Thursday, March 6, 2014

Left Brain/Right Brain


            In a pattern that defies nature and would no doubt baffle science, there is an odd wiring to my brain that I’ve come to accept as comical, if not downright delirious.
A creative at heart, I’ll be the first to tell you I prefer the right hemisphere of my brain to the left. Like a mother with a favorite child, I’ll not hide it. I confess. I do. The right, as science tells us is known as that side from which we create. The left, as I understand it, handles those opposite tasks required to exist in the material world: things like balancing checkbooks, organizing your planner…you know, the "left brain/linear” stuff.
I am blessed to have a life whereby I get paid for creating, however, as is with all of nature, the yin and yang must balance. When speaking on the subject of creativity, I remind folks that much as we creatives long for someone else to do the heavy mental lifting of things like…our books, our taxes, etc, truth be told, even a creative project is nowhere without a left brain to assist in bringing a concept to fruition. Let’s take for example, a new cookbook, designs for which are now on the drawing board here in my own life. From the creative standpoint, nothing fires my synapses like an idea coming through…(I’d love to take credit, but as I suspect every creative senses, we didn’t do it; we’re only here to spot it, weigh it, and get out of the way to allow the muse to do what muses do, but for the sake of this example let me walk you through how it works.)
I’m out in the garden…or inside cleaning dog bowls…in other words, I’m doing something mundane, which is why I love ironing and washing dishes, but I digress…Creative ideas come between the gaps of our linear thinking; trick is to grab ‘em when they appear and (my approach anyway) write them down.
A spark hits: I reach for a scrap of paper. (This is also my justification for why I leave so many scratch pads lying around everywhere, and a cup full of pens on almost every surface.) I’ll take down a thought; sketch an idea…and hopefully remember to put the paper in the stack where the other ideas are mounting.
With enough of a theme to get me going (the next cookbook for instance, is a gardening guide for growing the food, THEN creating it in a dish, i.e. a garden to table proposition culminating in ways to preserve the food left over, but again, I digress). Enough of these ideas start swirling and I’ll meet with my team to start mocking up the concept….But here is where the left half (linear) of brains enter in.
To meet with a team means I must consult the checkbook. After all, these are artists too, likewise fighting their own left brain resistance, but creatively open to working on something larger than themselves, as a matter of getting to create. Bottom line: checkbook checking is a left brain proposition. Do I have enough money right now to start a new project?
Next up? A schedule for production, which involves another set of cells stored in the left brain: the calendar, and mapping… the timeframe.
With budgets and calendars lining up, we toss in the third round of left brain elements…things like emailing, calling…i.e. setting up meetings to begin laying out said production…which is, again, all linear, all the time…(You’re starting to get the gist…)
On behalf of its right brain (creative) kid sister, the left hemisphere jumps into action and takes over for a period, after all, every book must have a page count, page dimensions (measurements for which I MUST have someone good at math)…In short, the creative process is a WHOLE brain proposition. So for as much as I’d like to abandon one hemisphere of my brain and put it up for adoption, I kinda have to keep the thing so as to protect its creative little sibling, the creative half.
I could go on and on with why left brain linear can’t be neglected (things like bidding out print jobs, shipping and distribution details, production schedules for delivery, etc…but again, I think you get the picture).
But where this comes back to amuse is when I have a task totally unrelated to a creative project. A real world task such as tax preparation for example, which is where this blog started before I took you down this creative roadmap to my head.
This week found me, as is often the case for creatives, in need of a deadline in order to get my act together and get out of floaty/creative land and back to the real world in order to do my patriotic duty. My bookkeeper gently reminds me that “business taxes come first” (something I swear I have a mental block for, which is why I have a bookkeeper). To me, this means pulling out the shoebox of receipts and the check registers and doing nothing more than tallying things with the help of a calculator no less (I mean, it’s not like I’m adding all this up by hand).
Edging far too close to said deadline for me to get things to her so that SHE can make the deadline, God graces me with a snow day…One FULL day I had not counted on to complete this otherwise mentally-torturing task. Hooray for small miracles, and what’s more-- I could not have driven out my driveway had I wanted to. I mean, God’s never sent a clearer signal.
In true ADD form, I head for the boxes, and when I do, I notice all the other boxes in a basement I’ve been neglecting for way too long by way of a Goodwill run, a yard sale or a torch. I’ll just stack one or two, I decide, after all, it is a mess and maybe allowing my thought processes a break before hunkering down will lend inspiration. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

So what do I do?
In a burst of SuperWoman drive and ambition, why I tackle that basement with a frenzy…a white tornado of organizational bliss, the likes of which I’ve been listening to self help books to get my mind around for two weeks now. I set aside books for McKay’s; knick-knacks for Goodwill; even leftover wood I bundle up to feed Thurman’s woodburning stove (after all, it is snowing the day I do this, so he probably will appreciate it).
In complete and utter justification of my irresponsible use of my own time, I conclude some 4 hours later that, no…This WAS a good use of my energy, (after all, look at the place! I can finally walk through it! It had to get done sometime, only perhaps… not this day).
It’s a pattern I’ve noticed for some time. I have fellow writers who have it too. A new project is to commence and an overwhelming urge to clean the desk (if not the whole house) overtakes. Something requiring nothing more than a butt to a chair, and I’m on steroids to get the laundry done.
I have no idea how this works by way of the wiring in my head, for surely there are synapses jumping the great abyss between my two mental hemispheres, but for reasons I shall never understand, but have finally come to accept, when I need to get focused on numbers or something insisting I start left brain first, get ready…cause something’s gonna get real tidy before the task commences!

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Tomboy at Heart

     From as far back as I can remember, there was nothing I loved more than a drive through the country, observing whatever it was real country folk might be doing on any given day.
     When I was very small, my mother would take my brother and me on three-hour bus rides up to East Tennessee to visit her folks (my Gran and Papaw).  I'd look out those big ol Greyhound bus windows and wonder what people in small towns like Rockwood did for fun, for while they appeared to have precious little in worldly goods, the things they had looked to be things I would've loved to have jumped on or played with had I been friends with their kids and left to think creatively while swinging on their Southern front porch swings. I loved the thought  then...I love it even more today.
     Fast forward to age five when my number one joy was going to work with my dad, who likewise, lived to serve country folk. I'd buckle up in the passenger seat of his van; he'd crank up Roger Miller and we'd tool through the countryside playing the cow game and singing "Me & Bobby McGhee" like there was no tomorrow. (The cow game, for those who've never played it, consists of counting the cows outside your window. Pass a church, you double your count. Pass a cemetery- all your cows die and you start all over. Little did I realize that Dad was calling the shots all along and always knew just how to kill off my cows before we wound up back home. You think I would've questioned why all the churches were on  his side, and the cemeteries on mine... I didn't figure out til I was well past college age, but I loved the game all the same for in it, I had my dad's undivided attention and we laughed a lot as we drove.)
     All of this to say it was no wonder I set an alarm this morning and woke up hours before. Why? Because today I was to go with my farmer friend Thurman, to pick up goat chow at a place he fancies. It comes from some far away county some hour and a half way ...a place known for its chow and its cattle and goat auctions (a county which shall remain nameless to protect those who might be doing the same in my own). Yes, he found a deal. But more important, this was about spending time and learning from Thurman.
   
     Securing feed is one of several items on my growing list of "Things To Ask Thurman" --things I am documenting so as to make sure wisdom like his is preserved.
     We were slated to meet at 9 am, but owing to a goat having troubles on his end (mine are done birthing) we were a tad bit late getting started, but once he showed up in his wooden-paneled flat bed truck, I jumped in the passenger side, memory cells a-bursting as they hit on all cylinders recalling back roads of every country drive I'd ever cherished.
     It was right at 11:11 when Highway 10 took us halfway through Hartsville (easily spotted by the big 'ol heart on its water tower). We reached our destination shortly before noon according to the rotating bank sign on the corner. In a matter of 20 minutes we had paid for and watched a kind soul offload a full ton of feed (having first taken down our tax exempt numbers for matters such as these)...Coming back, Thurman was kind enough to let me stop and inspect a 1990 GMC truck for sale in someone's drive. In short, it was a perfect glimpse of life in the country, the way I used to observe it when looking out the windows of a Greyhound bus on my way to see my sweet Granny.
     Yep. I wouldn't take anything for those days...Nor would I take anything for days like today which tap every memory cell my body clearly still embodies....I go to bed tired, but fulfilled, reminded all over again that some folks really do live life "Southern to the Core" ...and proud these folks are still around to teach and remind us all as to why that's still a very precious thing.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Ever So Slightly Guilty

Though I know this is a farm blog...you must know I come to this as one quite familiar with city living...after all,  city life (including all things business and dinner meetings) was my life for more years than I've ever been farming.

So when my much respected friend (with schedule far more cram packed than my own) made space in the schedule for dinner at one of my all time favorite haunts, I responsibly fed the kids early, in hopes I would feel no guilt if the dinner ran late (which it did)...Only problem is, the guilt kicks in especially much in moments like these...

So here I am in the city... Happy to have caught up with my cherished, and ambitious friend, sharing everything from political insights to business endeavors...

My one waking thought: Are the babies OK? Like a mom wanting to call the sitter, these images ran through my mind. Yes, I'm SO glad I fed the kids early (and thank you for granting me a pass like a teen away from her parents...) But isn't it curious that guilt still reigns supreme?

In my effort to find relief anywhere I might, may I just say it kinda made me laugh when the valet took over my vehicle...

Pretty sure goat chow in the back seat was never something he'd locked a door for....

Likewise kinda certain that changing out of mud boots while pulling up to doorman did anything to impress as I struggled to swap into heels. Then again, so goes my life ...

Rome wasn't built in a day...

Neither do changes to our own creative empires happen instantaneously...

Here's to reconfiguring our bricks one effort at a time...






Monday, March 3, 2014

Now Comes TJ's Turn...


For weeks now you’ve patiently allowed me the emotional saga of watching Rosey in all her maternal glory going through all the things a mother dog goes through in bringing her babies to the world.
You’ve allowed me the pictures…the life lessons…the many emotions. From the moment they were born til now heading to new homes to guard critters on farms all their own, Rosey’s  pups have tugged at my shirt, my coveralls and my heartstrings, reminding me daily of the true meaning of unconditional love, which you have graciously allowed me to share with you as best a girl can from start til now…
            Meanwhile, with estrogen flowing at an all time high around here, God’s sense of timing  (if not humor) …reigns supreme.
For no sooner do the last of the pups get spoken for, do I received a message today from one I had spoken to weeks ago about his own beloved girl (name is Lilly)…who is, shall we say, about to go through what Rosey's just been through provided we find her a boyfriend. The message from God here clearly-- to remind that karma (if not journalism) insists on the counterbalance of every story for “Now comes TJs turn…”
Feeling like some Yenta the matchmaker for dogs I eagerly say “Please. Come. By all means, TJ is due his moment…We welcome Lilly with open paws. I promise to put little eye masks over pups and goats when things turn amorous.”
So from the snowy drives of Tennessee, with temps too cold to navigate… while I was hoping to be sharing my gardening pre-game about now, I find myself bracing for “the rest of the story” as Paul Harvey would say. Come weekend, we’ll be covering dog-rearin’ 101, otherwise known as “Life and love from TJs perspective”~
 No doubt all stories have 2 sides…A Yin and a Yang to every life form under the sun. Well, now it’s TJs turn and my own journalistic challenge to convey TJs male version of these facts of life, which I promise to report tastefully, if not briefly, as he encounters his match made in heaven.
For Lilly~ May your journey be as joyful. For now, let's just say: TJ eagerly awaits your arrival~

             
             Life in the country…Never a dull moment.

Of Farming and Oscars


No doubt this will be my shortest blog yet, which is to say there is zilch in common between farming and Oscars (except for that year that Dorothy's house blew away, or the year Gone With the Wind won a bunch…but I digress.)

All this to say, this is the first year I’ve watched even a part of the Oscars having seen absolutely none of the movies nominated.  (“None” as in “Farming leaves precious little time for things like movies." If I’ve seen none since farming, Thurman’s seen fewer still…)

Still and so, the pageantry goes on; celeb watching—our national pastime.
Unless (again) you live on a farm, in which case the animals alone entertain; the challenges of neighbors up and down your lane make far better drama and the thought of watching someone else make a go of their life, while you have your own to live, is simply unheard of and out of the question.

(But didn’t Ellen do a nice job?)

Saturday, March 1, 2014

What's Food Got to Do With It (Got to Do With It)


I am blogging literally…from a goat pen. Pups and goats are ON my body as I write. The air is nice. I think I hear crickets (surely I am not hearing crickets…Ok. Maybe frogs…but then again, frogs?)
Bottom line: it’s cool enough to observe; warm enough to write. I may just toss a spool and call it a desk…Who can say?
So I come in from a long day of …basically nothing but catch up. Saturday in a small town for a small town gal is…well…classic Saturday. Folks who own their own shops, will work it til dark, but once they unplug, well… there’s a difference in the air on Saturdays…A sorta “if it gets done, it gets done” sorta vibe. The rest can wait. After all, all of corporate America has unplugged from Friday rush hour on… getting an ever so slightly head start (but not nearly so guilt free as their small town counterparts) …Still and so, as the rest of the world slows down, we get to catch up a notch…(but only a notch) ...one notch at a time... here in the country.
My day started as always ~ early, but kinda mixed (emotionally speaking). I’ve been sellin’ off  pups...now down to two…Doing my best to ask the basic questions (having been one to volunteer on rescues, and having asked these things of adopting parents in other settings) …
1)   Have you ever owned a dog before?
2)   How much land; is it fenced?
3)   Are you familiar with this breed? (To the lady in the condo, “No. I'm sorry. Crates in your bedroom, not the answer here. But I DO so appreciate your tender heart”…)
Bottom line: there’s a fine line between wanting to move on and resisting because your gut says to ask one more question after all, everyone loves cute puppy pics (and who can blame ‘em)

            I’ll spare you the parts about the many rescues established (day after day after day) for Pyrenees alone…After all, it’s a big ol jump from “How precious are these faces?” to “ Are you friggin’ kidding? The dogfood bill is WHAT?”)

            Point of this blog is lying beside me, on top of legs, next to me…Point of this blog is: Since when did food not matter?

            So I came in from errands that ran way too long…only to start the feeding thing post darkness. No biggie. I have flood lights. Everybody’s fine. Nobody’s being abused. (Don’t call the media.) But in the haste of my wranglin’ up pups, chopping up grub; opening up gates…yada…yada…yada… I spotted something, well, curious about the process that before now, I had not made note of.
            Before… come feeding time for a bunch of 7 week old pups (tummies and appetites for which are, (can we agree) always in “churn” motion) I began tonight's ritual. It started with me opening a door (now a gate) and singing our little first-grader-ish tune words for which go “Everybody-Ready-for-the-‘BREK-Fus” pen?” (substituting “Supper” of course, for evening feedings like tonight...I’d love to tell you I thought this all out. Not that brilliant. These things are mostly created out of heart and in the moment...)
Goal the first time I did it was to keep the babies following my voice and somehow tying it to the smell of the food I’d chopped up, and hopefully, tying the rest to the ritual, and yes (selfishly) to me: the nice lady who is not our mom, but who has opposable digits to open things like food and gate latches….(Yes, I know I overanalyze. All I can tell you is that pups come running when I come out the door with food.)
            All this time…I assumed it was the food.
            But tonight (a full 2 hours past when I normally feed them…guilt for which, will consume me at least until tomorrow’s morning feeding) I spotted an odd thing…
            Where normally these pups plow in, chow down, heads together, until all is consumed….This time (did I mention I was a full 2 hours late?) …they ate for a bit…but then they lifted their little heads as if to say “You aren’t gonna rob us of our cuddle time, are you?")
            Maybe it’s me..growing way too maternal in my old age…But I honestly think (no, make that “feel”…she writes with three puppies  strewn across the legs of a writer who is sitting in goat poop so as to capture this moment) … I honestly think/feel….It wasn’t the food they were alert and eager to absorb, but the energy (food being a significant part, make no doubt)
            But when these 7 week old puppies…new to life, food, sensory perceptors, etc…When these remaining three pups stopped…and looked up at me ….leaving food in their bowls for the moment…and sat up as if to beg...Well, may I just say, It was a Pavlovian moment…I think for me more than them.)
            They didn’t jump for food and food alone. They jumped into the process...the very ritual of being fed…(“fed” meaning more than their bellies)
            I can honestly say I have never seen a 7 week old pup leave food in a bowel. But when they saw me leave their side (to go inside to warm food for their mommy and Uncle Teej…I’m just saying…)
            These souls are so much older than I or anyone ever knew…
            And like Dorthy in the Wizzard of Oz…
            I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
            Goodnight Moon…
            Goodnight sweet puppies…
            Goodnight farm…
            (FYI…Here’s what it looks like from laptops in goat pens on a Saturday night in Tennessee…)
            Again, may I just say… Goodnight Moon.

The Bluer My Day . . .

The Bluer my Porch? Call it ADD. Call it OCD. Call it "Karlen's preferred method come time to try catapulting herself out of a fu...