over the war in Syria, or watching our president weigh strategies per the beheadings, or witnessing raging wild fires out West, my inner voice says, there may come a time when knowing how, will be all you can do...So today—this day, LEARN. Learn everything you can, for now, on your side of the street, life is peaceful, but there may come a time when it is not, and if that day comes, be prepared. Better yet, be ready to help. Make use of the wisdom, time and gifts you’re now being handed…The farmer who shows you how to plant; the course that’ll walk you through soil and crop rotation…Follow where you’re led and the rest will be provided.

            While we all face fearful times, I work not to dwell there. For if I dwell too long on any one news story my fear gene goes into overdrive and anger consumes the only energy I ever hoped to have. It’s not to become an ostrich. It is to become who I am...who each of us are...listening to what we are each led to do in whatever way, large or small, we are led to do it. 

           That, to me, is the counter to our news...

Herdshares (In Case You Haven't Herd)

     I am now the proud owner of a share...
     (of my first breed that is not Pygmy, which is to say "Newbies" or Nubians)
     Known for their floppy ears, their friendly ways...but most of all, known for their milk!

     In case you didn't know, goat's milk is the one milk of all milks, digestible to every mammal on the planet (including us lactose intolerant mammals)...If your body rejects milk (but your mind (if not your body) knows you need it)...then Goat's Milk is for you!

     Ever see those rescue missions on TV? You know...That operation that happened after the Exxon Valdez (wherein all those innocent life forms were slimed with oil and needed nurturing) ...?

     Any mammal....any beached whale that you've witnessed some human, bottle feed....
     The milk in that bottle...is GOAT'S milk!

     Like broccoli...it's up there as the ultimate "super food" (so rich are its nutrients)

     Like broccoli, your body knows it's taken in something good almost immediately after consumption...(Just sayin')



 

Stella!

   

     What a pleasant surprise~ to open morning email and find some stranger has painted little Stella (seen here on her favorite stump, in all her little goat glory)...
      Seems a friend of a friend (who likes painting hens) spotted Stella along the way and somehow this got back to me~ (Chalk one up for Facebook!)
     I have since learned the artist's name is Gail; as a child she had a pet goat...Like me, she finds them hilariously fun creatures. A retired insurance adjuster, today Gail paints (not just goats, but all sorts of things), which is a good thing, for I think the world needs more artists than insurance adjusters and I'm betting Gail's life is a lot more peaceful these days as a result.
     Such are the moments that make life sweet...Many thanks to Gail for making me smile. I am glad Stella made you smile. And so goes the circle of (artistic) life. Continued blessings on your artist's way...To me there is no greater reward than creating for the sake of creating.  You Go(at) Girl!

Here's to the artist in all of us~

The Creative Force of Fear

            Seems today was my day for facing other’s fears. My own, were somewhat in check (which is good; best we not all be fearful on the same day). No. Today was given over in large part to listening to, being there for, helping others process their fears and since it was theirs and not mine I was observing, it gave me pause to reflect.          
            Fear consumes a lot of energy. Let me rephrase: fear WASTES a lot of energy. I’ve been well aware of this for some time now, but today it was poised in stark contrast to the amount of energy I could’ve used elsewhere, (namely, getting a book proposal finished). But for the same amount of energy it would have taken to write 2,000 words and a mission statement, my mind was wrapped around the “what if’s” of more than a couple of friends, each facing something fearful and needing that proverbial talk off the ledge.
            No complaints on the investment of time for ledge-talking. That’s what friends do, and I’ve had plenty do it for me, though my goal is to get good at doing it for myself, or better yet, staying off the ledge in the first place. But ledge-clinging happens. And once ON the ledge, have you ever noticed how much perfectly good creative energy gets wasted?
            For all the great memories I have of my father, some of the not-so-fun times centered around fear and his worries for me in (pick your category: my job, my creations, my whacky ideas, like buying a church). He used to pride himself on worrying. He even once said, “It’s my right as your father to worry,” which used to bug the you-know-what out of me, because HIS worry was getting in MY way. If “I” had tamed my worries, why shouldn’t he tame his FOR me? But he couldn’t help it, he’d say. That’s just what fathers do.
             I countered that argument, saying I was pretty certain that was not what ALL fathers did, and certainly not the best ones, citing (case in point) the prodigal son. So here’s a kid, leaves home takes half his dad’s money, to go rebel rouse and party, doing God-knows-what until finally he lands in pig poop when it dawns on him maybe he should go home. Does the Bible tell us his father worried? (I’m guessing the father had a farm to get back to, and worry and work make for bad bedfellows.) To follow the analogy to the fullest, (I asked my dad) “You think GOD worries?” I dare say God does NOT worry. That would be a waste of God’s energy. What God does, I believe, is God waits. But worry? I don’t think so, after all God could know the end to all our stories if God chooses to.
            Anyone who has followed this blog for more than 2 days knows I have a fascination with the whole notion of creating, creativity and everything related thereto, and in noticing fear, (especially today in others) I could not help but notice: Fear is nothing but creativity in reverse. Same amount of gas if you drove your car backwards (only with strained neck and more coordination required). But if you’d turn your car around and go with the flow…have a little faith…your gas could be used efficiently, your car doing what cars are built to do and your life a much smoother ride.
            After a couple of hours of “what if’s” and “yeah, but you’re not thinking of’s” I finally had to give it up. I had given it my all. I had countered skillfully with each dreary scenario painted. I had viable alternatives and resources available should they choose to look at it differently. I could not jump in their pits with them, but I was happy to stand on the edge and extend a hand.
           But the grasping of that hand back is theirs and theirs alone to grab. I can’t make ‘em grab it. I can only be there to offer and love ‘em through the rest.
           But it did occur to me as I watched not one hopeful word spoken after all this (except for me, who likes thinking on solutions, not overly long on the problem end of the equation, once established) the saddest part about fear? When you’re in it, positive often annoys. Helping hands can appear questionable. In fearful states, creativity is still alive and well, only most everything is painted dark. It sucks the life out of even the most positive (even probable) outcomes…It takes everything good and twists into worse case scenarios, which likewise, consumes a lot of energy.  I get that. But I don’t get staying in that for long.
           So when that time comes, I make sure to convey my concern…extend my offers of help…But to keep my own sanity, there comes a point I must remove myself, unplug, recharge, which for me means go write something, clean something or hug something. Any positive action helps recharge the spent battery. For energy spent on the opposite side of the coin can be just as creative, but mentally, soulfully, psychically, it’s debilitating.

TGIF! (Of Deadlines and Runner's Highs)

           Half the reason I love a deadline (if not the whole reason) is for the relief that comes in the seconds, minutes, hours (and if you stretch it…entire weekends) that follow~

            I once dated a marathon runner. Personally, I’m not into this kind of thing; got no gene for it. Just watching him train wore me out, though I did marvel at the commitment (if not the insanity) that drove him to head off in the pre-dawn hours of bitter cold winter to get his training runs in. I had heard there was this thing called a “runner’s high” …some zone they claim you hit where everything is surreal and endorphins surge your brain. Perhaps if there was a drug-like state to be attained, it made more sense. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Hitting euphoria was the only reason I could imagine that you’d even consider a thing like running.

            But according to him, runner’s highs are myth. “The only high in running when you hit the door” I recall him saying.

            If that’s the case and the only fun in running is not doing it anymore…well, thanks for the info pal. Count me out!

            But I DO understand about getting to completion. Tasks completed. Check lists checked. These mini moments bring their own mini highs and those of us with ADD live for such joys…Little bursts of endorphins! Little silent “atta girls”… Don’t know a thing about runner’s highs, but I live for deadlines met…and weeks well spent. I for one mean it literally when I type the letters TGIF, for I DO thank God and I DO love Fridays!

            Such was my day. Such was my week.

            Granted, it was a short one (which often trips you up) but for the 4 days that remained, we covered a lot of turf. Tackling the last of the Friday meetings (a full day in the city with lawyer lunches and printing press powwows) brought great relief. Nothing like a good and productive day, after which,  I clicked my heels three times and said, “There’s no place like home…There’s no place like home!” (And then Dorothy and her little dog, Toto said “Bring on the weekend!”)

We Got Your Goat!

   

     The only thing more fun than waking up to a bunch of happy goats, is spending your day with folks who love theirs just as much... Props to my peeps in Norene (that would be you Pat and Miss Katie)...Can't thank you enough for our day and the sharing of your wisdom and your herd.
     Shifting from "Aren't my pets cute?" to "Why aren't I drinking goat's milk already?" I welcomed the invite with open arms only to find it is just as easy to love a larger breed as it is my own.
     Welcome to the world of the Nubian~ the slightly taller, just as friendly, lop-earred goat! They hail from Great Britain; they have what is described as a Roman nose. They're just as people friendly as my pygmies only they stand a good foot or two taller and have more meat on their bones (not that any of us care about that). What we do care about is they produce one heck of a lot more milk that the smaller breeds, though for a first time milker (that would be me--learning the ropes) pygmies give milk too. (It's just that pound for pound, ounce for ounce, those who do this for a living usually opt for a larger breed, for which Nubies are the breed of choice.)

     It's a commitment for sure. Once you take to milking a goat, you can't miss a round and even being late can cost you and hurt them (that's why I'll be doing this only once I have a barn and some help on the premises). But I have to tell you, especially important for those of us who are lactose intolerant, goat's milk is the answer.
     There's nothing to compare for health benefits...But the real beauty of it is the taste! (Trust me. Once you taste goat's milk, you'll  never drink cow's milk again ~ AMAZING!)
     And did I mention goat soaps? Healthiest soap in the world for your skin... (Visit www.salemfarmstn.com to learn more~)
     Yep. This is the next chapter of Karlen's Garden for sure...It was a goat-lovin', note-takin' day! To my fellow goat lovers, we have miles to go before we sleep!
     Stay tuned!
   

My Friend A-J

            And speaking of friends…

            We were overdue a catch up, so I reached out to check her travel schedule…

            One of the greatest take-aways from my Div school days back at Vandy has less to do with degrees, more to do with the friendship I carry with me, with one of the world’s foremost authorities on first century Christianity. (Always fun when watching some History Channel special on Jesus and the early church to go “Oh lookie! There’s AJ again.” Yes, I'm bragging, but I'm darned proud of my friend.)

Professor AJ Levine has a pedigree a mile long and is the brainiest woman I know… (“intimidatingly smart” is what I tell her…though she never seems to get that). Having survived the bloody-red papers and final exams of grad school, the gift I had not anticipated was the friendship we’d cultivate after graduation that I'll cherish till the end of my days.

It’s also rather fun to have a friend who reads Greek—I mean, who gets to shoot an email at 3 am asking “Can you tell me what the original word really meant?” when re-reading a gospel.

Yes, AJ’s a jewel alright, and in addition to being one heck of a pal, she was also one gracious (albeit tough) editor on one own books involving Bible words and phrases.

But today’s catch up is all about her latest--a scholarly take on Jesus and his parables…(Did I mention she reads and speaks Greek?)

Can’t wait to get my hands on it. Turns out I get to do that next Tuesday night when the Vanderbilt Barns and Noble bookstore (the one on West End, next to PF Chang’s) hosts a booksigning in her honor~

For more information, here’s her Facebook link:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dr-Amy-Jill-Levine/101697769947338

Short version: Tuesday, September 9^th, 7 – 9~  (I know where I’ll be.) Come meet AJ!

Welcome to the Neighborhood

           It was a little overdue, but life’s been, well…busy. And not just for me, but for the new neighbors still settling into their new country home. We’d wave when passing in the drive. I did manage to get veggies to them the day the moving van showed up. But at some point, a more proper meeting was in order and today was that day, after all you never know when you might lose a cat or need a cup of sugar. What’s more, they’d already told me they loved goats, so they had to meet the kids.

            We set a time; I reached out to neighbors on the other side of me to join us as well. It’s one of those things that doesn’t always happen in the hustle and bustle of city life, but one of those things I think we need more of: just getting to know our neighbors.

            Turns out they’re both artists… She—in graphic design; He—a musician. They build websites for a living, which is an added bonus. They came bearing gifts of artwork and music; I gifted them with cookbooks while welcoming them to the bend.

My neighbor bud, Addison gave a tour of the premises introducing each goat and dog by name, while I whipped us up something to eat. Nothing fancy, and yet the kind of evening one imagines when thinking of life in the country—Knowing your neighbors is key…sharing contacts and references on everything from fence builders to veterinarians…Well, that’s just what we do in the South.

Welcome to Mayberry folks!

Welcome to Green Acres.

Bear Necessities

   

     Heading back from Ripley, I pull off for gas, while making a quick call home to check on my critters. "Oh dear Lord..." I'm halfway laughing "Looks like someone's been to Gatlinburg!"
     I proceed to describe the site at the pump opposite mine. On the back of the truck are a bunch of bears carved out of tree trunks...All shapes...All sizes...A variety of colors. Thinking "You're so Tennessee if..." I wonder if I can sneak a text pic back to my friend just to lend color to his day, but that's not gonna work because the owner of said art is standing next to his truck.
     Not to be rude, I decide I'll just ask if he minds a picture...After all, he can only say no.
     "Nice bears!" I holler to my next pump neighbor. "Mind if I take a picture?"
     "Sure!" he offers in friendly, neighborly way..."My wife and I make 'em. We carve 'em with a chainsaw."
     Upon closer inspection, this is no laughing matter. I'm actually very impressed. Not sure how one suddenly discovers they have a knack for this sort of thing, but there's talent in them-there-bears...My light-hearted jesting turns to serious questioning...
     "Are you kidding me? Seriously? You made those?" I move in to inspect. Some are sitting. Some are standing. There's a horse in the mix as well. By this time his wife has saddled up beside him.
     "Yeah" he offers. "Kinda surprised us too. Can't take credit...God's the talent...Sold everything we had and now just travel around selling bears."
     "We're on our way to the Grand Canyon..." she chimes in. "When we need more money, we just stop and carve a few more..."
     I was totally blown away. What started as a quippy shot to amuse a friend now has me reassessing life on the whole. If there was a joke to be had, that joke was on me.
    I drove away thinking "What a life!" I don't know an artist among us who doesn't aspire to live this way. The love of your life, a truck and two chainsaws. The rest is just one big open highway... Not a care in the world...Nothing but creating, adventures and life!...Honestly...what more is there?
     To my tree-carvin' bear-lovin' friends, God bless you. And thank you for my two-minute reality check. May the road rise to meet you and the wind be always at your back. I'll never see another bear that I don't think of you!
   

Ripley (Believe It or Not)

           

          My first trip to Ripley was in 1986. Fresh out of college and game for anything, some friends and I thought it would be great fun to be a part of the human chain experiment called “Hands Across America”. Although hailing from DeKalb County, TN, our assigned location for this hand-holding hook-up was a place called Ripley, which we had to look up on a map.

            We loaded my dad’s van with everybody’s kids and tooled our way across the state with coolers and picnic baskets full of fun. I don’t so much remember the hand-holding part as being anything special, but I do remember the trip—the picnic we had at the roadside park …the songs we sang to keep the kids happy. (Keep in mind there were no iPods, iPads or iPhones in those days. Back then you only had creativity to guide you.) Little did I know when encountering this place, what an impact it would someday have on my life.

            Fast forward a decade and I’m again going to Ripley…Only this time with a friend over a holiday weekend where unbeknownst to me, I’d make lifetime friends and spot a little country church that would change my life forever.

            As we approached the family farm I was given the cook’s tour along the backroads of Nutbush.  "Home of Tina Turner" as it's known, they’ve finally given up keeping a Nutbush City Limit sign in place—(Dern things just keep getting stolen.)

            I was moved by the cotton fields and cotton gins and the flatness of a place so different from the rolling hills where I come from, when slowing down to take a turn …there she was! The kind of church I’d been dreaming of (only in my dreams she was closer to home). But this one had the look. What’s more, she had a brand new church right next to her, which told me the falling down version was not long for this world.

            “Could you pull over?” I was gripped. Grabbing journal and camera I climbed through a broken window… It was love at first sight. Where others saw old, I saw only new. Where some saw rotting beams, all I saw was home.

            It took 3 years to figure it all out. There were committees to meet, deconsecrations to conduct. There were work crews both on the take down end and the build back end to coordinate and plan. But by turn of the millennium, this 1917 church was a newly constructed home crafted from a loving combination of old beams and timbers and modern conveniences (like lofts for bedrooms and working baths).

            It was my first trip back since moving her…The friends I made then had helped christen my home, but then life got busy as life will do. But thanks now to another holiday weekend, and a little stepped up planning, an overnight get-away was doable and I was happy to head back for the birthday of a dear friend.

            As I pulled off the highway named for Tina Turner, my senses came alive again. The routes were the same. A few new houses here and there, but the cotton and soy fields were just as I remembered. I rounded the bend where my church once stood and slowed to a stop. They'd expanded the cotton gin next door, but other than that, the place felt the same. The new church, now standing alone, shows a little wear same as mine.

            The reunion was sweetly sentimental. Good times. Old friends. We toasted birthdays, yes, but we also made time to visit the grave of the man whose farm I first visited, and paid a visit to another now living his days in hospice.

I knew driving back things would never be the same, but then again, I always feel like this when leaving Ripley. Who could know that such a small town would someday have such a big hold on my heart? But what strikes me as even more amazing yet, is to think it all started with a simple country drive on a holiday weekend.