"There are heros in the seaweed", said Leonard

 “Look among the garbage and the flowers, there are heroes in the seaweed...” {L. Cohen}

We have had such warm days, and rain. While I want snow [which supposedly will arrive tomorrow] I have to say the warm weather makes chores easier. And, well, the fowl are extremely happy with their overflowing ponds. I love to look out on the front barn goat paddock at chores and see this scene. To me it is so peaceful. One woman said it looked like one of my paintings and I guess you can say this–they do merge, art and life.

One can see messy mud and mire and leafless trees...or one can revel in the sculpture of the branches and the reflections in earth toned water.

 

Poetry out of the sky

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Feb 18, 2019 at 10:52am PST

Conversation with Birdie, a llama's empathy

Birdie's eyelashes bash. She looks directly at me. She smiles.

In the background I see the Goddesses, their yellow heads bobbing in the light gust that just blew Birdies llama locks out of her big, beautiful, dark, brown eyes. I hear them too, the Goddesses, some humming, others chanting, and one calls out,

Look at me, I am tall today but I am bending, I am lowering to Earth, do you see?

A sheep comes out of the barn, acknowledges our distant figures near the gate and turns to pass the sunflowers, preferring to commune with grasses, chewing some and feeling others under her feet.

Birdie approaches me and curls her neck like a swan, suggesting I stroke her, which I do, how can I not? And she puts her head on my shoulder, we spoon like this all the time, somewhat abnormal for a llama. But she is no ordinary llama.

"Thank you, Birdie, for taking a moment with me," I told her.

Before you go, she says in my ear, before you go, go look at the sunflower. She is leaving soon.

I told you...she is not an ordinary llama.

I leave for the barn to do morning chores, she leaves for her lower field, joining her charges. I can see her looking towards me, or is she watching out for that sunflower?

Awaiting M'Lady with Lady Birdie

We are anxiously awaiting the arrival of M'Lady Apple's spring frock of deep red pink blossoms. It will most likely be my go-to photo shot of this particular land. I can not tire of her beautiful bows standing naked in winter, and then transforming into sight red dust this time of year. Soon she will be in her full glory.

I like to imagine all the various people and animals that she has met under her tangle of arms. Considering the house is from 1760, I don't know when she might have been planted. I think she is at least 100 years old, but I'm not sure.

Has she ever met a llama? I have not heard her answer.

She is so crucial to my heart that every time anything new is planned in the garden or near the house, I always state matter-of-factly,

"As long as it doesn't block my view of M'Lady."

I have always had strong relationship with specific trees in any place I've lived. While I believe that trees are a global clan and are connected by the dirt, reverberating language we humans don't appreciate [or many of us], some in that clan take on more prominent communications with me, or you. When I was leaving trees I loved in Minneapolis, for Oregon, I was reminded of this by a wise teacher-the trees there are a clan with the trees you will meet.

Trees have helped me get up in the morning, soothed me in frayed times, brought light and beauty after the dusk when the moon shines on them and sheltered me in hot weather. They are the symbol of being rooted, even in a storm. They break limbs but go on. And at some point, they will succumb to age and their life will return to the Earth underneath, or above., just like yours will and mine will.

I can only hope that in the next realms I venture to, I will see many old friends in one form or another-and I imagine that M'Lady and many of the trees I've communed with will be there.

I will share M'Lady with you as time goes on-a gift for recipient and sharer.

This ain't for sissies

White Dog guards the farm against wind gusts and white out -the official storm began around 1 and I'd say we are getting at least inch an hour right now - the winds are pretty fierce. Ideally, I got a belated gift from my brother for my birthday loaded with Trader Joe goodies and an exceptional bottle of Oregon Pinot I can open in a couple hours. Stay safe to all my east coast friends!

Up to our hipbones

The animals take it all in stride. This morning I awoke to the Little Apiferians singing their bird songs in the living room, and I could see the sun reflecting all over, bouncing off the frosty windows created by Monday's nor'easter. It was a relief to see the sun.

It's beautiful out, pure virginal snow without a track on it. Just gorgeous. One can't be awed by the sight, no matter what trouble it brings. We were able to really get a good look at how much we had, and we estimate at least 24" or more, and then the 12" we already had. but I still think we have more, since it is almost up to the top of some 4' fence lines.

I arrived at the barn and opening the stall door was like a goat and pig version of Wizard of Oz. Marcella leapt out into it with out a care. I created a small patio for Earnest and the goats, and cleared a pig tunnel so the pigs could walk out and I could get to the barn. Then set out to task two, at the new barn. I was greeted by the avalanche of snowing coming off the barn roof, missing me but creating even more snow on top of the other snow. I started creating a pathway there after I fed everyone, and I had this moment-a moment, mind you-of remembering a time in Minnesota when I lived alone in a small house and shoveled the drive and then the plow came by and it was a mountain in the exit way, and I just kind of stopped, and cried a little. I remembered how this much snow and having to clear it can create that feeling of hopelessness.

So I just thought, it always melts.

I decided to tackle the donkey and horse area. I was concerned because they have a large 20' interior that is a 24 hour turnout, but right now there is no paddock for them, it is 4 feet deep in snow. I could see someone had attempted to walk out, but turned around after a couple feet. It's soft snow which is good. The roofline back there had not melted off yet and there is another huge amount that is about to come down on the already growing mountain that is beginning to infringe on the interior stall area. So I started digging. I gave up after 30 minutes. I gathered Martyn to come out and assess our next step, since he'd been plowing the drives most of the morning. We need to plow the roads to the barn and already had a lot of it done before the 24". Martyn started on the drives, because we might get another 12" tomorrow night...insert a swoon from barnyard...and I set out to create a mini sized area that gave the equines more space to walk around in the snow area, and create a bare spot for the roof snow to land.

About every 5 minutes, Matilda wandered out on the path I was creating for her pleasure, looked at me as if to say,

"Aren't you going to make it big enough so I can get to he back field I like?"

On her third visit to me, I admitted to her,

"You probably aren't going to see that field for a long time, my friend."

She flattened her ears in airplane style, and returned to her hay.

I called back to her,

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

But nobody ever listens to me.

{You can see more snow pictures at Instagram}

White Dog Eye Conversations

I often take photos of The White Dogs faces, their eyes are hard to look away from, as you can see from these images of Marcella. I have told you how I have conversations with them both without words, speaking only with our eyes. I was told a long time ago that looking deep into your dog's eyes makes them happy. There are situations staring into an animals' eyes will not be good, or will provoke agitation or be construed as a threat. But my daily eye conversations with both White dogs are a beneficial encounter to both of us. They seem to bring clarity to what I am thinking or percolating.

We never really knew where Benedetto came from. It was and is a beautiful mystery. In a way, I think it is good we didn't know the entire story. But the fact a white dog, of a breed that not that many people know let alone own, and a breed the is hard to find and is expensive, showed up at our rural farm where the same white dog breed lived...is a story that never ceases to tire people's imaginations. I knew back then there was a message Benedetto came with, I knew it was important. I tried starting some stories about his life, but never finished them. I suppose writing those stories was my way of trying to find the answer of why he came to us.

There are many spiritual mythologies about white animals. I am not a historian of those but I do know the many white animals that have graced Apifera have brought deep stories, deep sentiments from all who meet them. Aldo the Elder was one, Old Victor the crippled goat was another...to name just two. Benedetto is happy here, he is more settled here than at the old Apifera. I have asked him in our eye conversations,

Is it you who was meant to come here, not just me, or Martyn? Is your destiny all wrapped up here too?

I have been coming to the realizations that we are attracted to certain places, certain land and certain creatures-both human and otherwise- at certain times in our lives to help us do the work we are meant to do. Perhaps as I've read by some spiritualist writers, these companions have been working with us for a long time before we meet in the physical world. I think both White Dogs are of that caliber relationship with me.

Today as I did chores, I was thinking about how I want to evolve this Apifera. I have been holding back a bit, for reasons I won't disclose here, for now. But this morning I knew that my animal work needs to come back to the front burner. And my goal of making this a healing place for people and animals is on my mind. Somehow looking at these White Dog eyes reminded me of the work I really love doing-helping special need animals.

While Dog Play (copyright Apifera Farm) #apiferafarm #maremmas #whitedogs #whitedogsofinstagram

A video posted by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Nov 26, 2016 at 7:53am PST

The safety of the fallen leaves

I grew up with gorgeous fall color of Minnesota, went to college in upstate New York with road trips to Vermont ,so it is wonderful returning to the gorgeous display of Mother Nature's paintings here in Maine. Oregon was beautiful too of course, but you don't get the reds and oranges there.

An Oregon friend asked, "So, is the fall as great as the New Englanders claim?"

Short answer...yes.

But for me the sounds of fall are what bring me both the comfort of childhood memories, or college days, and also melancholy for those I love and miss. What is melancholy for a past time but the idea that it was safer, better, easier...I doubt it was, but when I walk through the leaves, that sound, it reminds of making leaf houses as a child, knowing I'd be going into a homemade meal of my mother's, dog at my side...nobody could hurt me. Did I have any worries? I'm sure I did. But melancholy makes it all safe, those memories seem worrieless.

So as I did chores last night, and raked leaves into compost piles, I knew I'd be going into a fire, a homemade Martyn meal, and a dog at my side. Did I have worries? Some, but once in the house, or in certain spots of my land, or barns, I feel safe. I suppose someday, I might feel melancholy for this.

{Have you been enjoying the photos and writing of the past ten years here? Please consider supporting my new book project, with only 15 more days to get it funded, I need your help.}

Martyn making another rock wall for next year's veggie garden

The pigs actually have a tiny sliver of an ocean view

The Small Bird and Rodent Cemetery grows

In the heat, find a seat

It has been hot and humid.

If you know me, you know my opinion on this situation.

Oregon had the dry, hotter than hot summers and the land there just soaked it up and I felt like a dried leaf. Here, I feel like a wet towel without a mind. August, the month I always enjoy seeing go by, been that way since I was a child. So, I won't write much today, who needs to hear me whine. I had planned to escort The World's Grumpiest But I Am Fine As I Am Pig to her new suite, a 300 foot walk. The thought of it in this humidity made me...grumpy...so hope to do that tomorrow.

Instead, I am finding a seat, just as the animals do when its hot. Hopefully we will get that rain promised for tomorrow. We have had some nice storms.

Me and the barn, we're sticking together

Out in the field this afternoon on the tractor, working on clearing new pastures for new fence lines, I took a break and looked up. I was almost startled by the site of her. It was a beautiful view of her profile, against the blue sky, so close to the ocean with the smell of the sea over my shoulder coming in on a breeze. There are donkeys to the left of her and a bunch of Misfits back and to the right, and an old house that still hasn't released all her magic to me, but will, I hope in time.

With each hour I work on the land here, I feel closer to being home. I'm not totally there yet. It could take months, even years. Whose counting? When I'm here on the property though, I feel content, hopeful, full of ideas. Sometimes when we are out and about, I feel a bit lost, or an outsider just trying to stand up straight. I know how this goes, I went through it in all my moves, and this is a big move. We went to the feed store today where we also have been buying fencing and materials galore and they know us now. They share banter with us. We feel at home there. We go to the main grocery store and know certain clerks now and know where all our favorite items are.

We drive down the road and know names of some people, and the myths of others and gossip about some too. We find the farm people we have met are of the same ilk. But my favorite feeling is coming into our gate, and being here. And when I looked up at the new barn today, I felt her encouraging me,

It's all fine, we have so much to do together. I can't wait until you plant the bed out front with the sunflowers like you said.

She might think differently if I move The-World's-Grumpiest-But-I'm-Fine-The-Way-I-Am-Pig out there, which I plan to do soon so she can have an outer area too, of her own of course.

The new barn feels like a real anchor here. I can think in there and feel my skin and not worry about saying the right or wrong thing to The Hungry-those people in the outer world who have so much empty space in their lives that they project their expectations on to other people, and are always, in the end, crushed that their expectations aren't met. The Hungry that I have encountered in my life never seem to have healthy boundaries. Some of them give and give to you-material things you haven't asked for but kindly say thank you too, or they tell you after one meeting they 'love' you and all you project out tot he world. But in the end, they give and give, and are always, in my experience, hurt-because they don't think they are getting back what they deserve, they seem to always think they have not been appreciated properly. The Hungry seem to swoop into your life, and can often just disappear silently, and never speak o you again. I'm learning to recognize them more quickly but not always.

My barn respects boundaries, and has gates-sometimes they are open, sometimes they are closed, and I get to decide the best time for that.

That's the great thing about barns. They don't expect anything of me, they don't make projections. But they give back so much, without asking-shelter from wind and snow, dappled sunlight for old and young bones, a sandy bottomed floor to sit down on and just listen to the cud chewing meetings. The roof creeks a song and the big doors when opened might reveal a myriad of surprises-life, a death, or  a wandering cat come to stay.

I'm sticking around to be with the barn. She's not of The Hungry. She's her, I'm me. And she never should me, nor I her.

Woman walks llama to feel her feet

Moving is change and change puts anyone into a discomfort zone, which always leads to new experiences and growth. But it is disorienting to uproot oneself, especially when leaving one region for another different culture, vibes and terrain. I was feeling good about everything, then sort of had a "where the hell am I?" moment. I simply realized I had to get out and be with the earth and feel it, so

I decided to walk the llama. It made me realize I have many more coping skills than I did when I moved to the first Apifera in 2004 which was real culture shock having lived in the city for so long, and Yamhill is very different than Bremen in so many ways. Here it feels like a village, because it basically is. I imagine E.B. White's house was more contained like this, with gardens and a barn close to the house. {I plan to visit there sometime, it is a good day trip or two days, maybe I'll take Earnest.} Our view is flat, but there is great comfort in that. The picture of the daisy field is looking from the outskirt of The Wood towards the back of the house and where the new bra will be built.

So I am having times of disorientation, usually in the mornings. I seem to awake with memories of my old land, especially the vista from the front porch, looking out over the beautiful garden we created over the years, and up into the hills where the sheep and donkeys often were grazing. Do I miss that? Yes, I do, but I also have this place and I love it and we are new together and deep friendships take time to evolve. I just need some time for my body and head to come together again.

Walking a llama is a pretty nice way to feel the earth. The biggest change in our new farm from the old one is here we sit about 100 feet off a well travelled road. It quiets down to nothing around five. It's not unbearable at all, in fact, as we age it will be good to be closer to a main artery like this especially in winter, something we thought about as we looked at properties. And in time I might have a farm stand or book mobile with my donkey on certain days. Many people put up signs on the roads around here, taking advantage of the summer crowd-everything from antiques, gardens, art, bike repair, upholstery and more.

The front of the house is sweet, but we spend our time in the back, and then the land surrounds us and goes straight back for 30 acres. We have a fledgling garden. The former owner planted peonies and I love them, always have. They remind me of my mother who loved them. I was happy that there are some double ones in front, the ones in the photo are singles but beautiful too. I thought about our garden in Yamhill, how we arrived to nothing except old lilacs [which I loved] and we built that garden and created the rock area...it all took time. We sat and talked about our garden plans here. It will grow and develop and give us pride as our last garden did. This is the first year I won't have a vegetable garden -since we are newly here and have so many things to do first, like the barn-but it's killing me not to have one. I did plant pumpkins and sunflowers, and we have garlic that we are loving in soups, and the fruit trees.

I am more patient with this house, as patient as a normally impatient dreamer can be. But I'm learning things about myself-like when I feel agitated I know I have ways to cope-by walking my llama.

Fresh perspectives

We walked over to our neighbors down the road this morning so Martyn could meet them. They are really cool people and we are so bummed we are just getting to know them as they recently moved in, and now we are leaving. But we will enjoy them while we are still here.

We walked down to their river front which is adjacent to ours. I so enjoyed looking up at some of our fields as we were down there. It was a new view of our property I hadn't seen. The move is also going to bring so many new different perspectives which will fuel inspirations. There are so many things that will happen, we can't even imagine them right now. But until then, I am greeting the current views, and also saying goodbye to them.

A release from expectation

A wise woman relayed her Christmas wish today for all her friends, that we all have,

"a release from expectation, and a walk with expectancy".

Those words could not be more perfect for me to read. We went for a Christmas morning walk up on Muddy Hill with the dogs. Greetings were all around from the old Oaks and moss to the water in the stream, poking me with-

Look, here we are, we are still here and you are still here so let's live in wonder of each other until the time comes when you must part for Maine.

I went through two hankies when I saw this

This is the video the realtor company created, drone and all, this past week. I have to tell you, I teared up immediately-but in pride and thankfulness that we could live here and do our best in as many ways as we could-with land and animal. We helped a house back to dignity and shored up a beautiful old barn that still whispers to its charges. We added trees galore and improved the fields and marked the territory with fencing. We gave help to the river front and made a place for a small group of tiny blue butterflies to land and repopulate. We gave comfort to elders-animals and people. And we had a hell of ride doing it all.

It's time for the next owner to come forth now. Where are you, I wonder? Are you near by? Or far off hoping a property will fall in your lap? The barn will most likely call out to someone too. My only wish is that the new owner will cherish the land, barns and house and continue on where we left off, in their own unique way and style.

Me and the man in the rubber suit

We had planned to start another fencing project today. I wish I had a $1 for every foot of fencing we've added to this farm, I'd be able to...buy a lot of good wine. We have one more huge fencing job to do, and it is important, as it will improve our ability to effectively cross pasture. We've done well in that regard, but with the current flock, we need that additional 8 or so acres on our upper hills. We'll be adding about 1000 foot of fencing on one property line, and then adjusting the cross fencing. Access is an issue in the winter, so today we trudged up there in two trucks with a 300 foot roll of fencing, t-posts, and every intention of working our old butts off in the rain like we have so many other times in the last 11 years.

But it was pouring. The kind of rain that soaks your coat immediately and if you stop moving, you are a goner. My gloved hands were cold right away. I sensed I was caving. We basically moved everything up there and I suggested we do the rest tomorrow. Martyn didn't hesitate to agree, and we retreated back down to inside tasks for the day.

We have become much more realistic after 11 years here, and at age 57 I think I've earned a few wet days inside. I'm anxious to get the flock up there though. When fields are overgrazed they create bad runoff in the wet winter. We've never had to overgraze, but this year it seems things got grazed down faster, even with the same number in the flock. I'm not sure if it was the dry summer.

When I am up in that part of the property, I feel a real sense of pride-and wonderment that we are really here, doing all this. It feels so good to take land that was neglected, and help it, and learn so many things at the same time. We have a Fescue Blue Butterfly program going on in the very top portion of that land, where we will keep the flock off certain times of year to help restore the Wild Lupine.

Looking down at the barn through the Savannah Oaks, now covered in their winter moss coats of green, I always have a beautiful, calm sensation-that not only did that barn speak to me when I first saw it, but it spoke to me even before I came here. Somehow, that old barn and I are entwined in past lives. I'm sure of it.

In the fields and everywhere

It is a gorgeous day and I'm in at 2:30 taking a quick break. I took my phone down into the fields today while I mowed. I have to say you get some pretty cool effects thee days with phones and I rarely carry mine with me except in the car. I am not a texter or iphoner zombie and mainly use it for emergencies. However, I'm playing with Instagram and it is sort of fun. How many ways can a freelance-artist-farmer-writer stay connected? But any way to show photos of Marcella!

We are taking the plunge and mowing down one block of the lavender-the Provence variety which does not do well as a dried bundle but is suited for bud-and we have plenty of bud in the Grosso. We decided we will fence this section and re-plant our struggling fruit trees from the current Donkey Hug area. They are struggling not from neglect, but from the admiration the goats, pigs, sheep and now Aldo give them. My gosh, we have worked so hard to help these trees over the past years. They have been head rubbed by the pygmies, stood up to the wrath of Lucy the 300# pig, survived sheep and goats getting into their fenced cages...and more. This year I sort of let go, and I am finished with trying to grow things in an area that has evolved into a second barnyard for elders. The poor little dears [the trees, that is] will be transplanted and we will hope for new and continued life. I also want a Translucent apple tree for pies, and some filberts too. We decided we would do this so we can let the pigs out there at a certain time of year to eat fruit and nuts.

We're also going to plant some vegetables down there since we have water access. It will be yet more fencing, more work, but it is part of farming- evolving your needs and fields.

I think that is the biggest challenge-and joy-of farming for me. It is always evolving. It is always work, always something new to be challenged by. This year we are also going to get one of the upper fields ready for the sheep, to take pressure off the other fields. We cross pasture, but I need that extra land put to use, and now with Marcella, I feel better about having the flock up there out of my site.

So when I went down to the field to mow, there she was. She shows up out of nowhere. We call her a shape shifter. She followed me back to the barn, but before I even got there, she had somehow managed to place herself between me and the barnyard gang. She is a wonder. I loved how the light was bouncing off the barn on this photo of her, somewhat of a mystic she is.

So now I'm off, back out to the field to till the area where I just mowed, a woman and her tractor...and magical shape shifter. A beautiful day to be a farmer!

Night time

I have been wanting to spend an entire night out in the barnyard. Martyn won't accompany me, he says, but I bet if I handle it right he would. At the same time, I think this is an experience I need to do alone-or alone with a whole bunch of low riding pigs and goats walking around.

My encounter the other night with Marcella, when we went out with flashlights, and saw certain things and creatures slightly lit up by moonlight or flash, it was mysterious and magical. This same eerie but beautiful quality accompanies any trip to the barn to help sick or dying animals, or check on new life in lambing season. I have said it before, I feel like the guest when I encounter the barnyard at night, rather than the leader, the shepherdess. Not that I fear it, but the animals are so much more aware of the night, so much more confidant in their steps. Have you ever ridden a horse in the night? They can feel the Earth long before they see it.

The night to me is a separate being than day. The air is the same, the skin of the earth remains, but it is the light of the sun or moon that creates a unique personality. Each is like wearing a different coat.

I will keep you posted on my nighttime sleep away camp for one. So much going on right now, the barn project and piglets and work-so in the meantime, I will savor the night through paint.

{This piece can be purchased as an archive print for $125.50 as a special order. Contact me if interested and I'll share details.}

Overhead view of the land

You begin to see the land as an aerial view when you work on it. Or maybe that is because I am an artist and have always had visual movies playing in my head. Martyn has learned that when he builds something, I really need to see it structurally up to decide where I want a door or window. While my father the architect, and Martyn, were and are able to see a building project three dimensionally, I can't. I admire that skill.

But our land, I think it is is different. I can see it as if I were flying over head, each structure or shadow from a barn or pond area that forms in winter rains can become a simple shape. My perspective might be off, but I know where things are.

Land messages a place of sense

Back in my former city life in Minneapols-which seems like a short time ago, but also a life time ago, I believed that crows brought me messages. I believed this with all my heart. At the time, I was seeking, a lot of things. I wanted a mate, I wanted a sense of place which I didn't quite have - yet. I wanted purpose and vibrancy in my daily steps. I wanted to feel secure.

Like many seekers - I reached for many false talkers who I hoped would give me quick answers and clues to get me on a track that was meant only for me. I read a lot of books - some I look back at and realize how wobbly my land legs must have been to have read into such dogma. I guess it all got me moving around in certain directions, and made me seek my own answers, which is what it is all about in the end.

But I never stopped believing that crows were harbingers of important messages. At one particular time, when I was attached to a drowning man who was only dragging me along on the bottom of the sea, I believed that when I saw two crows together, it was a message that this man and I were still as one, still meant to be a couple.

I would like to officially apologize now to all crows.

Last year when my mother died, a mourning dove began arriving and sitting nearby, for long periods of time. I had never witnessed a dove sitting for such long time spans, close, patiently. I believed it was my mother. I still believe that. That dove stayed and would appear in the next few weeks when I needed it most. I'd come home up the drive and there she would be, sitting on the lower gate, waiting for me. I'd hear her cooing in the morning outside my window and this helped me get up and carry on. Just about any dove I saw, I took to be 'that dove' and believed it with all my heart. In time, I'd see the dove with another dove, and that became my parents, together, looking in on me before they flew off to their current realm.

The fact that I really did believe this is what helped get me to this 'place of sense' that we now call Apifera. I think to land in one's path takes not so much believing in oneself, but believing in...crows bringing messages, or doves becoming mothers. I had to unzip my body and step out of it, in order to see the possibilities of what my life could really be. By finally taking the plunge and leaving my homeland in Minnesota, I sacrificed things that brought me comfort-having my parents near by and having wonderful friendships that took time to nurture. I sacrificed what I knew like the back of my hand-the old neighborhoods I'd grown up in, the stores and street scenes that had many memories and gave me a sense of knowing where I was. I gave up not needing a map to find anything.

And I gave up a little house with wonderful old trees. I had to let go of the trees. But trees are a clan, a wise woman told me soon after. Where ever you go-the trees are connected to one another.

Living on land engulfs a person in messages. One is acutely more aware of harbingers of all season, storms, trouble and danger. The intuition we had when we once swam with dolphins is honed out here. I am still not as aware as the eagle over head, but part of the reason I feel so 'on my path' on the farm is I am a crow, I am a dove, I am the land as I form a continuum from dirt to working boot to breath. And that dove is still my mother when I need it to be.

Growing grass, losing hair and the shepherdess ages

Our flock of Katahdins are a hair sheep-they do not produce wool and require no sheering. It is always a delight to see their hair come off in late spring, and remember how deeply browned some are, or spotted in places you forget.

Right now the grass is growing faster than it will all year. In our early years we would be out weeding, mowing and breaking our old backs trying to keep up with it in the lavender fields-but I began to realize it was more for appearances. It wasn't hurting the health of the lavender.

Back then, we kept the sheep out of the field all year. But I hate to see grass go to waste. I am much more relaxed about the lavender now, and I prefer to use the grass for food for my sheep, rather than worrying about the plants. The young rams seem to nibble on only certain varieties, and at a certain point, we move the sheep to other fields. In other words, the sheep take precedence. We still harvest our plants in July-September and I sell Grosso bundles wholesale, and make bud out of the rest. The sweat and tears that went into those plants! But many are on their last legs as they are over 10 years old now-old for lavender. Much of the Provence took a beating in the cold winter this year and didn't make it. We toy with ripping out the lower section and planting Filberts, but we always settle back with a glass of wine, and sigh, and life goes on.

A farm is always evolving, flowing around what is working, or not working–and the farmers change too–growing older, and their priorities evolve. I remember meeting people when we first moved here who were then in their late 60's. We were in our 40's, bright eyed with clean nails. I had real clothes then, from city stores. I had ideas. The couple had done it all in the past, had lots of animals, bred sheep, planted fields and forests, and ten....they got tired. Or they got tired of feeling tired about some things, and they couldn't get things done as fast as in their younger days. I think we are just entering that phase of the farm. I look at younger couples now and just try[try] to keep my lips sealed. They will figure it all out for themselves.

I still enjoy being out in the field this time of year. The shoots do produce a lovely scent when you swoosh by them, and different members of the flock come and commune with me, briefly–like Irene, seen below. She is out of one of my favorite departed ewes, but I've never bred her, and won't. I could, there is no medical reason why I couldn't, but I just sense she is not up to the task. She just never really put on weight like I'd like to see, and fights with cocci every spring despite my best preventions and treatments. But I like her and she will stay here until she dies.

So if you come to Pino Pie Day and see fluff on the lavender, you know what it is!