Motherly countdown

Daisy [left] is daughter to Rosie, and is now our oldest ewe at seven. Audrey is daughter to Coral, and it's her first lambing season. Both their mothers died last year due to ketosis.

The anticipation for lambing to begin is thick in the air. As the bellies of my ewes swell to capacity, I can begin to see glimpses of lamb heartbeats in the womb. After last year's tragedies, I am more anxious than usual for this our 6th lambing season.

I have begun my annual techniques that generate eye rolls in both farmers and sheep - scanning each belly to determine if it's triplets again, feeling udders even though we are still 3 weeks off and udders won't swell until a couple days before lambing. A woman must provide herself with as many assurances as possible after loss.

I worked all weekend in glorious weather on the garden, the sheep stalls, trimming feet, prepping lambing areas, and tending to the graves of Rosie, Coral and their 6 lambs. I'm pleased the wild daisies I transplanted from the river to the graves are coming up again, full of life after being fed from the creatures below. I still miss Rosie. Tending a grave is comforting though. I've assured them this year their daughters will do fine and their lambs will thrive. More assurances.

I will hang simple white cotton prayer flags in the barn, made of my father's hankies...one for each pregnant ewe, and two for Rosie and Coral.

Motherly countdown

Heavenly: a short story

"Is this Heaven, then?" asked the little donkey, as they reached the place often discussed in the chicken yard.

"We still have our fur and feet," his donkey companion said. "And our ears."

A loud, but kind voice from way up high, rung down to their large ears, "This is the exact spot where Donkey Hill merges with Oak Hill."It was a very old Oak Tree, and the donkey gathered underneath her large arms and fingers and toes.

"What do we look like from up high, Old Oak Tree?" asked one donkey. "Do my ears look big from up there?"

"You look like you are just right, " the old tree said.

And the donkeys spent the day there, under her care.

Heavenly: a short story

Mud on the hill

Muddy continues to grow, examine, and enjoy....just like his handler. He loves dead Queen Anne's Lace and is amused that I had them all strategically located throughout Huck Hill...just for him. Ah, yes, anything for you, my young fellow. He went on his first outing today, to the feed store, and while Huck patiently waited in the car, Muddy learned that squeeky wood floors would not kill him.

And as we returned down the hill, the fog that had covered the clearcut all morning began to lift, allowing us to stand for a moment and encourage it on.

Mud on the hill

Donkey Diaries: Ground Hog Day

Donkey Diaries: Ground Hog Day

Dream

I had this dream several nights ago, and wrote it down quickly.

I was flying over the ocean, but could clearly see the shoreline in the distance, where about 50 people were going about their business. I was far enough out, and high enough up, that the people looked like people, but were unrecognizable. I remember seeing them as tiny specks of color, and remember too I could somewhat hear their chatter. I was holding Big Tony, one of our many cats, in my arms. I had no fear. There were no ships or boats below. As we were flying, I told Big Tony that we had to go back to the ground now, and began telling myself in my head, "Go down now", and we started descending to the ocean. Tony wiggled a little, and I said, "Don't wiggle now, I don't want you to fall," and he stayed in my arms very calmly. In my head, I was very confidant I would not drop him. We were still flying, getting closer to the water and the shore. The dream ended before we reached shore, but I had no fears in the dream even though the ocean floor was fast approaching, and I'd have to make a 90 degree turn to fly to land.

Dream

Bridge to paradise

The hens have been let into the vegetable area, through the 'Chickens only" entrance, to help clean the protein of hard working worms and bugs. The gate is strategically located so as not to allow in any small statured, black furred, half horned creatures- okay,I'm talking about Frankie.

Bridge to paradise

I open it

Every wall is a door...Ralph Waldo Emerson

The things we surround ourselves with, in our homes, our studios, our sacred places, act to unite us with past, present...and future. The beautiful wings of Lyndon Baines, framed in weathered wood, remind me of his presence, brief as it was. A fountain no longer working is a remnant of my father's garden and acted as a drinking well for animals I loved but like him, are all gone. Lavender of last year's harvest urge me to imagine this year's purple haze to come.

I see these things each day, repeatedly, as I enter my home. The wall holds a door, and open to a refuge from the nonsense that can often swirl overhead. From the east coast to the plains to the oceans of the Pacific Northwest, this wall is always a door...for me.

I open it

Amongst friends

Amongst friends