hello, sweet geese

hello, dear humans

It’s 4:44 in the morning and I’ve just returned from the cows. I woke up to the sounds of a cow mooing a sharp and trim little moo. Not a normal moo. Not a moo that belongs to an ordinary cow in an ordinary night. So I got dressed, pulled on my boots, strapped on my headlamp and headed out to whatever might be awaiting me. 

What was awaiting me was my “infertile” heifer and her triumphant rebellion against such notions - her slick brown and white newborn calf. A calf that resembled a cup of good strong coffee when the cream first spills in, but hasn’t worked its way through. She was cleaning it and speaking to it in her soft guttural moans. A sound reserved only for a mama and her newborn baby. Mischa, an enormous and powerful beast so tenderly and instantly bonded to the little creature curled up at her hooves. The other cattle were giving her a wide berth. All was well so I did, too. I came back to the house still vibrating with adrenaline and soon realized there would be no returning to bed for me. And so here I am, sitting in the dark with only a burning candle, a snoring dog, and the sounds of an off-timed rooster and a joyous mama cow wafting in through the window, accompanying my return to writing. 

See what I’m sayin’? Coffee with a fresh splash of cream.

A few hours later. Dried off by mama and looking a little more stirred. Two hours later, another calf was born to another good mom. And so spring begins.

But I really shouldn’t say “my return to writing” because writing is all I feel like I’ve been doing for a very, very long time. That promise I made to the geese - the one where I would have completed my book by the time of their spring return? Well, I’m proud to say that I kept that promise. I discounted the return of the early geese, the ones that came back while there were still snowstorms to come. “No way!”, I shouted at them, “That was not the deal! It’s not spring yet!”

Now, when the timely geese arrived, the ones that understand the importance of schedules and keeping the good goose creed of returning at REAL spring, I was there in the forest with my proclamations, “I did it! I kept my promise! My book is written!”. They honked their pleasant honks and continued on their way.  I took them to say, “Of course you did. We had no doubt! See you later, alligator.” Some universal thread reinforced with a promise kept. From my ribs to their feathers. 

One of three volunteer elderberry trees that popped up right outside of our root cellar last year. They remind me of my three daughters. A good root cellar omen if ever there was. I always watch for the swelling elderberry buds. Like sweet, miniature cabbages plumping under the spring sun.

With the book written, I’m now sorting through the sentences and paragraphs and trying to weave things into a coherent whole. I suspect I will be done with this process within a week or two and then I’m sending everything off to my first chosen publisher. Where I go from there depends on what unfolds. But that’s getting ahead of myself. I’m not worried about that part, I just need to get what I’ve done sent off. How that’s received isn’t the relevant part to me. Maybe it should be, but it’s not. I’m just satisfied that I answered the call. Where things go from here is out of my hands.

So, it’s not a return to writing. It’s a return to writing here on Substack. And for that, I’m both excited and grateful. I’ve missed my peeps!

While I’ve been gone, I’ve been keeping notes of things I’ve wanted to share with you all. I have a whole folder on what we learned from our winter camping experience and why this is going to be “a thing” for us going forward. Writing my book has brought me into deeper places of realization and insights that have felt grounding and connecting. That “connection” is one to my eternal spirit and to the profundity of love. My relationship with God has continued to unfold and touch parts of me I didn’t even know were there.

It seems to me that the more space I make for God in my life, the more I’m filled. Sometimes that’s uncomfortable and challenging. Sometimes its wholly quenching. I am an unknowing, clumsy infant in my understanding and practice of faith, but I remain dedicated. I have faith in divinity and a heart focused on witnessing the sacred. Maybe that’s as far as I’ll get in this lifetime. Maybe one day I’ll look back and think such a sentence embarrassingly rudimentary in my to-be-enlightened state. I’m not sure. But there’s that faith kicking in, trusting that I don’t need to know any of that today anyway.

Since the snow melted, I’ve been walking in this creek with my bare tootsies every day. Grounding and cold exposure and my heart’s medicine all in one.

In other news, I’m looking forward to sharing some things in our chat around some stuff I’ve been cooking up in my kitchen, some small health evolutions we’ve made (as usual) that have been helpful, and some new decisions and directions we’re taking around the farm. I’m turning my whole garden, minus the perennials and a patch of cucumbers and melons, over to my daughter, Ella, this summer. She’ll be using the whole thing to grow all manner of plants for her skin care business. It makes me so happy to see how her little company has blossomed. She is such a hard worker and she loves what she does and that’s the most rewarding thing for her papa and I to witness. 

I will also be sharing a rather transformative “procedure” that Troy (dear hubs) and I had done in Chicago a few weeks back. It’s shifted the direction of Troy’s ambitions in medicine and brought our relationship to evermore profound depths. But for now, it’s spring. My book is done and now needs me to give it a buff and polish. And then, it’s a return to a tent in the woods. This time a summer tent we’ll plant on a platform in the same forest the cold winter held us in. The call to be far away from walls and screens persists. 

We have had a couple of visits to Virginia since I was last here. Our granddaughter continues to grow like the proverbial weed. She is a tough little number, robust and resilient. It’s been such a joy to see our daughter bloom into her motherhood. She is just the kind of mama I admire - loving and nurturing, but with the awareness that common sense and stepping back sometimes is just as important in the development of her little one’s confidence and resilience. Also, at almost 18 months old, that little one has never been sick. Not even a sniffle. I will share thoughts on that, too. The little video below might share a couple clues: outside most of the day, bare feet on the earth, all them good farm germs and never washing her hands, and a calm, stable environment. Good places to start.

A fine little turtle spent some time with me by a creek yesterday. She was still slow and tentative after his long winter slumber. I found her as I walked through the rushing creek with my bare feet, soaking in the sunbeams and the electrical charge of the water swirling around my toes. I almost stepped on her. She stretched out her neck and took a peek at whatever that weird looking thing was by her face (that being my big toe) and then pulled her soft, vulnerable bits back into her shell. I stayed with her for a good, long while, letting the same water that danced over her shell and tiny little claws swirl and weave its way between my toes, over my feet, around my ankles. It’s not every day we get to have a bath with a turtle.

I feel a little like that turtle. Still slow from the winter, recharging in the awakening spring. I’m tired, but I’m glad to be back. It’s been a few months and, I suspect, that there may have been a thing or two that has changed for many of you. Maybe a baby has been born? Maybe someone got married? Maybe you have moved or found a new job or left a cruddy one? Maybe you’ve landed on a new homestead or just committed yourself to learning how to garden or picked up a new hobby? Maybe you have a big project you’re taking on or maybe it’s a small one you’ve finally finished. I thought for my first post back, you might like to share some updates of your own. I’d love to hear where you’re at and what’s happened since last we met.

I want to thank you, my readers, for your encouragement, support, and patience as I took the time I needed to complete the book I have long been called to. It feels good to have done what I set out to do. And I’ve missed communicating with you. I’m glad to be back. Let’s hear it. What’s shaking in your wild and wooly worlds?