I was too ashamed to write about it, but now I will

I've been wanting to write about this for awhile, but if I'm being honest, and I am, I'll tell you I haven't because there are multiple levels of shame involved. But over the past couple months, I seem to keep running into articles or conversations that remind me this thing isn't going away in my head and I want to face it.

You see, I'm 63. And about a year or so ago, I realized that what I was seeing in photos or mirrors just wasn't me. It wasn't the me in my head. Weight gain after menopause, aging, changing skin and mass–it was all going on at once.

This isn't really even about weight. But it is tied up into it. When I was little I was told I was chubby. Looking at photos, I wasn't it, but I felt it and looking at magazines and loving Twiggy and Cher, I felt chubby. When I was about ten my father patted my belly and said, and these were his exact words, "You are too young to have a pot belly." My mother scolded him. But it stuck, I can still remember how I felt, I felt ashamed, and sad. 

But looking back at photos, I didn't have a pot belly. 

So like many young girls I had body issues that followed me around most of my young life into my 20's. It was at about 25 I started to see myself differently. I started to be okay with what I saw. I maintained a good weight, but again, my scale number always felt too big, it wasn't as small as others my age and height. A masseuse at the time told me I had a 'very beefy back". I did, it was muscle. But that term also stuck. {And I found a new masseuse.}

For my 30-50 years, I really liked what I had. I felt good in my body. Somewhere in there, at about 30, I gained some weight and went to WW. I took off the 15 pounds and never put it back on again. I simply was eating too big of portions. When I saw women older than 50 gaining weight, I figured they were doing something wrong, and I naively thought in my 30 year old head, That'll never happen to me, I do yoga, I hardly eat sugar and meat, I walk, etc. I'll age gracefully.

But I did turn fifty and I did start adding weight and it would not come off. It was slow at first. I even had all my blood checked and thyroid-it must be something, I thought.

My naturapath said not to worry about weight. Do more, she said, just move more, don't worry about the scale. So I did. But the wieght kept coming. Even WW did not work this time. I am not a dieter. I am a realist. Calories in, calories out. But I move, and I eat very healthy food.

I lost 14 pounds last year and had wanted to lose 10 more, but nothing was working, and I gained 4 back. But of late, I have started shifting my focus to simply being content with a working body, a body and face that does not look like the one I had 5 years ago let alone 30.

That is part of it. When I think of me in my head, I think of that time of my life when I was content with my body and image-that was when I was 40ish. Well, I'm 63. What sense does it make to compare myself to that. I mean, we don't look back at baby pictures or photos of when we are five and try to regain that. 

I want to reimagine in my head what I look like and be okay with it.

Here's where the shame comes in.

I work with many people who can't walk. They can't bend over. They hurt. Some of them aren't much older than me. Their bodes are fragile. And here I am being upset that I don't have my 40 year old 'looking' body. My jowels have sunk, my neck profile makes me cringe...and some people just wish they could stroll without a wheelchair, or have dinner with their husband again. I want to stop the negative and damaging and hurtful thinking.

So I am taking a new approach. I ask myself, what has my body done for me today that was helpful, that I need it to do-my hands helped my sick chicken, my arms and legs helped me clean the barn, my spine held my neck and head up so I could see the beautiful garden and flowers, my eyes can see my best friend and husband clearly, my ears hear nature and music, my lungs and organs are not sick...none of it has to do with what my body looks like or what it was like at age 40 or 50 or 55. None of it has to do with a mirror, or a scale number.

I was inspired to write this for two reasons. One was because I saw a post that had gone viral from Instagram, posted by the actress, Valerie Bertinelli, who is 61. I am not a follower of her, but I watched her raw and honest video post she made after a stranger, a troll, had come out on one of her posts and bluntly said, "You need to lose weight." Ms. Bertinelli likes to cook and share recipes. She has gone up and down in weight her whole life. She honestly spoke about the shame of having the weight, and of never being able to conquer it in her 61 years. She was pointing out the troll's comment was unhelpful [clearly it was], she was owning the shame and was owning the fact she loved to cook and just wanted to be what she was. When I saw the video, I cried, for her, but for me too. I knew how she felt.

And then another thing came my way today. It was a post I had made years ago, and someone on Facebook had reshared it when it popped up on her memories. It was so amazing to see that post, I've posted it below. The words of wisdom I obviously took when I first saw it were even stronger and clearer to me today. I loved that she says it can take a while to get to know your new-old face, but once you grow into it your perspective on it will be different.

Today I took the photo you see on the top of the post. My first thought is usually, does that look like me? And of course a photo is not always a good representation of what others see. Lighting, for one shifts. but also when we are with others, in real life, we see a string of movements a person makes, not one head-on view that can be unflattering.

My new project is to re-see what I am, who I am, where I'm headed. I do believe as we age there is a turning point where we are more 'in our new-old bodies'. I never had much issue with aging physically until I was about sixty. It's a challenge. But my body is so much more than what it looks like. It's so much more than that stubborn number on a scale. My body is what it does, what it achieves every minute it is alive. And I'm blessed to still have a working body. I do not want to shame her anymore. I think listening to Valerie Bertinelli speak so honestly was a turning point for me-I felt her pain, and I held my body and felt my body saying, 

"Love me, I am your body and I'm working hard for you, don't hate me because I look different than that young woman you once were, hold me, help me."

I felt my body must have felt the same way that little girl did when her father told her she was too young to have a pot belly. I know how that felt, I don't want my body, or any other person, to feel that any more.

Spring=Miracle and Nature moves to the right=horse language

I am enjoying the first day this year where I could sit in the garden soaking up sun without a winter coat. Glorious. I was thinking how Spring really is symbolic of a miracle, isn't it? You just can't believe anything can grow again, then today I saw the first tips of daffodils. Spring was glorious out West, as a Minnesotan I loved spring there as it started [in my Minnesota mind] in November. But there is something almost miraculous about spring in a colder climate. I'm really excited for the warmer temps this year, more so than ever I think.

We are trying to get vaccinated as they lowered the age requirement. It's frustrating but things are moving in the right direction. I am anxious to get some one-on-one equine therapy sessions going. Sergeant S. Briggs is doing fine. He finally figured out that Arlo won't kill him so he now goes to the water bucket. I was carrying water to him twice a day to make sure he drank but now have seen him venture in like  brave chap to drink. Step by step. He still pushes others away to eat hay, which is fine, in time he won't. He is very gimpy on the front right leg with arthritis, making it hard to turn away fast. I think his initial days with Boone made the leg sorer, he was pawing and doing gelding territorial stuff and it probably made it flare up.

A horse friend was sharing some teaching of the Cheyenne. All nature moves in circles and to the right. By moving to the right we are in balance with Nature. She shared how if you want a close relationship with a horse you have to build trust on the right side..horses tend to push us back to the left( the thinking side) and the right side is the “spirit” side . If they allow you to lead them and hang out there without being uncomfortable...you’re in and they will love and trust you forever.

I thought about the 'circle' in Nature, and how certain plant circle tot he right [like twining vines. I knew about how a horse can walk by a mailbox on the left and freak out, but go another direction and see the same mailbox and not care [or vice versa] but I never thought about a spirit side. I do know they tend to prefer turning one way and such, I just never paid attention to which way. So I found that interesting and something to explore. I hne out with all of them on both sides so i am not sure what that signifies but I have been paying attention to things I might have just been doing naturally, or not. 

 

 

Don't put a fear of death on my old goat

If there is one thing I have come to understand about people, or many of them, is they see death as this giant black curtain, the end, the thing to avoid, the thing to prevent at all costs. Nowhere is it more apparent than in how you see people talking about animals on social media [often other people's animals they have no clue of what they speak]. If you have a personal relationship with an animal, that is your relationship, and any covenant you have with them is yours, not mine. The decisions you make about your animals are, I assume and hope, based on experience, your knowledge of the actual animal and your feedback from your vet if needed. And such is the case with my relationships with all my animals. Just because their might be certain things you can do to keep an animal alive for another...3 months...doesn't mean you should, nor does the animal necessarily benefit from it as an animal.

An animal that's growing old, that is clearly coming to the final season, is not asking for pity, prayers or healing. He or she just wants their space and to be able to find a quiet spot if needed, or maybe change their spot if it doesn't feel right anymore. That's my job - to watch that animal as I go about my business and make sure I can accommodate it's needs as it transitions-and it is a transition. Rarely, in my experience anyway, does an animal get old, and boom, die. Just like with people there are shifts in the body and conditioning and all sorts of things before an animal dies. It can take months or years even.

I have written a bit about old Else in the past summer months. I sense it is her final summer. But we are not there yet. Since I am with her daily, sometimes I am immune to seeing some things, that my vet might see when she comes next time. So I always am open to a discussion. She has gotten thinner. I think her body just isn't absorbing the nutrients, which happens in age. She has never been a voracious eater but gets supplements and all the hay she wants. Her front leg is weakening more, her muscle what little she had when she arrived, is lessening.

What is a good life for a goat? Well, just being–A plot of grass, or sand, or shade mixed with sun, fresh water, a place that they know is theirs to go to-anytime-when they need, a human counterpart that is consistent in bringing food and water and is there for them.

Else has more and more chosen to stay in the barn, especially with the heat. Rather than always helping her out, I test her, and if she is pulling back, she seems very content in her barn with the door open to the outside world. A couple days ago, I was really pleased that while I was busy doing chores, she went out on her own to her orchard, and lay down. I've noticed though that rather than waiting all afternoon to let me know it is getting to be time to return to barn [I bring goats back in each night around 5], she might call out to me sooner. It might just be the flies, but she is sprayed well and they seem to leave her alone. At night, I put Opie with her, and The Goose, and Henneth the blind chicken.

No matter what, Else is not afraid of death. She is not thinking about that. Nor does she sit and wish for another summer, because she lives completely in the moment. Animals are often very stoic about pain,so Try to balance that in my perception of her everyday. But I do feel she is very content to separate out a little but more, which to me is a sign she is on her journey of transitioning.

In which Old Man Guinnias the old goat returns to me

It has been sometime since I heard from Old Man Guinnias. If you have followed along here, you know Guinnias was the first elder goat I took on at our old farm in Oregon. To say he became a crucial companion, and precursor for things to come, is an understatement. He was a muse, but caring for him also allowed me to navigate through my elder father's death, who was in home hospice in Minneapolis, and I was not able to be there with him as he took his final journey off of Earth.

In my dream, I was helping someone pick up some rescue animals, and there was a huge goat, who looked like Stevie, but this goat was the size of a bull and he had huge testicles, and I thought an intact animal that size would be problematic for our farm. There was a small kitten. And then, there was Guinnias. I was so happy to see him, and I thought to myself,

Well, he is coming home with me.

It was a clear message to me, that he is there, and here, and he never really left. The reason this dream was important, at this moment, is I have been pondering my role in how I work with elder people, and I began doubting myself this past couple of weeks. Doubting oneself leads to more doubt, I find, and the hot weather with humidity also makes me go into less optimistic frame of mind. I began to wonder if I was doing enough for the animals, and was I able to keep a healthy boundary when I work with some elders who I get to know as people. I began to look back on all the animals I had taken on, with open heart, but also a realistic understanding that they might not last long. But working with animals that I know are not long for this world, is different than working with people that are not long for this world-for many reasons. For one, I am the sole caregiver of the animals, I call the shots, along with Mother Nature of course. I know what happens to them, I bury them, I get to have that immediate and important ritual. In my work with visiting elder people, I can walk into a place and not know where someone went, they just disappear one day, and privacy laws don't allow me to know. Even though I've reached out to some staff about my feelings, they have not addressed them at this point. So I am grappling with how to create healthy boundaries for myself, and I'm searching for role models to help me.

And then Guinnias came to me in the dream, and he walked right over to me, without doubting me, like he knew I was safe and he was safe with me. And I had no doubts in the dream of what to do.

Guinnias came to us at age 15, horribly thin, crippled, and we knew that 15 is already a very old goat. I thought he might last a year. He lived until 21 or more. He had been sent off to a goat rescue at 15 because the boy had gone off to college and the parents were tired of the goat showing up on the porch and pooping. Too much trouble to put up a fence I guess. As sad as it is when elder animals are abandoned, and often the ones that end up at shelters, in my mind, are abandoned [and some come from caring people who have tried to find good homes, or have had a sudden life change-a death of a spouse, or illness], I am glad they sent him to the rescue, because he came to me, and he was a conduit for my current life's work, and I also loved him, and yes, I believe he loved me in his goat way.

When I worked with Guinnias, many things seemed to relate to what my father was going through in his final days. And everything also took me back to conversations and memories of my father–Guinnias was crippled and his falling increased over time, and it made me care for him ever more tenderly because I knew from my father, how scary it for an elder to start falling. Once that happens, all sorts of restrictions can be put on them, and often they become home bound. In some ways, Guinnias was my conduit for letting go of my father. I knew he was dying, he had had a good life and was almost 84. He didn't want to die, and after many heart issues, and other things related to the failing heart, there was nothing left for the doctors to do. He had tried to get into a last ditch effort for some experimental program with Mayo Clinic, something that would put oxygen back into him to help his heart. But the heart was too weak, and they had to turn him down. My mother told me about that day, and she could feel his resignation in his silence as they drove home together. His number was up, and he knew it.

I had said my goodbyes to my father, about three months before he died, when I was back visiting over Thanksgiving. At that point, he was still up and about, could eat and drink and carry on pretty well. He was himself. But I knew this might be the last time I'd see him, since I lived on a farm out West. Getting away was expensive, and difficult. We did a lot of important things those few days, always with the knowledge of his pending death hovering around us. We watched 'Charlotte's Web", and held back tears, as so many conversations of the animals were the things we probably wanted to say to each other. As spiritual and emotional as I am, my family was not. They were loving, but were a pretty stoic bunch, with stock from strong farmers and scientists. When I went to leave, my father was on the couch. I sensed this goodbye could go quickly emotional, so I leaned down to kiss him good bye on his sweet old bald head, and as I neared his face, our eyes were locked on each other for seconds, intense seconds.

"Bye, Bob," I said, and he said, "Bye, Honey." We had wet eyes, but I high tailed it out of there and cried in the elevator instead. It was a moment and a sensation nobody experienced but us. It was our moment as father and daughter. I knew we were saying the goodbye.

When the final days of his life were apparent-hospice had been called in about two weeks before he died-my mother and I talked every day from a distance. She said he had fought the hospital bed, but once it arrived, she felt he gave in. I asked if she had told him it was okay to go, this is something I had learned, and I always told an animal it was okay to go. She had. And she said to me, "It's time for him to go." She had reached the point when a loved one is dying, where she knew having his body in the room was not what was important anymore, it was setting him free. His body had simply worn out, as they always do if you live long enough, and he was attached to a realm he had spiritually already left.

One day she said his little terrier, Sammy, quit going to be on the bed, and I knew that was it. I've seen this over and over, an animal senses when the person is now more spirit than body. A couple days later, he died.

Perhaps Guinnias just wanted me to know he's okay, and that he would welcome coming back to my care if he was on Earth. And maybe my father is okay too, it's just that Guinnias was more able to tell me. Whatever it all means, I was so happy to hear from him.

When I'm old put me in the garden...please

I do not take my gardens for granted. I am graced by them, helped and soothed by them, delighted, surprised and never disappointed in them. And they are a requirement for my soul, I believe. What would happen if I could not have Nature and gardens meshed in my day? I don't want to dwell on that. I do think too many have become distracted to the point of not even noticing one flower in their daily life, or a the intricate details of a tree branch.

The elder visits I've been doing make me keenly aware of 'what might come". I also know many, including my parents, who lived their entire lives in their own homes, surrounded by things that gave them comfort, grounding and purpose. I don't have the answers for the aging population, not everyone can do that. It is a depressing thought to me to think of living in a place without Nature, without the ability to bend and touch Earth, and smell rain as the sky turns grey. Next week, weather permitting, Opie and I will travel an hour and a half to visit a small dementia home, on the sea, where Nature is a key point to how the residents live. They understand and value the actual past lives, and thoughts that go on in these people's heads, and they do not 'lock up the house'...rather, residents are allowed to go out when ever they want, and roam, with an attendant. The staff-to-patient ratio is set up so this can happen. They also allow pets, and have kept the pets on after residents die. Children were also raised in the house, mixing with the elders. I do not know the cost of the residence, but I assume it is pricey, and not all of us can afford this if our time comes to this. But it is heartening places like this exist.

If only the masses of elders and special needs could have facilities like this all over, at affordable prices, where they are treated as creatures versus patients put in a holding tank. Does it all come down to money? Or does it come down to the breakdown of the family system where multi-generations lived together and cared for one another. When someone was sick, or dying, the person was in the house. Children learned that grandpa had great stories and knew how to do a lot of cool things. My mother talked of this a lot, and told me many stories of the relative in the back room on their death bed-still listening to the sounds of the youngsters running about the house, smelling the scents wafting from the kitchen, hearing a familiar sound as simple as the screen door, the rooster, the dog, the mail truck.

I have always looked at my farm that way, a multi-generational community, sometimes birth is going on, sometimes death. How many times did I sit quietly with a dying matriarch of the sheep flock, while little lambs milked right near by? Those were spiritual moments, and I wish human death could always be like that–surrounded by the clan, familiar sounds and smells.

Gardens allow those of us prone to floating off [not always a bad thing] to stay grounded, right here on this realm where for now, we are supposed to be until we are not. When I die, I don't know what or where I will go, I think it will be something that meshes all the beauty of garden, animals, acceptance, safety and a feeling of worth into a skin of some kind, and maybe we won't even 'see' things, we will just be them and become of them, of their essence.

That is the privilege of having a garden, and land to work on-it allows you to become of it, without judgement. And when you do become of it, you reach your higher, calmer, less angry, less judgmental self-your higher being so to speak.

Aging is freeing -at the moment-and my apologies to the arugula, again

Ollie turned one month old

May is always a very busy month on a small farm. We have the front and private gardens going-Martyn has reshaped the structure of the gardens and of course it is a work in progress, but one we love to work on it. We love to save Misfit plants too, and revitalize them. This is our third garden we have developed and it remains a passion we can share together, but also, we seem to be able to blend our styles together well-Martyn has learned that 'weeds' are okay- Queen Anne's Lace, clover, And many others I don't know the names of. And I have learned to mix plantings more, for texture, just like a painting. I also get my solid bed of hollyhocks against a wood fence, a must, and always, lots of sunflowers.

It seems I should know the problematic status of growing a vegetable garden around ruminants. Yes, it is fenced. But they always find a way into the side arugala bed. Honestly, if Girl George doesn't ruin it by laying it, old Sophie comes along and eats it. Of course, every year I say I am going to go buy another 'real' gate, instead of my raggedy pallets and fence and hay twine...but something always is more important. We have so much lettuce, this morning I just gave up and let them stay in with the arugala.

I've also been consumed with many details of many things. This is what I call 'doing human' state of mind. it can take a person over. But I always try to stop, sit, commune with the gardens, and animals several times a day. The older I get, the more each day of health, stamina, the ability to walk and work at things I love, the ability to still see, hear, think...love amongst the vitriol being spewed...savor my food versus worry about post menopausal 15+ pound weight gain....age has a way of separating out the gravy from the grease. I have less tolerance for ignorance, stupidity, laziness and people that just don't try, aren't honest, are arrogant and live by their ego not by their heart. I no longer mince words with people that ignore boundaries, or I just don't let them through the physical gate out front or the invisible one I carry with me.

Being sixty is freeing that way. I imagine each year might become more freeing, if I am fortunate to remain independent.

This weekend I realized too that one of the things I really like about our Maine property is the intimacy of the barns and house, and how the barns are close to the house. I really missed the vastness of our old farm, and the openess of the land out West. Midcoast Maine has lots of woods, unmaintained, kind of has a northern Minnesota feel. But I realize too more and more, this is a really different gig. And we needed that for many reasons. But I'm finally settling into the difference of character between the two farms. And of course, we aren't breeding sheep or growing 4,000 lavender plants-we are no longer 'farmers' per se. We are stewards to our land and animals. We are caretakers. We are walking on this spot of Earth as gently as possible, communing. And as I was looking out my studio window this past week, I could see at one point most of the animals, including the equines in the back paddock fields. I felt they were safe, I could see them, there was and is less of a feeling of predatory possibility here. It is there, coyotes and dogs, but it feels like I have more ease with keeping everyone safe. I can move the animals around more easily. I put them in at night, or in paddocks, it is just more contained.

It's funny how a move takes a long time to settle in a person. There is also a bit of 'hanging on' to things that worked once, but really don't work anymore, or don't work well. Letting go sooner, also seems to be a perk of growing older.

And for the record, little Ollie is stinking' cute.

Protector

He has not told me his name yet

View from the second floor studio

Opie smile therapy-and how much should I help?

Jeanne and Opie

Opie and I had a really good visit with our friends in Wiscasset. I can say that each visit has been fun, good, full of beautiful moments, some visits are quiet some are more active...each visit has an energy, just like any get together with anyone.

But this visit was really a special one. I have known these people now a year, so part of it is getting to know each other. I think it is safe to say that Opie has become an extended member of the household. This comes from the fact we consistently visit, this is something I am committed to. And as I've said, I'm very fond of this group. I know that shows, I know when I give of myself in a genuine way-without motives of self-my higher self is emitted to those in my presence.

One thing that made it extra special was the conversation was really full of all sorts of topics, and we talked again about Jeanne's time as a professional dancer in NYC. It came up again because I brought up Gramercy Park-one of my favorite places and neighborhoods when I was living in NYC back in the '80's. And Jeanne, who is 97, smiled broadly and said that's where her sister lived. Her sister was Clare Luce, famous actress of the era. Jeanne also lived there with Clare at some point. We talked about Jeanne's career, and she traveled the dance circuit then, around the region, and did dance on Broadway too. I told her she should write a book.

"I tried a couple times," she said. She went on to say she had daily diaries and had tried to start books and never got it done. My little head was bursting inside. I was dying to read those diaries. I'm sure they were full of wonderful stories. I told Jeanne that, and that I could help her get the writing together into a book of some form. We smiled and that was the end of our visit.

All the way home I thought of Jeanne, and her life. We all have these rich wells of stories. You can walk down any given street and have no idea what that body and soul experienced in life. We all share something in common, something. Just think, years ago, Jeanne was walking around Gramercy Park. Years later when Jeanne would have been in her 60's [I'm 60 now] and I was in my late 20's, I was walking around Gramercy Park. I'm talking my place on the great mandala.

I wondered how much to push on these ideas. How much help can and should I extend to my elder friends? I have wanted to share more of each person's life, their stories, in a way they would enjoy. Maybe interview each one and write a story about them...share it with you, maybe the local paper if the residents liked that idea. Or maybe a book, "Opie's friends". We are all in this together, the people that came before me were rich with story. I wished I'd asked more questions. Someday, I might be somewhere, sitting petting a therapy animal...and my head might be thinking,

But they have no idea how I lived amongst the animals, I wish I could tell them all their names.I wish they knew Opie.

They really love Opie. The care manager of the home took me aside before I left to show me a scrap book she had started for them all, with Opie's first letter. That just made my day.

{If you like the work we do here at our non profit, please consider a donation. Donations help our elder/special needs animals and allow us to continue our elder outreach work. We do not take salaries and all our visits are our gift to the elders.}

Ruth also lived in NYC and was there when I was

Fear: you die before the dog...or the donkey...or the pig

Living life in fear is not only unhealthy for the spirit and body, it truncates new experience. If you are afraid to get back on the horse, you will never know that view you might have seen if you had taken another ride.

But we all have fears and some are hard to shake.

I posted some images recently of a story idea I'm pondering-about an elder dog who lives with an elder couple; the man dies, and the woman is comforted by still having the dog, but she grieves. In his own way, the dog grieves. The woman dies, leaving the elder dog. What will happen to him?

It struck a cord with many people. Who of us has not thought about this? As someone who takes in animals that are often elderly, and often have had an elder owner die, I think about it. I don't think I am stunted by fear from it, but I do think about it, and of course, I have a lot of animals. In Oregon, we made our will for the obvious reasons, but I was propelled to do it when I saw so many cases of people dying and there was no directive for caretakers on what to do with the animals. Goats were left in the backyard while the grown children just tried to grapple with selling the parent's home, or medical bills. The idea of Martyn being left with the animals was one thing, but what if we died together? Who would come over and do what was best for the animals? Who, God forbid, would take on The World's Grumpiest Pig? Would they know that Pino and Lucia were bonded, and that Paco would be distraught without his herd [he would...as much as animals carry on, Paco would really be shaken by being taken away from his herd]. Would they know that White Dog and Marcella should be together, and probably let Earnest the pig go with them too? So I made this huge list, with names of people who could help anyone coming in should we die. It gave me some comfort. Note to self: must revise will now that we're in Maine.

But the reality is, when someone dies, there are many, many details to attend to. And often the animals' needs are not front and center. It doesn't mean the caretakers don't care, it means they are overwhelmed with the details of the death and all that goes with it. I suppose some people don't care, but all in all, what I've seen is people do their best in cleaning up after a death. If you've read this blog for anytime, you know I have no tolerance for people that feel free to bash humans who might have only been doing what they could for their animals-at the time within their unique situation.

I did these images and I enjoyed doing them...I liked them. But I also found them so emotive in their rawness and simplicity that they broke my heart. So I took a brief break from them. Maybe the inspirations comes from the elders I visit, who talk about past pets,or mates. Or I think of my father's dog who outlived him. That little dog said goodbye to my father about a week before my dad died. He separated himself from my father's hospice bed, and began sleeping elsewhere. He did not venture into the room much that last week. And my father did not call for him. It was a beautiful, touching time, really. You could say a sad time, but to be present in any creature's final days is really an emotive experience. And the animals-at least in my experience-carry on much differently during and after death. They understand what is happening, I believe, long before the humans in the house do. When my mother told me Sammy the dog had suddenly started sleeping in the living room away from my father, I knew he'd said his goodbyes.

As I did the drawings, I wondered why I felt so compelled to do them, and would they go anywhere, or should they? Maybe I was meant to do them for myself only. I don't know if there is a project or not in them, a little story book perhaps, maybe a wordless one. Sometimes, you put something out there, people react and encourage the idea, and I get influenced by that [yes, this artist likes encouragement]. But I've learned to stop for a bit, appreciate the encouragement but then give it some time...and see if the idea is real, and worthy of more time...or if it was just a nice little spring shower that gave a drink to those in its path.

Reinvent yourself...the culling of a life leads to more

Jeanne's 97 year old hands hold Opie

There are so many reciprocal generosities going on in my work with the animals and elders. Just as much as the animal visits to them brings them happiness and comfort, a break in what might be a routine day, their presence also is helping me to evolve into this next reinvention of myself. Just as I am getting to know them, they are learning about me, and since I'm in a new land it is like they are bringing out a clean slate of me. My work with them is grounding me to this place called Maine. Yesterday Opie and I went to see our friends at Wiscasset. I found out Jeanne is 97, and Evelyn just turned 93, Joe is 87 and Sara is 85...We talked about me turning sixty this coming week, and it seemed like a lifetime away for them. We all agreed their is no standard image for 97, or 60. It truly is a number.

We all have 'stages' in our lives. I have had three major reinventions of myself in the times since I became an adult, and am entering my fourth. These reinventions are not eradicating everything from the past, but they are a culling, and an expansion on the things left behind after the culling.

This current reinvention is sort of a surprise for me and as I sat paining the other day, I had this clear sentence pop into my head,

You are reinventing yourself again.

When we got to Maine, I thought, Okay, I am me, painting, living and working with animals and now I'll be adding elder people into the mix. It still felt like I was doing basically the same thing as when I was out West.

But it did feel different. And for awhile now I think I wasn't completely letting myself go with the flow. I guess it looks like I'm moving fast and free here, and in many ways I am. But I think I was still hanging onto the Western Katherine. I think that is one reason I stood up from a chair last summer, walked calmly into the bathroom, and chopped about 5 inches off my hair clumps. It just felt like something I had to free myself of-those hair clumps that were prominent in so many paintings of the last ten years, hair clumps I started wearing at the old farm. I always wore my hair down before moving to the farm.

When I started working on my first illustrated memoir, which would actually become the second, not first book I'd publish [Misfits of Love was the first], I worked with a respected editor that used to work for Chronicle. He was excellent and really helped me with my craft, and helped me shape the book. He also pitched it to about 10 publishing houses; it got good feedback, but nobody felt it was going to be a 'big' book, and passed on it [a 'big' book is one that will become a huge seller]. One even said it was too inspirational. Gee, thanks. I then went on to try to find an agent, which was more painful than finding a publisher. One agent was interested, and she started throwing out ways to appeal to publishers and within six months she had still not taken me on. I began to feel like she was shaping me, or trying to, to fit her client list and her needs to sell to a certain base she knew she had, not an audience that might respond to me-as-me.

As much as I always wanted a book deal, and wider audience, I don't feel that way anymore. It would be constricting to me. I'm a free bird, I don't do well over time being caged.I am proud of my books, and I am also proud of my art, and the way I've shaped a life of the past twenty-six years merging them altogether with my other love-animals.

I don't want to be a persona, and there were years at the old farm where my blog began to feel like one-because I was playing the game of seeking an agent or publisher. Martyn was referred to as The Dirt Farmer in Oregon. It made sense. We labored in the dusty fields of lavender, and arrived at the house covered in dust. We loved a song by Levon Helm that had come out some time around then, called, "The Dirt Farmer" so I started calling him that. At the time, it was genuine, but as we were entering our final years there, it all began to feel...not us but like a tactic to tell someone else's story. In Oregon, Pino had began wearing aprons in my illustrated stories because in real life, in my then-reinvention of myself, I had begun wearing aprons when we moved to the farm–and Pino in effect, was my voice, we were the same creature.


When we moved to Maine, I remember saying to someone, something like, "Pino just wants to be a little donkey again, and Martyn wants to be Martyn."

So when I heard my inner voice say, You are reinventing yourself again I was pleased. it was as if I finally was accepting that I am me, and not a persona. I still have things to do, and share, and write about, but I don't always have to hide behind a girl flying with braid clumps. That girl was and is wonderful, and she is part of me.

But in this reinvention, I am me, Martyn is Martyn, and Pino is his own donkey.

Opie watches Gene Kelly...and we lose Richard

A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Feb 15, 2018 at 10:50am PST

Opie and I had a therapy visit with our elder friends in Wiscasset this morning. We were a little early and when we walked in their was a Bingo game going on in the kitchen.

"Hello, Opie!" I heard some of them yell out.

Opie and I meandered to the parlor where we hold court and Sylvia and Ruth were watching an old Gene Kelly movie. They have a pretty big screen and Opie was immediately mesmerized by it. We all got a chuckle out of it, and while he commenced with sharing his love with his friends, he kept stopping, and turning to the screen to watch. I am quite pleased his first film experience was one of class-Gene Kelly dancing is a good introduction for little Opie into entertainment.

Soon the other elders arrived. Joe was all gussied up to go out to lunch with his son, and a movie. He explained his purple coat was from his war time in Korea. He was in good spirits as always, he always makes everyone's day...such a fun man, such a good spirit and attitude.

A young girl was also there, of special needs. She comes to play Bingo with her friends and she was so excited when they told her a goat was coming. She asked me if Opie could be her friend, and of course I said, "Yes," then she hugged him. I asked if I could take her photo and she obliged and I said I'd find a way to get her the photo. She asked,

"Can you be my friend?"

"Yes, I can, and I am," I said. She beamed, and shook my hand in such earnestness. So meeting her and watching her interact was really wonderful and I think it was one little root being exposed as we evolve our work with elders. I want to do more with special needs, and today was a reminder that these things -if I let them-evolve at a graceful pace, depending on the outward branches from the tree I'm sitting in.

I think Bingo and the Opie visit might be a lot for them. Mary started falling asleep.

Last visit, I knew Richard had gone off somewhere. We are never told where, nor are the residents. It's the way it is in any elder facility, no matter how small. We didn't know if we would return, be sent to another place where there would be more nurse care...or...other things.

These people don't really fear death, I don't believe. They've seen it over and over, just as I have, and you reading have too. By the age these people are, they know what is coming. But I do think, speaking only to some of them in casual manner over the last year, that they all want one thing- a good death. We all do. I want that for them too.

I have grown attached.

When I arrived, I always do a quick scan and check in my head as to what faces I see, and what faces aren't there. There are only 8 residents there. Since I know them now, and we have a comfortable relationship, I asked if they had heard anything about Richard.

"He died," Evelyn told me quietly.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry," and I held her hand.

"But he isn't suffering now, he was such a nice man."

I'm so glad I got to spend as much time as we did with Richard. He was wheelchair bound and when we first visited, he didn't stay long, he didn't smile. Next visit, a bit more of a smile. And then...he was calling Opie over each visit. Richard was the one who got to hold Opie's first birthday cake while we sung to him.

I know that many of the people I get to know, and grow fond of, will die. It's going to be..tough sometimes. But I will look at it in one way-they go out loved, and feeling like someone cares, be it helping them get dressed, or taking time to bring over a cunning' little goat, as Evelyn says. I'm just glad I can do this.

I really love these guys.

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Kayla, a very special, special needs child, our new friend

The always graceful Jeanne

One of my favorite photos of Joe-his look here, grabs me

I wasn't privy to this conversation with Joe and Evelyn

Mary dozed off, a morning of Bingo and then Opie is a lot

Mary and Opie

Sylvia just loves Opie

They had lives, and still do

Opie and I visited our elder friends yesterday in Wiscasset and we were happy to have Martyn join is. It was a very nice get together, and I found out a lot this time around about our friend's former lives when they were younger.

I am not sure if 'former life" is the way I should describe their younger years. It implies it is gone. But those past lives are carried along with them as they age and enter their final years. When I look back at my twenties when I lived in NYC and worked at an ad agency, it does feel like a different person-and of course in many ways, I was. But all those experiences formed who I am now. When I talk to the elders, I want to always strive to see the entire person that has formed over the years.

I've been going to this particular elder home for some time now, and felt comfortable yesterday steering the conversation a bit. We were talking about one of the Maine islands one of the residents grew up on, and that led to finding out where others came from. I knew some of their home towns, but what a surprise to hear about Ruth, a very quiet woman but one who has opened up a lot. She was from NYC, and she was a graphic artist and worked for many magazines. We pondered how we might have passed each other on the street in the '80's when I lived there as we both worked in midtown. And she lived ten blocks from me on the Upper West Side. I also found out that Jeanne was a dancer and travelled with an entourage around the east. She danced full-time until she married. I asked if she ever danced in NYC and she had, and she told me she liked visiting there because her sister, also a dancer, lived there.

"She was quite well known," Jeanne told me, and her name was Claire Luce which sounded so familiar. I told her I'd look her up. "She danced with people like Fred Astaire," Jeanne said. Jeanne always comes to Opie's visits with red lipstick on, and lots of red scarves or sweaters. She has a sense of style and reminds me of how my mother always looked her best as she aged. It made sense knowing more about her background.

When I got home I looked Claire Luce up, and was amazed to see what a famous person she was, dancing with Fred Astaire and Ziegfeld to name a sample. She was often in the papers and had quite the career. She died in 1989 at the age of 85 and was survived by Jeanne.

It all made me think about what role I am playing on these therapy visits-what is my role, what should my role be, or not be. I know that I've talked to them, and other elders we visit, about the annoying way many people ignore elders, or treat them like invalids, or babies, or people that simply have no new ideas or nothing to ad to life or conversation. I feel one of my roles is to listen, and encourage them to share, and I really want to hear their stories. I think that is why it is all working, this therapy visit gig, because I really do want to hear their stories. I'm not doing it for brownie points, I just like old people and their bag of life they have waiting to be opened.

I think another one of my roles is quite simple-to just be me.

I don't pity them either, instead I empathize with them. There is great wisdom in aging, but also great cruelness at times-the loss of physical abilities when the mind is still sharp, the loss of friends and mates, the inability to care for oneself, the fragilness of bones, or the whispering of the family on what to do with grandpa. The naysayers, 'You're too old to have another dog..." that elders are confronted with. I think more than anything, elder people of all abilities want to be treated like adults, like fellow humans. Just as a teenager wants his parents to see he is capable of doing things, so do elders. I absolutely cringe when people talk to elders like they are babies, or not in the room.

I noticed that Richard was not in our get together. I never ask where someone is-but I was thinking it. Sometimes someone just doesn't come to an Opie day because they are at an appointment, or they are visiting someone. But Joe told me about Richard-he had been sent somewhere to receive care that the residence could not give him. And they didn't know if he'd be back, or he might have to go live at one of the other five homes. We talked about what a nice man he is, how it takes him a bit to open up, but how he started coming to Opie days regularly and smiled a lot. Nobody knows where he is-that is how it works, it is a confidentiality thing in these elder homes, it is the norm. At some point, if he ends up elsewhere, they will be able to write him, or he might come back. I hope whatever happens, I can visit him with Opie.

It is part of this. They leave, one way or another. Just like the old animals we take on, just like our beloved family members, just like the leaves and old trees. All things must pass, all things do pass. Once you really understand that, it makes life much richer, it makes more sense-the death part. It is part of it...the big it.

So it was an Opie visit with many lovely moments-like when Opie figured out there was this beautiful sunbeam streaming in through the floor to ceiling window of the old home, and he just stood in that sunbeam, barely able to keep his eyes open. In the background, Ruth was dozing off too. I just love that photo.

I am a body of breath [and I have a tire around my middle]

The cat is a wonderful creature. I have always admired them for their combination of survival skills: the ability to appreciate zen over stress, finding food and shelter when needed, and taking full advantage of their body's grace to keep themselves limber, even as they age.

A reminder for us all, including myself-keep stretching, use it or lose-or don't use it and feel your muscles tense up.

I still do yoga each morning, although it's dwindled down to about 10 minutes. But when I don't for even a couple days, I can feel it in my lower back.

I'm noticing my age more and more as I near sixty. I don't want to turn this blog into a space of ailments, but I'm somewhat frustrated by certain things that have been happening in my body since about 56. When I find myself getting depressed about it, I push it away, because there are are so many other things that could be wrong, and aren't. I've lost two people to cancer, my age, this past month. I see friends fighting all sorts of debilitating diseases-having a fatter middle is nothing compared to that.

I watch the elder cats stretch and jump, sit and sleep, focused on a light beam, a window of snow flakes...or a dish of food being consumed by a fellow cat-they do it all with a balance of intrigue and calm. I doubt they are noticing the fact their tummies have dropped-or that mine is a certain size. I found this an annoying thing to go through-the frustration of putting on post menopause weight after working hard to maintain a good weight through my adult years. I've never been one to diet, I love food-good food fortunately. So when I put on some weight in my early thirties, I went to Weight Watchers. They weren't going to let me in because I was one pound under the limit. But they did. I'm sure when I walked in the group that was there-mainly people older than 55, and mainly people with a lot more weight to lose than my wimpy 12 pounds-but I went every week and listened. I've thought of this one man a lot as I struggle with weight in the last few years. He was a sweet, quiet man, probably about 65. Every week, the leader would end the session with asking people if they had 'special challenges' that week that might trigger over eating. This fellow would always quietly say, just two words,

"Portion control."

Every week, he looked the same to me. And there I was whipping off my weight 1-2 pounds a week. Oh to have hormones and be young again.

I never gained it back...until one day, I hit my fifties. I was active, I ate well, I knew how to take it off. But this time it didn't come off. It brought on angst because when I was little, someone I loved very much patted me on the belly and told me I was "too young to be fat." Of course, I was not fat, I was just a little 8 year old that had a slight paunch. But it crushed me. And I know my angst about not being able to lose the tire around my middle is tied up into that, or partially is.

I don't like having this tire to carry around. But...I walk with Muddy, eat right and my attitude is that what is most important is strength, breath, and life. I don't want to die wishing I'd eaten more olives. And if you think about it, we would never look back at being ten and think, "I wish I had that waist again," why do some of us think we should aspire to the waist and neckline of our early forties. I just never thought my middle would get to this. It's just sort of a little cloud that is behind my head all the time. I can look the other way and the beautiful blue sky, or acknowledge it from time to time, quickly, and focus on my breath and life.

I always thought I had it under control. But I don't, my body is just doing what it is programmed to do via my particular DNA and no matter how many calories I count out the tire will be there. Can it get smaller? Yea, but the last time I tried that I was eating 1000 calories a day. What a drag. The same calories that maintain weight for me at 40-50, well, now it means eating so little to lose 1/4 pound. I want to eat...I don't know, God forbid, 1500 calories a day at least.

Eye floaters, the loss of my perfect blood pressure from my entire adult life until menopause...carpel tunnel, the known fact that when I trip in the barn it might take months to heal instead of weeks...it's all part of the package of getting older. But the package is also about breath, and life, and the fact some of us still get to be here in relatively good health. I like what I heard an elder woman say about her body, she had been a modern dancer her entire life, but at 90 still loved to dance, and did. Her arms were sagging and her muscles had deteriorated, but she still moved gracefully about the floor, and she said she thinks of her body now as a 'body of breath." I liked that, I am going to focus on acknowledging I am a body of breath.

The man who keeps the place standing...and a good chicken love story

As I age and especially as I work with more elders, I think of what will come of me, of us, and our animals when I get really old. I will be sixty in spring...this is not old-old, but I am entering my final quarter. After the riding accident, after any bad fall, it does change your perspective on falling. I always assumed I'd carry on as usual into my final years, always walking, always working outside, always with animals in my life.

I liked what a woman in her eighties once said to me, that she did not like, nor did she deserve, to be 'detracted' from. At the time she wanted another dog, she missed her dog terribly but due to her age some family members felt it was not a good idea-so many things could go wrong-she could trip on the dog [she could trip on the carpet], the dog might out live her and be homeless [the dog might die before her, and if she did die the dog might end up in a wonderful new home, just like my pug Hughie ended up with me]; walking the dog might cause her to slip on ice [there are solutions to these things, perhaps a small outdoor pen on the deck or outside the door for winter months, something my parents did for a short time].

One has to be practical, but too many times I think we treat our elders like they don't have experience and inner knowledge of their own. They have lived 80+ years, they must have some clue of what works for them. I saw an article this week about a farm setting elder home in the UK where they are incorporating chickens into the daily lives of the residents. One of the residents had had to leave his home, and he was somewhat depressed. The manager spent time talking to him and found out one of the things the man missed was his chickens. So she decided to see if they could help him with that. And soon, the home had a chicken coop and the man had some chickens which he cared for, and other residents helped too. The man's depression went away and he talked more, smiled more, felt more like himself.

As someone who has moved, a lot, and also had to leave my beloved farm in Oregon, I know how unsettling it is to leave animals and a place that once gave me a purpose. I loved the article about the chickens, and realized I want to make something like that happen here too. I have so much work to do, so much. If I was rich I'd buy the property next to us and turn t into a farm-eldercare place, so there could be a few animals, and I could help. I've even thought of trying to raise funds for it, but I need to focus on getting our barn built, and continuing our elder work. We had our first annal meeting with our board and many good things were discussed and one was to recognize the 501[c][3] is evolving in its own time frame, in its natural way. I sometimes get ahead of myself.

I wonder if I could stay here without Martyn. I am a very handy woman, I have lived alone most of my adult life until I met Martyn in my forties so am very self sufficient in most ways-but there are many things here that I rely on him for. I am grateful for each thing he does. He keeps the place standing, fixes the things that need work-important things like electrical and plumbing. He can build things-crucial to any small farm.

We talk about what we would do if one of us died. It gives me comfort to hear him say he wouldn't leave if I died. He loves Maine and he loves our house. I think one of the crucial reason we landed here, in this state, in this region an din this house is it was right for both of us at this time, but it was crucial to Martyn's well being. His life here is better with less commuting and less stress. I know I would stay too if he died, but, it seems the reality of what is coming in the final decade or two is present everywhere in my work with elders. I don't dwell on it, but I don't think a day goes by where I don't thank the skies for what we have together.

And he's stinking' handsome in my eyes.

{If you like the work we are doing with our non profit, helping animals and elder people, please consider a donation which are tax deductible.}

Opie hits the town again and an old gent makes my heart swoon

We had a beautiful morning with our friends at Wiscasset Green, an assisted living home we've been visiting since spring every couple of weeks. The town of Wiscasset is about 30 minute drive, but this time of year it is so pretty, and the town itself is so charming-a postcard setting.

I try to spend more time visiting versus taking photos. I'd love an assistant for one visit so I could focus on on photography-but, I feel the residents are my priority, not my photos.

Jean had her fingernails painted today, it was so sweet. She and Mary sat on the wicker couch with the blue cushion and they were both dressed in blue. There must be bonus points for this, I told them. Everyone was there today except Slyvia had to leave for an appointment but she got to see Opie just as she was departing.

But when Joe didn't arrive my heart sort of sunk. I finally asked where he was, and to my relief he was on his way down but had gotten consumed in writing a letter. Joe is 85 and really sharp. He lost 'the love of his life' in January, and his son soon after-but he always has a smile on his face and has wonderful stories-but he also asks a lot of questions, and I feel he genuinely cares about Apifera. He always asks me, "What was the best thing that happened this week at the farm?"

Today we talked about children, and if I had any. I said "no" and explained I love kids but made a decision in my earlier life not to have any, because I knew in my heart my personality would not be able to focus enough on being a good mother and felt it would not be fair to the children. Joe said,

"Well, we can be your kids now."

My heart swelled!

{If you like the work we are doing not only helping animals, but bringing them together with elders, please consider a donation at the funding page. All donations are tax deductible.}

Opie falls in love again

Opie and Jean having a communing moment today at our elder visit. {copyright Apifera Farm} #apiferafarm #elderlove #animaltherapy #opiethetherapygoat $goatsofinstagram #midcoastmaine #mainefarms #nonprofitsforanimals

A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Sep 28, 2017 at 10:08am PDT

Opie has this way of looking up at the elders as he communes with them, it becomes a shared love between goat and human. While he shares himself with everyone, today he had a very attracted to Jean who gave him a loving head and neck rubdown. I just love the look on her face, and I love her beautiful old hands.

Today we sat outside and took enjoyment in how much Opie likes to eat dried leaves, like potato chips-such a simple pastime but we all got so much joy rom it. I also learned that Joe's love of his life, his wife of sixty years died in January and his son died shortly after of suicide-he was a Marine who came back with horrible physical pain and he just could not withstand it. He told me how they had talked about death, he and his wife, and they had had sixty years together and that was wonderful. These are the scenes of things to come, and I look to them as reminders that they carry on as best they can-and if a little goat helps bring in new memories, this is a worthy job for Opie...and me.

{If you like the work we are doing here, please consider a tax deductible donation. We also have a barn fundraiser going on-and someone is matching every dollar for up to $10,000.}