What Not To Do On Halloween

     Meanwhile, in my own Halloween way to make sure my own adrenals are in tact, I decided to re-watch one of the scariest movies to ever hit the big screen, by one of the scariest horror writers to ever walk the planet. Yes, for Halloween (in the light of day, before the cold and dark set in) I turned on my DVR to watch Stephen King's "Cujo" (Because I didn't make it till the end the first go around, and guess what? I didn't make it to the end today either!)

     And you wanna know why?


   
     Because CUJO and TJ sound too much alike! What's more, CUJO and TJ look too much alike! (Granted Cujo was a St. Bernard, and TJ is a Pyr, but Cujo's head and TJs head are identical in size and I guarantee you they both consume the same amount of food! --I know this because there was that one scene where Cujo's owner dumps half a bag of Purina in his bowl; TJ prefers his with meat, but the quantities were way too familiar.)



     If I ever dressed the big dogs like I do Minka every year, we're set. Not sure he'd go for it, but a little green drool and some spritz in his hair and I think TJ has next year's costume nailed!

Terror: The Next Big Thing

     I realize it's the season for fear and fright, but has anyone noticed just how much horror we're consuming these days? As if Ebola and political season weren't enough, everywhere you turn it's Walking Dead this or Zombie-that...Is it me or is our culture obsessed with evil?
     Channel surfing is like a walk through Amityville, anymore. Between Grimm, Witches of Eastwick,  those Returned people and Rosemary's Baby...it's all I can do to get through the commercials.  We've got Unquiet Dead, Walking Dead...Sleepy Hollow...the list goes on and on.
     And if television doesn't grab you, the movies will. There's Awakening, Annabelle, Jessabell, The Quiet Ones and the not so quiet ones: Afflicted, Insidious, Possession, Oculus, Sinister...(What's up with Hollywood and the one-word titles?) If that's not enough, The Haunted and Paranormal Activity sequels just keep on keeping on, and that's on top of your garden variety Dracula movies, Alien movies and those scary Chucky things. (That Ouiji commercial sends me leaping for the remote every time.)
    The thought of spending money, much less 2 hours of my life to be scared out of my wits makes no sense to me (and that's not counting the time I'd lose to nightmares), which begs the question: "Since when did we equate evil with entertainment?"
     I've resisted writing about it for not wanting to give it more energy, but the question sincerely haunts me. Then this morning, driving to an appointment, a news story lent insight. Maybe it's not the horror we're addicted to...It may be the adrenalin.
     Seems there's a new degree of haunted tours these days ... Your ultimate "experiential" into the horrific. As I listened to the interviewer described her "immersion" as it is called, it was all I could do not to change the channel, and yet I really wanted to know what was driving this trend, so I listened as she described the most sinister haunted tour you could fathom.
     For the sake of her story, this interviewer signed a release and was given the softer version of the tour (which means they didn't kidnap her; instead she met up with her host, only to be duct taped, blindfolded and hooded before being stuffed in a trunk) ...Eight solid hours of sheer terror, the thoughts of which me ask, "Who pays people to experience this?"
     Well, it turns out, plenty of people do. As a matter of fact, they have a waiting list of some 27,000 people for this one. And you know who in our population resonates to this most? Soldiers. Go figure. Soldiers! Theory was they've been living on such adrenalin just to stay alive, they come home depressed, wondering if they'll ever feel the rush again. In other words, their adrenalin highs have flattened; this is the closest they can think of to jump their juices again.
     Scientifically, even psychologically, I guess it makes sense. But it's sense in the saddest sense of the word. To me it spoke volumes to the unspoken casualties of war...The PTSD...The depression...The alcohol and drug abuse...We've thrown so much horror at such a precious part of our population  (and at such a young age for most) ...that now our cultural bell curve is grossly out of whack.
    The only good news to the story is that the proceeds from this went toward animal causes...It's not for the money that they do it. A can of dog food will get you a ticket.
    As for me, think I'll just send a check to my local ASPCA. (Those ads with Sara McLachlan's singing are scary enough for me.) But the concept of what's really going on beneath the surface of all this, or where it winds up leading...to me, is the most frightening part of all.
   

The Wobbling Jeep

     It was a moment worthy of a post. Probably should've kept both hands on the steering wheel rather than shoot video, but this activity had gone on long enough. I decided to use my social media moment and ask for help. What the HECK was going on with my steering wheel?
     The Facebook post netted me all sorts of info, scariest of which was,  mine was not the first Jeep to have this problem (dubbed the "Wrangler Death Wobble" which was enough to make me park the thing immediately). Sadly, I had already been to the dealership...even left the vehicle overnight, so they could take it for a drive themselves, but they insisted it must've been a one time thing, and returned her to me with all recalls updated. Sadly, the wobbling began again, just as soon as I hit 440, where it happens regularly, (though it happens other places as well).
     While sorting it out, I am reminded of one of our livelier Beyond Reason interviews, wherein our guest had a unique take on people and cars. On a show titled "Your Car/Yourself" Elizabeth Marshall shared that our etheric bodies extend beyond our physical boundaries (i.e. skin) affecting the aura zone around us, meaning that whatever was going on with your car was a reflection of something going on inside of you. It made for a most thought-provoking hour as she fielded calls from folks with a myriad of car problems, each of which she interpreted individually, as something to going on inside their bodies.
     For instance, engine problems were heart related; cracked windshields - something visual or something you didn't see coming now hitting your world. One guy's car horn kept going off, which she equated with his voice wanting to be heard. My own at the time, was that my clutch kept going out, which she explained had everything to do with me not dealing well with changing gears.
     Not sure if she's still on the planet, but if so, I'd be curious her take on my wobbly steering wheel. I'm betting she'd tell me I'm in need of sturdier direction in my life...or perhaps I am to steer clear of things that appear dangerous.  Or maybe she'd tell me that at this particular point in time, my life could go in any number of directions and I'd be wise to seek serious answers, and you know, she would be right.

Sad Sorta Sunday

   

    The day started out sad, and ended on sad, painting everything in between with melancholy. Some days you just need a good cry. Today was one of those days.
     I opened up Facebook to find a friend had lost his dog of 15 years--a  post that netted him 78 replies. It lent meaning to stop and reflect on just how much dogs matter, and how deeply we're moved by their love.
     I had gone in search of funeral details for a friend gone way too early. I knew it would be standing room only, as Cindy was a beautiful girl, a beloved teacher and an inspiration to all who knew her.
     I watched mourner after mourner share story after story in loving tribute to how one life can touched so many.
     I guess some days we need reminding of just how preciously fragile life is. We start with a date and end with a date and the rest we sum up in a dash. What we do with our dash is all we'll ever be known for.

Somedays it's more than I can grasp.

A Little Late to the Party

     Admittedly, I've been out of the political loop for awhile now. With great intention I've avoided political debate as was once my morning fare. I came home to simplify...raise a few goats...grow a little garden...You think you'd feel healthier just for making a conscious decision to rid your life, where you can, of the angst and anger, but no matter how hard you try, seems you can run, but you cannot hide.
     Discussions of health care annoy on a good day, for in our country, we don't have "health care" but "sick care"to my way of thinking. Add the additional hassles of self-employment and a family history of certain things and I was doing good to find a plan, period, which today I discovered, they've booted me from thanks to compliance rules...(whatever that means). The good news is, I NOW understand the anger. All I can say is, No WONDER this country is so pissed. (Nothing like finding this out on your way to a mammogram, but at least the nurses were sympathetic when I had to cancel.)
     Will spare the saga of how much time was consumed (read: wasted) on the phone today, suffice to say "I now get it!" Having personally met the newly overhauled website, I have to say I was amazed at its simplicity, for truthfully, there were only 2 questions beyond "What is your name?" and those were "What's your email?" and "What's your phone number?" (So the "fix" is to make it open season for every insurer in the world to call me repeatedly trying to sell me something? Dear Lord, THIS was their fix?)
     "Surely not" I thought. (But I thought wrong.) One company called 16 times, and that, because I came dangerously close to signing with them, only to be transferred from "qualified agent" to a "disclaimer reading person" in India. After an hour on the phone with the former, my one and only job with the latter was to give a simple "Yes" after each statement, while they recorded my voice. When his script reading sped up and the numbers he was quoting didn't match my notes, I made the mistake of asking a question, which meant he had to go back to the VERY beginning of ALL the scripts and start all over...Four attempts and me asking him to repeat something twice that I literally could not understand for the accent, and eventually I gave it up, saying "I'm best starting fresh tomorrow," (after which the telemarketing team of "Dewey, Cheat'um and How" rang my phone every 5 minutes until 9 pm).
     So for now, it's bye-bye mammogram. Bye-bye "regular checkups" Bye-bye anything responsible since I only get 3 doctor visits a year and none to a specialist or anyone my primary care physician might refer me to until I've burned up $6400 in out of pocket deductibles...(for the luxury price of $363 a month and a 70/30 split thereafter...no dental, no prescriptions, no nothing). If this is the best they can offer,  I'm probably better off not knowing if I'm sick... In the off-handed chance I get hit by a bus, I can only pray my mandatory auto insurance would kick in.
 
   

Master Garden PSA

   

     Ever since the county fair and until the end of the year, I meet regularly with about 2 dozen other garden-growing fools-- (They call us"interns") studying to become Master Gardeners. Even the phrase sounds intimidating, as you could spend lifetimes mastering a garden, but given my love of learning and need of discipline, I was drawn to the course for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the networking it provides, as it pits me with some of the most dedicated (read: diehard) folks to ever hold a hoe, led by folks who make their living from Tennessee soil.
     Everything from soil testing, seed identification, insects, blights, temps, equipment...you name it. The course tackles gardening from the roots up, led by the best professionals and specialists you could ever hope to meet, much less spend hours conversing with. (As much time as I spend questioning, even bitching about government, I must give equal time; this one agency alone restores my faith. I've said it before; I'll say it again. I don't know what I'd do without 'em.)
     As I've mentioned previously, the concept of organic (touched upon this week) is not for sissies. On this, the government IS going to get in your face, (and your barn and your yard), so strict are the requirements for earning this label. Year one and I got the picture pretty quick...It's one thing to avoid bug spray. It's quite another to keep the delicate balance of organic matter systematically working --(why I have goats). Little did I know that even buying plant nutrients in those big bags from the co-op will disqualify you. When they say "organic" they mean organic. No chemicals. (Even the good ones.) Think Amish.
     All this to say, agribusiness is booming. Were I starting my career all over again I'd swap my communications degree for an ag diploma in a heartbeat. (Not that one doesn't compliment the other; I'm just saying... if you've got a kid who doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up, this one's only going to get bigger as we've been complacent for far too long assuming our farmers would always be there growing things for us. Little hint to those would be interns out there. Little PSA for my local ag extension.)
     For now, the plan is to absorb all I can...Practice what I learn...and keep it green from Tennessee. My hat's off to the folks who make this, and the myriad of other resources available to folks like me --the would be, first time farmer.

Rafters: Take Two!

     Patience is a virtue, particularly when it comes to building. There's weather to contend with... scheduling to juggle... And let us not forget the human element (which is to say when storms blow through and your roof's not on, you may find yourself repeating some steps).
     The good news is, we now have stronger rafters, with better reinforcements. (Helps to have engineers for neighbors and contractors with insurance.)
      Meanwhile, as with gardens, so with barns: it takes a village. As for mine, we all have our tasks...

Dogs are in charge of oversight 

Goats -- branch management

Workers are in charge of spoiling things

And I'm in charge of sweet tea.

The Concept of the Collar

   

     Having lived this once before, let me come right out and say it: I have a rough time putting collars on dogs.

     Last time it was Ike, (brother of Minsky). Such the independent little bugger Ike was. I feared his whole personality might change, given the thought of a collar made necessary once he began to scope out (read: pee on) the boundaries of my Nashville yard.

     Tonight it was deja vu all over again; this time: Rosebud (daughter of Rosey; sister of Hix) used to her pen, but now, like her brothers, likewise wanting to make her presence known. Between barn workers going in and out of the gates and neighbors with treats, she's allowed out from time to time and loves nothing more than a final romp of the back lots before bedtime to check for coyotes.

     While they are family to me, I do realize not all pup decisions should be made as if they are fully human, lest they all be eating at our tables and taking over our beds entirely...(even I draw the line somewhere). But with slight hesitation given how "I" might feel were I to be tagged, I made the responsible decision to tag her, which of course, requires a collar. 

     But here's what I found interesting...

     My resistance with Ike (and tonight, again with Rosebud) -- was purely my projection...After all, "I" wouldn't want a collar. If "I'd" been raised with no noose around my neck, I'd question one now, and I felt quite certain she would too...(as I once thought for Ike).

     But this was not the reaction of either pup. To the contrary...my most independent and dog-like dogs LOVE(d) their collars...The sound of that tag bearing their names, only making matters sweeter for their little independent spirit.

     Never in a million years did it cross my mind (me, thinking of collars as slavery...a thing that "leashes" you to an owner...something that "tags" you with a mark) that this collar would suddenly bolt baby Rosebud (smallest of my 4 and the one regularly jumped upon and growled at come feeding time) boldly into a new identity.

     Tonight for the first time, Hix didn't jump for his sister's food. Even TJ (the biggest of my big-headed bunch) backed off.

     For once, Rosebud--smallest of my lot, submissive of the fold-- held her own, holding her tail high, all but strutting about the pen with her "Rosebud" tag-a-clinking against the metal clasp of her  brand new reflective collar.

     Allowing her the full joy of this moment, I opened the gate, and watched her circle the pen, stopping to see if her favorite neighbor was home before heading back in.
     Of course, Hix has a tag too...But for one sweet moment I gave Rosebud her day in the sun (or night in the moon as the case turned out)... silently humming "We are women hear us roar!" As she made her way to the porch for her bedtime "cookie" she looked up smiling (I swear she was smiling)  as if to say,  "Lookout boys....I've been tagged! It's official: I AM somebody and I BELONG!"

When Seasons Change

     "But the weather's so nice..." I kept telling myself. And yet it was all I could do to be out in it. With this many critters, you don't really get to sleep in, but once everyone was fed and seen to, I admit, I just wanted to lie down.
     No flu symptoms. Nothing achy. Nothing to send me into a panic (since the whole world is now on high alert thinking a sneeze could be Ebola.) It did occur to me (as I limited my intake of political talk today) "Dear God help our hospitals this (so called) flu season...If last week's Mapco incident was any indicator, I'd say our symptoms-watch will be set on "high alert" from here going forth and we won't know a sniffle from the plague.
     Still, at some level I kinda feel Ebola is partly to blame, not for having been sneezed on, but for  all that my mind (everyone's mind)  has been absorbing by way of news, talk radio and idle chit-chat at the bank.  For reasons unbeknownst to me, I decided to watch the panel hearings on what Washington had to say (and what they plan to do) and I gotta say, that only made me feel worse. (Cause face it. They've got no answers, and if they did, they'd have to wait till after the election so as to not present a controversial opinion before their constituents...Such leadership we have.)
     Truth be told, I think I've been in a funk ever since, and to make matters worse, where once there was a garden to throw myself into...weeds to pull and plants that needed me...Now is the time of year when gardens become big ratty heaps. Yesterday marked the last of mine, with the "pulling of the sweet potatoes" ~ Yes, I have a few peppers still coming in and I even found 4 new eggplants ~ But for the most part, 2014 is one for the books. While some people grow winter gardens, I'm not one of those people. Winter will find me testing my soil, scooping a bunch of poop around and getting things ready for next spring. But as for gardening (much as I love it) winter will find my ground and my body taking a much needed rest.
     I was just about to consider having my thyroid checked when I heard from a friend, with all but identical symptoms. Nothing contagious, just a lackluster feeling...something slightly agitative about it (restless was a part of it, and yet exhausted was another). Still and so...nothing I could put a finger on, so we blamed it on the weather, as I gave myself permission to do absolutely nothing (which is rare and something quite frankly, I hope goes away by tomorrow).
 

End of the Season

     Pulling my garden's last crop before days shorten and the first frost closes it for me, I today (in the sign of the heart) did something I've resisted all season: I broke down and asked for help as I began digging up sweet potatoes in the rain-drenched mud. (So large were these potatoes, and so full the vines sprawling beneath my soil, my first few jumps on the spade found me cutting them. I had miscalculated just how many and how far their reach.)
     One thing is for sure...I plant better than I plan. The planting, the weeding, the tilling, I love...the guilt that comes from being unable to eat it all, can it all or give away what's left -- not something I care to live again, though it poses for me, a puzzle to solve before spring.
     But between now and then, I rest.
     Farming is rewarding, yes. And the more I watch the news, the more I hear the fear, the more folks speak of "green" and "sustainable" and all things "life renewing"... the happier I am to be learning all that I am. But farming is, without a doubt, one of the most back-breaking, salt of the earth hard working jobs I have ever encountered, and one that (again, my theme) is best approached with friends in mind (both for helping and savoring)...mentors to guide...fellow gardeners in which to share....and helpful neighbors there for recruiting (and mine have been great).
     More to come on "Things I've learned this season" and "Things I hope to try next year." But for now I sleep...for tomorrow, I have (literally) hundreds of sweet potatoes to contend with (as they spend their first night above ground, sleeping on my deck, drying in preparation for proper storing).
     Goodnight Moon.
     Goodnight pups and goats.
     Goodnight cat, fish and frog.
     Goodnight and goodbye Karlen's Garden 2014. Thank you for your many gifts. May you rest to grow another season.

A Bit More Mindfulness

     Ever noticed when you've been made aware of something new, how that something seems to turn up everywhere? (Like buying a blue car thinking the color is rare, only to spot that same color everywhere you turn.)
     No doubt our minds have "selective retention" ...It's the stuff ear-worms are made of (you know...those tunes you can't get out of your head) ...But I dare say it is also the stuff of synchronicity.
     Recently I was introduced to the concept of "Permaculture" ...A notion of working with nature as we plan our landscapes, our gardens, our eco-systems, not forcing moves against it. By more gently working with her, not against, Mother Nature becomes our ally; we are able to accomplish more with less, by observing first, acting second. (Or as it was explained to me when I immediately wanted to know "What can I start planting to stop my soil erosion?" I was told the goal is 10 hours of observing to every one hour of muscle. (A concept I like more and more as I age...Sounds like wisdom to me.)
     To that end, I was moved (not only by the fact that this clip opens with a wolf that looks very much like my beloved Pyrs, and my Siberian husky, Darby from years past) by recent happenings out in Yellowstone. Thanks to one simple act of re-introducing wolves to their eco-structure, the total environment has changed and in relatively short order.  Rather than elaborate or commentate, I'll let the footage speak for itself. (There is a full length documentary on YouTube for those who care to know more.)  Until then, just ponder the possibilities...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysa5OBhXz-Q

Universal Healing Salves

    Along with Thomas Moore's The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life I've been introduced to another writer recently, who reflects on another time and place where people have pondered life's meaning, asking What's it all about? or "Is This All There Is?"

     Easy to imagine it in our day and age, with mindless television to numb us, blaring ads to detach us, stimulating games to entertain us, endless technology ever shortening our already shortened ADD attention spans...

     But to think that questioning life's meaning has been around  as long as we've had brains with which to reflect, well to me, that's a reflection unto itself.

     The following is an excerpt from The Four-Fold Way: Walking the Path of the Warrior, Healer, Teacher and Visionary, by Angeles Arrien, PhD:

      In many shamanic societies, if you came to a shaman or medicine person complying of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they would ask one of four questions:

When did you stop dancing?

     When did you stop singing?

            When did you stop being enchanted by stories?

                   When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?

Where we have stopped dancing, singing, being enchanted by stories, or finding comfort in silence is where we have experienced loss of the soul.

Dancing, singing, storytelling, and silence are the four universal healing salves.

The Politics of Fear

       

          There’s not enough space in a blog to properly comment on Ken Burns' (PBS) series on the Roosevelts, so may I just say, it moved me. Not sure which moved me more actually, Ken Burns remarkable talents or FDRs amazing life and story, but suffice it to say I have been thinking a lot about this man ever since.

            No doubt we all remember that famous line, spoken at his first inaugural, set against the backdrop of the Great Depression…our nation at her lowest.  We memorized it in grade school; we're well familiar with the footage. I was poised and waiting to hear it in the context of the story that held my grip and --there it was: 

                      “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself…” 

( Sadly, this clip of historic brilliance was followed by some critic who basically called the line a throw away, saying it made no sense...that it wasn’t that great a line, etc, and I’m thinking “I’m sorry. What was your name again?”)

            In truth, it was a line great then; and it is a needed line today. Not only was the line great, the entire speech was great. It was hopeful, it was uplifting. It was downright spiritual, embodying a  leadership sorely lacking today.

To be clear, this is not a commentary on Democrats vs Republicans, for here of late I'm finding most people draw their lines less between Rs and Ds, more between “us” vs. “them”. Still the observation hits home more than ever as I watch newscast after fearful newscast ranging from ISIS threats to Ebola outbreaks and with every other usual fear still packed in between. (Typical for this time of year being  flu season’s upon us, artic blasts returning and a stock market way over inflated...backed by nothing but our belief that we can keep stretching it.)

It may make for heavy turnouts come November elections, but that is not because we are for anything, but because Americans are notorious for getting out the vote when there’s something (or someone) to be against. So add to this mix the mud-slinging ads, the latest antidepressant ads and everything else that silently poisons our minds into thinking there is precious little (if any) hope and you start to understand why the America is losing her sleep as well as her dream.

While it is clear why FDR’s quote is so memorable, what we tend to forget are the words that came after...Words not just spoken, but lived up to. FDR did restore hope and he did show great leadership by helping Americans regain faith in themselves as the only hope for our future. In the rest of his speech are some of the most inspirational words ever uttered by a president (or a preacher or a philosopher for that matter)...I personally long for a leader who would dare remind of us this today:

“Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of the creative effort… These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto, but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.”

Holy Wells

         

          The day started out more reflective than usual. (Rain on a tin roof will do that.) My “get it done” gene was not cranking this morning, having given itself over to a quieter, more pensive mood. A number of things rolled about in my mind as I set about my morning routines.

            A friend lost her mother yesterday…I lit a candle, paused in prayer… my mind pondering ways I might lend comfort. Also on my “to do” list, my own mother had a doctor’s appointment (something made all the more sensitive in light of my friend)…This too, took on more meaning than usual. 

          I was in no mood for news. (It’s raining. What more do I need to know?) Rather, I opted to revisit Thomas Moore (not King Henry’s guy, but the modern day psychotherapist and author who writes on matters of soul). In Moore’s “Re-enchantment of Everyday Life” he suggests it’s a loss of magic that’s killing our joy, leaving our days devoid of meaning…our lives downright blasé. The thought that there should be a twinkle to things…(as opposed to just “getting things done”) should be a no brainer. But is it?  Do we really wake up viewing life as this precious gift to be savored? It was an appropriate message for the mood I was in.

            The thought sank deeper as he spoke of a family trip to Ireland, to search for Holy Wells…(Holy Wells, for those unfamiliar are spiritual founts of worship dating back to pre-Christian times. Said to heal everything from toothaches to mental illness, these natural settings can be found near churches and cemeteries…or sometimes out in the middle of nowhere, reminding even today that praying for something larger to come interact in our human affairs traces back a long, long time.)

            It wasn’t so much his well descriptions that captured my attention, as was his question: Where are our Holy Wells today?

            When I think renewal, or soul strengthening …anything to enhance the chances of a day going better than it would on my own, where do I turn? For bodies we have doctors; for minds, we have therapists. For spiritual we have churches. (A little sad we delineate these things, but in the Western world we do.) But what happens when each of these become rote? What happens when these lose their luster? Their power? Their appeal? Is there a place that holds for us healing waters today?

            I recalled my last doctor’s visit and how unnerved I was at the judge show blaring in the waiting room, supposedly there to distract away our wait time. (It didn’t work.) In the background phones rang; around me folks complained (some to each other; some on cell phones). How odd, I thought…(and worse, I felt). There was absolutely nothing healing about this setting.

            Then my mind shot to a recent request I’d received on Facebook, from a therapist I knew in name only…who had written to ask if my goats could be therapy…that a journey to the farm felt healing via the pictures; he wondered if I’d ever allow tours. I’ve pondered that request for a long time, thinking…feeling the depth of one who’s life is given to listening to and assisting others... finding his own “holy well” was probably way overdue.

            From this my mind returned to a morning email; someone from church with growing concerns over a political matter. On the surface, hardly spiritual, but it was taking place within the context of our spiritual relationship. Could we talk? (Or should we leave it be like the pink elephant it was becoming.) I applauded this soul for speaking it aloud, for others were feeling it too. His was not the first such email I’d received. Healing waters were in order.

            These thoughts comprised my morning…If I stop to think about it, these thoughts comprise my being…My very life. Each showed a need for healing…a pining for resolution…a yearning for peace. Each in its own way, was in search of a Holy Well with waters to cure, and yet, who has time to go to Ireland?  Could it be we have Holy Wells here, only we don’t know it? Or could it be that our Holy Wells, like our drinking wells, have become polluted with the rubbish of the world?

When considering such a place, who or where do we turn for healing? Where are our Holy Wells today and more important, who will be our keepers of these wells in the future?

            I have no quick answer. I ponder it even now, asking myself, “And you, Evins…Where is your Holy Well? Where do you turn for healing? The time I share with the people God has graced my path with…are these wells of comfort? Or have some wells gone dry? Are my day’s conversations uplifting? Healing? Or have some grown so predictable, that change isn’t even the point anymore. We're just familiar with our saga. That these thoughts arose amidst calls from old friends, requests from new strangers and the sound of rain hitting a tin roof made them sink in all the deeper.

For me personally, my healing comes through creating…(and very often in silence). Rafters being hoisted are sacred moments to me…Hitting my knees to hug big white dogs at the end of a day can work wonders, but what about others? (I’d like to think it’s everyone’s goal to have such a place…a ritual…a touchstone…a friend; it’s certainly my wish.) Imagine, if we each had our own Holy Well…how quickly would our world heal? Furthermore, is it even realistic to pray for peace in the outer world, if individually, we are not digging to find it within?

            Last week I and some friends contributed to a group digging a well in an impoverished country…Today I ask, who’s digging our Holy Wells here?  Impoverished countries have needs, yes, but what about the needs of impoverished souls? Where shall we turn, where will we go… when the world has drained us dry?

Playing Amish

   

           Much as it's been feeling like a barn to me, today it really took on the vibe as the guys hoisted and positioned the rafters that will soon protect my loft...
   
            So many details...So much talent in my crew...So much energy coming from the timbers that carry vibrations from farm families dating back to post Civil War days... So many thoughts and feelings as I watch it all come together.

       But for now, I lay me down to sleep and pray the Lord my barn to keep (dry at least... until its little tin roof gets to rest perfectly in its own little resting place for its next incarnation, and then what a wonderful sound we are in for when it rains!)
   
     Meanwhile, I have to say...As much fun as it's been watching these crews at work, it's been equally fun watching happy pups and goats checking things out day by day. Funny how they know somehow that this one's for them~

Permaculture: My New Word of the Day

            It’s a word I was starting to hear a lot. Like thermodynamics or some other equally lengthy, science-sounding word, it didn’t really resonate until someone painted me a picture.

            “Imagine you’re standing on a rock, looking out over a rocky plain with a bag of grass seed by your side. You spread seed in all directions and leave it to do its thing. Several months later you return to see where the grass came up, where the rains moved the dirt around; you decided to add a little dirt of your own to help it out. In the deeper pockets, you add a tree here, some perennials there. You spot the perfect place for crops that need sun; note how the water flows when rains hit. Somewhere along the way you might even position a cabin, working around the soil and creating a sustainable environment of self-perpetuating plants and green things.”

            (The picture is being painted for me to grasp a working plan for permaculture only I don’t know it yet.) The story continues:

            “Imagine this, you parents idea; you grew up here; you play here as a kid. Then you move away. Start your own family. Your parents die. It’s 25 years later and you come back to this spot and what do you find?

            (No brainer, I’m thinking: “Weeds!”)

            “No.” (I am corrected.) “You'd have a forest. If you had grown a linear garden you’d have weeds; if you’d grown a perpetual garden, you’d have a permaculture design.” 

            A term coined by a couple of Australians in the late 70s, with roots dating back to Egyptian times, permaculture is a system of sustainable architecture and self-maintaining habitats that work with nature rather than against it. According to Bill Mollison permaculture engages a philosophy of “… protracted and thoughtful observation rather than protracted and thoughtless labor, and of looking at plants and animals in all their functions, rather than treating any area as a single product system.”

In other words, we let our land tell us where things will best grow, rather than overhauling our yards to make it work the way we insist…(Cause usually nature’s going to win out anyway.) It’s not that we don’t put a shovel to it; we just put thought to things before we pull the shovels out.

            Think of nature as art.

            Think catching and storing renewable resources (rain, goat poop, hillsides washing away get repurposed and put to good use)

            Think permanent cultures.

            Think leaving the planet better than you found it.

            It’s a concept worth thinking about…One I’m going to test myself next go round (that would be early spring). For now, it’s time to learn more about the concept. (Stay tuned.)