I once was a shepherdess

Little Sylvia Pettini is now three and she has blossomed and grown well, even her bad eye is normal. She had a rough start–she almost died after her now retired mother, Calla, who also lives here, rejected her and had mastitis. Sometimes I have to look twice as they look so much alike. Their wool is beautiful. She and her elder mother will live out their days here.

Of the many faces of animals that I've known since living at Apifera it is perhaps the faces of my old flock out West that come to me more often than you might think. I think this is because for starters, I raised them, I watched them get old, I buried them. We were a team. Until you've raised livestock-for whatever your reasons-you will not understand, it is not the same as owning sheep or livestock, raising them is an entirely different relationship. I suppose too one's intent in raising animals is entwined in the outcome. I loved being a shepherdess, as hard as it could be. I loved being their flock leader. One of the hardest parts in leaving the old farm was leaving my flock. I knew it was unfair to bring them to Maine and was unsure of what our land was like here. I did the right thing. They were hair she and it makes more sense to have wool sheep here I think. I chose to euthanize my two weakest and oldest ewes who were on their last year, but I wanted that end to be with me.

I sent some of my flock to live with young farm family and the rest, including that year's lamb's stayed with the new owner. I had many communings with my girls before we left, and I know they wanted to stay-it was the land they had been born on, it was what they as a flock were embedded in-their mothers and sisters, sometimes children or great grandmothers were buried there. While they respected my place in the flock, it was the land that was their true bond.

Besides learning about animal husbandry and all that goes with it-lambing, medicines, fixing broken legs, saving a sheep torn up by a dog, sewing up a prolapsed vagina to name just some of the acquired skills-I learned so much about animals and my place as a human amongst animals by raising sheep. It helped me clearly understand my specific place in the Nature, on Earth. Having been a vegetarian for seven years before moving to the farm, it helped me sort out the conflict of loving animals, and eating some. Some of you might not understand that, some of you might be angered by that...but you are you and I am me and I am grateful I got to live on a farm and watch Nature-not control it or demand it fit my morals-and decide what was right for me and our farm. Some people never get the chance to live emerged in Nature and land so I am grateful for that time there as a shepherdess. I don't miss lambing though or all that went with it, it was a beautiful time of my life, and now I have shifted ever so slightly to be exactly where I am meant to be, still in Nature amongst animals, and elders–but I come with those years of experiences that shaped me.

We lose an elder...the beautiful Assumpta

I had to go work on a downed wire in the field this morning. It was only 70 but ninety percent humidity so I was focused on getting done as soon as possible. I had let the sheep and Birdie out of their paddock where they stay at night, and fed the equines. It was all routine. I wasn't paying too much attention to anyone, and then I realized,

There is a sheep missing...Assumpta...

I figured she was hanging low back at the barn due to the high humidity. In the past year, I've noted she is laying down longer, and more. Sometimes she doesn't get up to eat her hay as quickly as she used too. I knew her life was probably more like months versus years. Sheep are very good at carrying on until one day, they don't. It would be a deadly thing for a sheep in a flock to act sick. They are programmed to stay alive, and stay with the flock for security from predators.

I headed back to the barn to check on her, Martyn was close behind working on other projects. And then I saw her lifeless body in the distance. I knew she was gone. I cried out to her, and ran, but she was dead. By her appearance, we think she died early evening. There was no sign of distress from her body, and there were no marks on the ground indicating she had been pawing the dirt. I like to think she went to the back corner to be on her own, to sleep after the sun went down, the ground was probably cooler in that area. Maybe she just dozed off, and never woke up.

Just last night when I brought the girls up from the field, they were panting. Sheep can't sweat, so pant. Assumpta was there and I scratched her chin and told her to hang in there, the weather was supposed to be cooler in a day. I'm so glad I had that brief interaction with her. Assumpta was not one of the more personable sheep, she was like a stern but fair matriarch that didn't need a lot of hands on attention. She was a Blue Leicester cross and had the most beautiful wool. I have yarn from last season, and still have to skirt her fleece from this year. I will have to do something really special with it.

I let the sheep wander over before we dug the grave. They of course already knew she was dead, as did Birdie. As Martyn dug the hole, I picked her a bouquet, and White Dog examined the dirt and hole. We laid her body in the grave, covered her eyes, and buried her with earth. And White Dog sat with me the entire time. Martyn placed one large rock on top, and White Dog marked it as we were leaving.

Don't worry, I'll keep my eye on the grave, was his intention.

I was sad, but also relieved for her. I knew this winter would be hard on her, and she picked a good time to die. She won't have to deal with biting flies and heat, and we could bury her quickly so she could be on her way. I always feel the burial is an important part of the spirit's journey, it is the final goodbye of those of us left behind, and until we let go, they can't totally be free for the intensity of their next journey. That is what I believe.

I went back to the house to cool off, and came back out about an hour later. White Dog was in the shaded barn, and I sat with him, we did our eye to eye conversation without words, and I took the photo of him you see below. I started to leave, but he put a paw up to hold me in my position. I took this to be a simple statement from him,

It's all okay, she's gone now, it's all okay.

And of course, it is.

Thank you for your beautiful wool, Assumpta, I am honored we could care for you in your final years.

Daily love fest

Their wool coats keep them warm

All is well after we got some more snow, temperatures are rising and I swear I smelled some spring in the air. A girl can dream. Here are some faces you've come to know in love, spending their days as they should, true to their own souls. And the new elder goats have been named! Girl George for the hermaphrodite, Frieda [which means 'elf strength] and Else-they are all wonderful goats, I love them.

Hilde on the left and Friede on the right

Hughie never tires of sun naps

And the White Dogs get their weekly wolf play date

We are blanketed in beauty

Such beauty, the snow changes character with each storm. Yesterday's fluff has crystalized making our footsteps a little earthly symphony of crunches.

First snow, big week

We had our first snow, a beautiful six inches or so and it is so welcome. I love winter here [I do get a bit cranky come early April if things aren't going as I'd like]. White Dog is just thrilled, he sleeps in it, eats it, rolls in it...it is his element. In winter, the sound is different, a quiet blanket covers everything and you can hear the snow when it falls. The front road slows way down even though it already has by this time of year. And let's not forget, there are no flies.

It is going to be a busy week! We have Opie's first birthday and he has two therapy visits scheduled, along with a birthday party with his elder friends in Wiscasset. I'm not sure his ego will recover.

All this week, I am attempting to fund raise another $1000 to add to the barn fund. I have a fundraiser on Facebook, but you can also just donate here and I will add it to the pot-it all ends up in the same place. All donations go into the Apifera account and are tax deductible. Opie is pretty happy just as he is, but if he could talk, I think he'd ask for a dollar or two for the barn-he knows the new barn will bring more animals, and also he is hoping maybe he can venture out there and nap with the donkeys. He says he doesn't get to be with the donkeys enough.

It is also the season of the Garland Festival. I will share all that as the week progresses.

"I'm going as fast as I can"

The morning chores and feeding actually begins at 5:30 a.m. I'm still in bed but that is when the animals note that the front porch light comes on and Martyn lets Muddy out which makes Marcella bark and then the pigs squeal. But they stop, because they know this is there are other things that must happen in certain sequence before their breakfast. It is not until they hear Martyn's truck leave, and then they hear the front door open again and I let the blind pug-then Marcella barks again and the pigs begin their second squeal session. This second pig squealing lets the entire farm know that breakfast is really close.

When Benedetto sees me walking to the front barn, he wags his tail even though he is quite far from me, and I always wave to him.

And the pigs squeal again but this time they don't stop until they each have grain in front of them. The rooster is crowing and the cats are scratching at their door and Marcella likes to taunt Moose and Goose while getting ready for breakfast. I feed the hens and Opie invariably gets in the coop and I have to tell him,

"You are NOT a chicken," and he scurries out with me.

As I leave for the outer barn, Benedetto is always there at the gate, his giant nose greets me before any other part of his body. The donkeys then bray and the sheep and llama wander out to see if perhaps they will get some grain-but they never do, and they know to return to the barn this time of year where hay is laid out for them.

Meanwhile, Boone is front and center at his station in the barn anticipating his hay and Matilda positions herself at private eating area where she gets a bucket of senior feed away from the others. Old Sophie has entered the barn because she knows she gets her own special breakfast there where she is assured privacy.

And in the background are the grumblings of The World's Grumpiest But I'm Fine As I Am Pig, aka Rosie, who is both delighted it is breakfast but also annoyed she has been awoken, again, and that it is quite chilly.

Between greetings and feedings, I usually calmly tell them,

"I'm going as fast as I can."

I don't think they believe me, except Benedetto who takes everything in stride.

I return to the front barn-I have to let Maxine, one of the elder cats, out of her crate where she is fed to ensure calories, and I usually sit with the cats for a spell. I often look over into Marcella and Earnest's suite and depending on the time of the day, the sunlight can be so beautiful on the straw.

Morning has broken on Apifera Farm.

Lillian and The Sunflower Sisters

Animal Conversations: The llama speaks, doesn't she?

Birdie popped her head into the barn the other morning, while I was finishing some cleanup of hay spread by sloppy chewers, and then she departed as quickly as she had appeared. I took this to mean she was just letting me know she was getting out to the field again. the flock comes and goes from the larger field this time of year, they get to eat there in the day and the equines eat there at night. This time of year rotating fields is even more important with the grass beginning to fade.

I didn't think much of it. I had to water the vegetable garden so followed her outside and there she was, standing with the small flock, calmly. White Dog was already out doing his daily periphery check of the fence, his morning obsession and of course his job.

I stood and watched.

You know I have a vivid imagination–we aren't a Disney movie but I have many moments in my life including when I didn't live on a farm, where the scene in front of me comes with a soundtrack, or maybe another way to look at it is I am always seeing scenes as story with sub titles. Every minute of the day can be a story. I get great amusement out of my minute by minute stories here on the farm, or comfort, and sometimes even clarity about internal struggles. The animals I guess are conduits of perspective just like a good Shakespeare play.

The sheep had gathered at the newly opened gate, saw Benedetto had run down to the bottom of the fence line to make sure there weren't any prehistoric elephants or bears and they began to gather themselves into a tidy line, just like I used to do as I entered a subway car in Manhattan decades ago, preparing myself to get in line to get the seat to get to the office.

But it wasn't until they were in a tidy line that Birdie turned her head to them, ever so slightly but deliberately and if there had been a sub title in a Disney movie, she would have said,

"Slowly, one at a time, go on now."

And as I turned to go back tot he house I heard the faintest voice of the smallest sheep voices call out to Birdie,

"Llama! Look, I'm fourth in the line today instead of last!"

"Good work, Sylvia, good work," the llama said.

Arms of The Sea, May Sarton, E.B. White and me

I'm finding that the Maine Apifera is so very different than the Oregon one. And of course it is, it has to be, it was meant to be different, not only for our evolution as Martyn and Katherine, but because all things have a time and place, and life is fluid.

I can't quite pinpoint what we and this place evolving into...yet. I mean, I know we will care for elder and special needs creatures like we did out West, I know I am a writer and artist and will always be an artist, and Martyn continues to landscape...I know all that. But it is different. And regenerations of self take time to show their true faces. I'm not worried. It's a nice thing of being 59 versus 44 [my age when we moved to the first Apifera], with age and the coming of the final quarter of my life comes more patience. Me? Patient? Well, much more than as a young, alabaster skinned woman.

I also remember when we moved to the Oregon farm, my illustration career was shifting wildly [as were many in the field] and I was evolving myself as an artist-it was scary and exciting. That is what is going on now. I had just started writing-in my head-and it wasn't until about two+ years into the farm that I started finding myself again, and started my blog and writing in earnest. So much happened.

But there is a quietness to this place, more so than out West. We had fog back there and I loved it [except driving in it of course] but the fog here is different. We can see the sea's beginning rivers and bays across the road and I think of the fog here as an extension of The Sea's arms, wrapping me, pushing me down to rest at times, covering my animals and barns when they need to be protected. The Sea and I are just beginning to communicate-or I am just beginning to listen to her.

I was turned on to the books of May Sarton back when I was living in Minneapolis, and I was seeking a country life-somehow. Two years later I'd be living in Portland, meeting Martyn, and then living on a farm, finally, a year later. And here I am in Maine. The other day I picked up one of the May Sarton books and skimmed some of it. Her writing had a huge impact on me-for one, it made me want to write and eventually I did. It also was giving me the inspiration and courage to keep looking for my place of solitude, my country home. May Sarton had left her New Hampshire home that she loved, after feeling compelled, pushed to by internal forces to find a place more remote or protected, and she ended up by the sea in Maine. I had forgotten she moved to Maine! And it just struck me so hard-that even back then Maine was in my front window, it was in my soul and little messages were being planted in my highway map.

Back in Oregon, about three years before we moved to Maine, I picked up a copy of a book about E.B.White and how he wrote "Charlotte's Web". I was fascinated by it because it showed how in his real life things were happening that became part of the book. To a non writer that book might be boring, I loved it. But again, Maine was in my forecast.

I also had a teeny flash as I was looking at the May Sarton book that perhaps I will end up even closer to the sea.

Hundred words for snow

It happened.

We had our first real snow, a beautiful blanket of snow, with snowflakes all day yesterday that came down in different sizes, large snowflakes, some wet looking gin the sky as they fell. I had been looking forward to the winter here in Maine since arriving. Yes, that's correct, looking forward to winter. It is by far my second favorite season right after fall, with summer being my 'carry on and endure" season.

Winter and snow are, for me, full of a deeper form of communication, not only with myself, but with nature and therefore with my creative soul which is wrapped in nature. The fallen snow covers, but it hides things and one gets to rediscover them if we pay attention. I walked from the Misfit barn to get to the pig water bucket, and tripped a bit...it was the hose we had not picked up yet. It left a faint mountain range, the hose, with the snow on it. An entire new shape was created with the snow over the hose. In Japanese there are many words to describe the different forms of snow. "Yuki" means snow, but "yuki-boshi" means the little hat shapes that form when snow covers an object.

So I admired all the yuki-boshis yesterday.

The White Dogs love the snow, Benedetto especially. He was not a fan of rain. I knew he would thrive in Maine. He lays around in it, plays in it, eats it, sleeps in it into the dark night. The sheep's thick wool coats are like yuki-boshis too. The Eskimos have over a hundred words for snow. "Jatla" means snow between your fingers and toes-we all had that too.

I sense that Maine is bringing me something I needed, that for whatever reason, I had to get here, and nowhere else, not Oregon, not any other place on the planet. I had to come to Maine for the next step of my journey. It will be about going inward more, a deep journey. I also realized I have been hesitant to fully engage here, but that changed a few weeks ago. Perhaps it was the fact six months have past and I am over the shock phase of leaving our land in Oregon. The land played a crucial role in my art and psyche there, and it shaped my stories in ways that only that land could. My image was wrapped up in a pastoral feeling there, this property is different, and it has taken me some time to come to terms with it. It is more of a village feeling here on the property, very New England, meaning the Misfit barn sits about 30 feet from the house, and the new barn we built is about 150 feet from the Misfit barn. Everything is spaced more tightly. Houses often sit on the main roads here, very common in many winter climates. Our sits slightly back, about 100 feet, but it is not a feeling of being 'way out in the wild west' like the old place in Oregon. I had to come to a sense of peace with that. The road itself has been a real hardship on me. But I have come to a new understanding about that road. Rather than see it as an annoyance, {I am very sensitive to sound but also the vibrations that sound enfolds -it is not just the sound of cars driving by, it is all that comes with it, the feelings of that driver, all the stuff that driver is carrying and transmitting, it all astounds my senses}–I am now seeing the road as an entity, a bringer of news, a conduit for something that is going to come into my life that I can't grasp yet...who knows who will drive on that road by Apifera and meet me. The old farm was one thing, this Apifera is something else, and I am ready to embrace it.

Anyone seeing the farm in the snow, yuki-boshis all around, the sounds of the creatures, the wind over and through The Wood, they would feel its magic. I have felt it too, but it was the snow that highlighted my new sense of wonderment with this place, this Apifera-not the old one. The land here is more reserved, less embracing, to the newcomer. But its been waiting for me, as the house has, to relax a bit, and fully accept my environ.

Little Sylvia Pettini

Little Sylvia Pettini is doing very well. She has not quite caught up in size with her mates, but is gaining weight and eating well. And also I'm pleased her left eye is healing. She definitely has a slight scar on the interior eye from where she lay on it so much as a sickly newborn, but she no longer holds it shut and I am not treating it any more.

She is just the sweetest little imp. When I look out in the field she is the one that most looks like a little woolen doll. She always comes up to visit and welcomes hugs and holding. Actually this flock is so personable, and if I'm kneeling with Sylvia, one by one they all venture over. I wish I could have some pics of me and the flock. For now I take these rather silly selfies, and ponder at how old I am getting, nearing 59 soon.

Leaves like potato chips

Mother Earth puts her colors together so well. I was looking out the window at the hydrangea pinks next to bold oranges and thought,

I'm not sure I'd do that in a painting, but maybe I should.

Mother Earth, the painter and weaver of color and texture with the flock's gray's and buff's backdropped with The Wood is so beautiful. I haven't been in a New England autumn since the '80's and it is just as spectacular as I remember it. As a child in Minnesota our falls were beautiful too. At the old farm, we had leaf drop off but it was more like November and we didn't have the old trees around the house except Old Walnut, and of course we did not have the reds and oranges.

My leaf carpet goes everywhere I go right now, and certain animals treat the leaves like an open bag of potato chips-especially old Scooby Keith, he just loves the fallen leaves.

{As you meander through your autumnal day, please consider visiting the Kickstarter page for the new book project, "Itty Bitty & Big Etta" which is the complete opposite of the campaign season. I need your support and love. Thank you.}

Well, I guess it is pretty magical here too

After stacking wood all afternoon, we stopped at four and I looked out and saw all the animals in their fields, with the reds and ochres just beginning. It is a light gray today-both the air and sky-contrasting beautifully with the many white animals and autumn colors.

I was driven to go stand under M'Lady Apple, whose little tiny red fruits are falling abundantly, feeding sheep and goat and wandering dogs and llama. It was all very beautiful.

"I guess it is pretty magical here too. It's just taking me a little bit of time to always see it," I admitted tot the sky.

But when a mix of llama, goat, horse, sheep and donkey passed by, I could hear someone, or something, say...

"Look! A walking magical place!"

Rosie goes outside! Tripod hurts his nose! The Head Troll lines them up!

I sometimes wonder if our pull to Maine had nothing to do with our guides, it had to do with guides for the well being of The- World's-Grumpiest-Pig-I-Am-Fine-As-I-Am-Pig, aka Rosie. A couple years ago, I found Rosie shivering in a light rain. This was very unusual as she hates rain, and hates to be chilled. And she was nowhere near the barn stall she liked to sleep in. She was closer to Old Barn so I got her in there and bedded her down in an old lambing pen.

She never left. In fact, even in the new spring warmth, she refused to go outside. She had always loved the warm sun baths she took in her first years at Apifera. It saddened me, but she just was content in her large suite, bathed in Old Barn's light.
I suspect it had something to do with the arrival of Eleanor, who had come to mate with Earnest. And Rosie is no match for Eleanor.

Well, fast forward to Maine. Rosie again has her private suite, but it is next to the sheep pens. She is uninterested in being friends with anyone. You all know her only friend long ago was Stevie the goat, but he even started sleeping in another area as Rosie grew to like being alone. She likes to sleep, that is about it these days.

So I was really happy that in the last three days, she has been outside waiting for me for breakfast. And she eats outside. She goes right back to bed, but...she seems very content with her new sleeping arrangement. I suspect she is getting arthritic in her hind end too, which might be part of it.

Sir Tripod Goat's Nose: The oddest cut I've seen in awhile. You try your best to keep any dangerous object or fencing out of animal areas, but any farm is loaded with lurking dangers for all of us. I first thought it was just a scratch, but after I started treating it realized he'd sliced it somehow. He spends most of his time in his stall and pen, so I can't figure it out. But he is on penicillin and will be fine.

The Head Troll is aging. You can see it in her body and loss of muscle, thinning hair and one of her eyes is cloudy. She also has started to like getting scratched and petted, only by me, but this is unheard of. Our entire relationship has been built on a delicate balance of respect, hands-off care taking and love-hate day to day. Hate is a strong word, love-irritation? This is a goat that can get stuck in anything, I'm sure always for a good reason in her thinking. But she is now living out with the sheep, and Benedetto and Birdie, near the equines and Rosie. She is about 30 pounds I'd say, but is no pussy cat around the very large and dominant Assumpta, or Calla, the two matriarch ewes. The Head Troll makes it clear at feeding time what side of the hay you need to be on if you are a sheep, she somehow gets them all over there on the opposite side of her in one swoop, and watches for any transgression of boundaries to her side of the hay. If that happens, pow, head butt.

The Head troll still has it. I'm glad. I want her to live out her life as herself as much as possible. She has a pretty good stash of handbags too since arriving.

In which I acknowledge The Not Knowing

This morning I felt very calm, but there was part of the quiet that felt like a veil of sadness. I lay in bed for a long time and just let the thoughts and images in my head play out. I listened to them, and watched them, sometimes rewinding certain images to see them again.

I don't know why sadness is here today, I thought.

And then I got up and went out to the barns and got on with it. The rhythms of morning feeding include sounds and moving images. The horse chews his hay and the donkeys in the background chew more slowly–and together it is almost like a musical beat The sheep chew faster and the llama observes in-between bites of her breakfast. The pig snores. The leaves are getting crispier and I could here them all around. The air and sky are darker this morning, but in a beautiful Payne's Gray way, and their weight feels lighter to me with the cooler air.

I wasn't in a hurry. More and more, I find I am not in a hurry. It seemed in the old farm, I was more hurried. What exactly is different here that makes this so? I don't know. I sense I am here to do something, and I am formulating and pondering it all-what animals I'd like to help and how; what community I want to form and not form; why was I pulled here.

Why?

And then I had stumbled on a blog when I saw it in my stat count. And there was a video about the poet W.S.Merwin. I was mesmerized and I also found it akin to what I am going through. Actually, I am not going through anything, I am right in the middle of something and it is not about getting to the end of anything, it is simply...something.

I heard something in the video that struck me, and resonated with how I can now describe to you what this something I am in feels like. It is all about being comfortable with the not knowing. I don't know so many things right now, but they are all here-hidden in coming days, perhaps waiting for me to take a walk in the woods to hear an answer through the rustling trees. I know The Wood has many things for me. It has a very significant presence when I am in the barns. I can't say it is scary, but it feels powerful, strong, perhaps a protector of something, a large natural room of mystery. And maybe I won't ever know all of it.

At a certain stage of his life, Merwin recognized a need to live someplace that was immersed in history-as in really old history of many centuries ago and he found it in France. I felt this too when we were still in Oregon–a physical need to be here in Maine, not New York [where I've lived both city and upstate], not Vermont [which I love and thought about], but Maine.

So that's it. I'm in the not knowing. I don't know what I'm doing but I'm going to just keep on doing it all, one hour at a time. I'm listening. I have sadness for many reasons but it's my sadness, it is just part of my day right now. It hovers while I stroke the cheek of Calla, or hold Little Sylvia Pettini, or run with Benne. It has an energy and needs to be part of me right now.

Flock of gratitude

If you follow along over the past 14 years you know I put a lot of thought into names, but also, into listening for the right name over time. Some animals come on board and their names just scream out at me, others are quieter but clear. And then some are very guarded, or perhaps not ready to have a more long term relationship with me [or maybe vice versa at times]. I imagine naming a newborn baby must be really hard-you have ideas on what to call him or her, but then you meet them and they just don't fit that name. I was to be named either Mary or Bridget. I am not a Mary. Bridget is actually my other self that lurks in me-she is a tough cookie. But then my father's mother died the day I was born, and I became Katherine.

I'm so grateful I found this breed. I knew nothing about them, or most wool breeds since we raised Katahdins, a hair breed. I loved the Katahdins, but raising wool just makes sense to me here. I'm so excited to share the fiber with you next year. I plan to add to the flock and am unsure if I'll breed, but want to get through a winter first before I make that commitment. This breed is regarded in critical status, so breeding does appeal to me. When we started with Katahdins, they were near critical status, and we happy to be part of bringing back such a great breed even in a small way.

Assumpta and Calla -the elder matriarchs of the flock-came with their names. They are fitting to both of them. Little Sylvia Pettini's name came pretty quickly. But the other three were stuck. Part of it was they do look similar, and I had to get to know them enough so I could tell them apart in the field, and see their personalities emerge, which they have. These are very personable sheep-as was my old flock-but for lambs these girls are really calm and people oriented.

Of course Lillian has the most striking markings. I kept thinking of names of women who had such strong features and none of them did her calm demeanor justice. But Lillian seemed strong and bold. The yearling ewe I named Velma, after a woman I knew in my childhood who lived in North Dakota up by my mother's clan-we would go see her every time we went up there and she lived in what to me was a doll house, out in the country, where cookies and breads were always baking. Louisa has a beautiful face too, and it has been a name I return to over and over-my father's middle name was Lois, my old terrier was Louie...it just has a light and happy sound to me, somewhat harking back to another time when fresh pies were sent along in school lunch baskets.

I'm very happy with my flock. And they are happy here, with Benedetto and Birdie to watch over them. I love being a shepherdess, all of it, from trimming feet to herding to...just sitting around with them as they graze. And wait until we get some of that fiber.

The mystery of Apifera begins

I am beginning to return to the living, versus seeing faces of the past. The move was tumultuous to me, I underestimated its impact. I even have had anger and I wasn't sure exactly what I was angry about. I realized over time that I had suffered the loss of one dream, and also suffered the loss of something Martyn and I built together-the place we called Apifera. I thought Apifera would simply come with us to Maine, as it was, and we would start where we left off. But the old farm is not Apifera anymore, it will never exist the way it did when we lived there. I liken it to Brigadoon, a place that only existed every 100 years for one day, and if anyone in the town left, it would cease to exist forever.

But as I wrote once before, Apifera is not as a much a place, as it is my intention in this world. Apifera is me trying to put my best parts out into the realms-through art, service and words.

We have had a lot of loss of late. Huck's death was huge. But, as strange as it sounds, it somehow released me from some thoughts I was stuck in. I had to let those thoughts go before I could feel my land feet again. I had to acknowledge exactly what I was letting go of, which meant digging into that anger and realizing what it was. At first I thought I was angry because we moved-could it have all been a mistake, I thought? Had I convinced myself that all the strings that had to be cut and loose ends that had to be tied to get us here were just...by chance...and had nothing to do with my muses pulling us here?

I had to walk through it. I wasn't angry because we moved, I was angry because I had to acknowledge that Apifera will never be what it was in Oregon. Ever. It's gone. Cats aren't falling from trees here, roosters have not wandered on my property after I invited them on a chance introduction, there is not a clan of cats to care for, the barn is not old and The Head Troll is now semi retired.

I told Martyn this the other night, that the word that described the old Apifera, for me, was magic. But I asked him what he thought the word to describe the new Apifera was.

"I think it is still magic," he said.

I told him I thought the new word might be mystery.

Mystery is magic, he surmised.

The thing is, all these faces I show you today–the White Dog, the smiles of a llama and an old goat, the calm of the sheep–they are helping me create the mystery of the new Apifera. The old one was magnificent and took years to build, so the new one is forming. We don't know the exact form it will take. But that is the beauty of the mystery-our imaginations will be exercised and surprises await around every corner-perhaps even a cat falling out of a tree into my arms.