Don’t have time to re-watch the
movie, but I’m pretty certain it was about day 215 when that Julie girl, blogging along to her Julia
Child cookbook, had her meltdown. And while no one holds blogs to
the same journalistic standards required of professionals, the journalist in me takes quite seriously the need to be fair and
balanced as my little garden story unfolds. To those admiring cute goats
and ambitious gardens as well as those concerned for my health in general for having taken on too much, well, you are right to have spotted it: there is a disconnect.
I want to paint as honest a picture as I can and what I am now about to paint, is
not pretty.
The
good and quippy news: Mystery of the Itchy Palm is solved!
The bad news: Sometimes it takes a
wake up call to make you rethink your strategy all together.
A week ago I blithely blogged about my itchy nose and palms, quipping that company must be coming and money close
behind. Meanwhile, the itch in my palms now goes round my wrist and moves
halfway up my arm making it time to quit speaking in wives’ tales and get myself to a doctor.
After reaching out to an ivy-resistant neighbor to
ask if he might remove what I thought was more poison ivy growing up my front
porch, we too soon discovered that it was not poison ivy. Ruling out one more
culprit while googling pictures of faceless, nameless limbs with rashes by which to compare this odd
occurrence, it suddenly hit me.
The pain I was feeling I’d lived before, last
encountered the summer of my junior year in high school. With parents newly
divorced, juggling summer jobs and college applications, (while dating a guy my dad was less than thrilled about) …I was, in my silent in-between times, generally sad for everyone around me who seemed to be in some sort of
pain ... for the family I could not keep together even if it wasn't my job to. It was stress born of the
inability to control anything, (where most of our stresses come from) the internalization of which netted me the worst
case of shingles, known to girl.
I recall that stress vividly. And while today’s
stress does not compare, (after all what’s not to love about a bountiful
garden, adorable goats, unconditionally loving dogs and a life I am living with
intention, not to mention how blessed I feel to get to do what I love for a
living, namely, writing)…I can honestly say, I cannot imagine a better life. (Granted, I would like to imagine living it a little more gently.)
“Overwhelm” is a word that keeps creeping into my
vocab these days…in my self talk, in my writing, my blogs. I know better, but
for some reason calling it “overwhelm” has me believing that I, myself, will
one day flip this capsized boat of mine and go sailing smoothly across the lake
of life. I spend a lot of time visualizing “Someday I’sle” …But when wake up calls hit you like this has,
it just might be time to release the oars and consider doing things another
way.
It dawned on me on my way to the doctor that I’m 3
for 3 with August and hospital visits. Year one I got bitten by a brown recluse,
and because I waited 2 full days before confirming it, I got to go through not
one, but TWO methylprednisone packs…the likes of which threw my body into a
zone I didn’t know humanly possible. (I now know why baseball players risk
their careers to get this stuff.) In addition to insomnia, the other side
effect for steroids is constant hunger. I gained 10 pounds in 10 days.
Fortunately, once the steroids left, so did the cravings, but for 10 (22 hour)
days it was all I could eat, all the time, wreaking havoc on my body.
Last August landed me again in the ER (again with a take
home prescription for steroids). Little did I know when I agreed to judge a pie
contest at the county fair that 37 bites of 37 pies (with a pickle in between to
cleanse your pie-lacquered palette) could shoot your Crohns right out of
remission. (Ladies please don't take it personally. I’d gone so long without the
ulcerative symptoms of my 20s I forgot I had a weak gene, but I was reminded
all too swiftly within two days of coming home from the fair when I landed in not one, but two different emergency rooms in a 4 day stint.)
Year three and here I am again—this time it’s shingles.
Pretty amazing how a body in pain can grab your attention. At points like these
you have no choice but to take your wake up call seriously; I slow down now to
reflect on just what it is I’m doing wrong (save for trying to do it all by myself).
Truth be told, I love the process…even more than
the end game, I absolutely love working and all the rote and routine details
that go therewith. While most keep their eye on the prize, I keep my eye on
the moment, which, as I’ve confessed before, can find me losing myself in a
sink full of dishes turning into a newly cleaned fridge, or the cleanest goat
bowls this side of the Mississippi. While I adore every phase of the garden
process from the planting, the tilling (I especially love the tilling), the
weeding and nurturing…That my plants come out healthy is a nice side effect;
what I love is the process itself…watching the miracle of life play out before
my eyes. But once everything starts to ripen (and sadly, it all comes in at
once) well you’ve got precious little time in which to pull it, pick it, pickle
it, freeze it…make massive amounts of food go into tiny little containers (all
done in a tiny little kitchen by one fairly tiny girl). Nope. My management
plan for the harvest is sorely lacking and I’m sad to say, it’s all my fault.
(Of course, adding guilt on top of exhaustion pretty much guarantees your
body’s gonna fight back, if for no other reason than to beg you get it drugs to prop
up on or ERs to slow down by.)
Sure friends come and help, but given the heat and
the downright work of the matter, the farm part’s usually more social than
serious…what gets picked is usually enough for the meal we will share and
all the veggies I can cram into your car before you go. (Like Jesus with the
loaves and fishes, things just keep multiplying, and multiplying...and multiplying.)
Let the record reflect, I am seriously in love with
farm life. Recently my mother reached out to ask if I had any regrets...Maybe I wanted to reconsider things…Perhaps
I’d bitten off more than I could chew…Maybe talk radio needs another co-host. A paper, another columnist. It’s not that I
hadn’t pondered that…But truth is I love all I’m learning. I love stopping to
write about what I’m learning. I love the whole life cycle proposition, only my
cycle is a bit outta kilter. What’s more, my cycle is a unicycle, and well…as
I’ve written on more than one occasion: farming is not a solo sport. To do it
right, it takes a village.
It’s a notion I’m pondering more and more seriously
these days. I watch a world of people, racing to offices, dealing in road rage,
dreading their bosses, hating their jobs and I think “How blessed am I…My boss
is a herd of goats and some plants that love growing for me.” (It is about this
time that I seriously ask God to forgive me for sounding so whiney. I don’t
want to give this up, so much as I want to figure it out. As I see it, for me
anyway, I have two choices…I go back to the city; resume a day job. Make money
the way I know how so as to pay to have farm hands come help …
OR
I create a village. Find others who share in the
dream. They are out there. I hear from them increasingly…from friends out of
the blue, to FB links directing me to others doing the same. There is something
in the air for this notion of sustainable living…Not sure if our cultural
subconscious is picking up on something (like those elephants that sensed the
tsunami coming and headed inland long before the weather forecasters
predicted) …or if we’re all growing suspicious of Washington politicians that are
nothing like us, leading us into mounting debt, thus debilitating our spirit, all while we are left to process our stress and frustration in whatever ways we might (and often in ways that aren’t good for us). If there is but on take away in all this, it's that farming is
no hobby. It’s a serious commitment with serious deadlines … and like any
serious business, you need a working plan in place. (My biggest mistake is I
entered it while already working another full time plan –writing cookbooks—only
I didn’t factor just how full time a farm and garden is. My admiration grows by
the minute for the Thurmans of the world.)
For me…a girl rather addicted to work in the first place, I literally
delight in the process even more than the end game (which is why I have so much
overgrown okra lying on the ground turning to seed. I grew so much I couldn’t
pick it fast enough.) What’s at issue is: what matters most, followed by “What
am I going to do about it?”
They’re called “wake up calls”…Those breaking
points in life where you can’t dodge the obvious anymore…It’s that point where
something stops you in your tracks (your own health, loss of a loved one, loss
of a job, a crisis or a life drama that forces you to stop, unplug and take a
serious inventory of your life while going deep within to discover just what
pea it is that lies beneath all those mattress layers you’ve been padding with)…
In the same way it hit me when my bankrupt friend
spoke of surrender and the peace that immediately followed…these
wake up calls, most often come as the result of something so shocking to our
system we have no choice but to listen. It must, in order to grab our attention
once and for all, bolt us out of our self-induced haze in order to affect
change. I can’t say I’m surprised entirely; I try to ignore it…fill it up with
more work, but deep down I have known something had to give. But it occurs to
me I’ve been hoping my wake up call would come much like my morning alarm.
(Rather than a loud honking noise that jolts, I have a dainty little Disney
clock, that wakes me to a music box version of “It’s a Small World” or
“Chim-Chim-Cheree” ~ Why God? Why couldn’t you give me THAT kind of wake up
call? Preferably with a snooze button attached.)
At this, God laughs. After all, what’s the point of
a wake up call if not to snap you out of whatever it is you’re numbly, blindly
not paying attention to.
As for me, it’s not that I hadn’t noticed. Nope.
It’s hard to miss the messy kitchen and the growing mulch pile of compost for
trying to salvage on the second round what I missed on the first. As I reread
morning pages from days and weeks past it was all I could do not to tear up
when I realized how much of my day I live in guilt, simply for having bitten
off more than I can chew, then feeling bad for having wasted anything like food
or time or _______ (fill in the blank…I’ve got an endless stream of things for
which the residual emotion is guilt…Being late for goat feedings, watching a
pup endure a surgery and not wanting to leave his/her side for something like work…Count ‘em up. I’ve got a million of ‘em….I suspect we all
do.)
Bottom line: it’s time for a change. It’s time to
admit, I need help. It’s time to surrender to those things I cannot change,
while changing the ones I can. It’s time for a serious soul search to ask
myself, “What’s it gonna be?”
Right now, I do not have that answer; all I have is
one very poignant question…(and one very itchy arm.) But this much I know…There
is a state that precedes these wake up calls…A warning if you will…Usually
several. You can recognize this state by one simple warning sign, and that sign
is: discontent. I like to call it “divine discontent” for if we heed it, pay
attention to it, stop and admit THE SECOND WE FEEL IT that “Hey. Something’s
not right here. There’s a rock in my shoe, and it’s uncomfortable.” Because of
our crunch on time, most of us will walk on that rock for a bit…usually long
enough to form a callous. But when that callous becomes infected and serious
attention is needed, well that’s when your wake up call hits home.
For me, the solution lies is recognizing these pebbles
early on…before more serious damage is done. But this requires a sensitivity to
pebbles that doesn’t have us saying, “Well, if I just stay busy enough, go shop
some more, drink some more, watch mindless TV some more…maybe it will go away...Heck, I almost forgot it was there...”
But I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t go away. The only thing that makes pebbles
go away is stopping to address the discomfort, unlace the shoe…shake out the
rock. This is not a “Take 2 aspirin and call me in the morning” kinda
proposition. This is a life habit one must learn to cultivate. In this day and
age and particularly in this culture, it does not come naturally. And just
because I’ve got others who can relate, well that’s no excuse for me to keep
ignoring the obvious…
And so I shall not. For me, it’s time to redirect,
regroup…come up with a new plan…A better way that not only brings relief to my
in my little world of one, but brings perhaps new ideas and alternatives for
others, for I hate to say it, but I take too much comfort in thinking I’m not
alone on this one…Just because others are feeling it too, doesn’t mean I should
keep walking on a rock.
I enter this week on a much more somber note.
Here’s trusting he meant what he said about
knocking…seeking…asking.
Ok God. You got my attention.
I’m listening.
