Days of mud baths

It has been in the high 80's for three days, very hot for this time of year. As you might remember I hate heat. I considered sitting with Eleanor in her private mud bath, but there is so much to do, and how could I interfere with her spa treatment?

And on another note-the newsletter is also out. Hoof stomps!

The mother ship has entered the barnyard!

So we brought the traveling Misfit hotel home yesterday! She is parked in the barnyard where I will feed The Misfits to get them used to it, hoping for a smoother departure day.

But here is the thing. Remember how I said the Kickstarter project would evolve? While this trailer is not at all what I first imagined when I put the Kickstarter online and we had not decided to move to Maine, but I realized the design of this trailer has ways to become my Magical Misfit Book and Healing Mobile! The back door has dutch windows on the top, and when opened, I could be standing there handing out pie, with Misfits in tow with me. There is a front room where I could have my books, and it is plenty big for a couple chairs and a Misfit or two. With some creative draped fabrics and Apiferian raggedy touches, I think this is the start of many good things. You all know I love to get creative with fabric.

Here are some pictures of the first Misfits going in the Magical Mobile. Of course, the challenge is figuring out seating arrangements. The biggest challenge is The World's Grumpiest Pig who will need her private area. Everyone else will be easy after that....although I think Itty Bitty is going to be one ticked kitty.

She [I need to listen to her to hear her name] is brand new for safety, and was quite a bit more than I planned, way more really, but we could not have found anything suitable for less money. I'm not messing around with safety for this journey. If you'd like to help offset the Misfit traveling hotel, feel free [and thank you].

[The GoFund budget is almost 50% less than the price]

I made a deal with the devil, but angels intervened

I have been recovering from a huge mistake I made. I am going to write about it so it might help someone else. Back in February, when we accepted the offer from someone to buy our beloved farm, I had internal turmoil from the minute I met the buyer. There are many details I can not write on a public forum, but I will tell you that my body and internal instincts told me this buyer was not the person he said he was. He paraded around telling us he would care for our sheep and any animals we wanted to leave. With bravado he suggested iphones for us at closing but to me it felt shallow and made me realize he was a wheeler dealer. The second I shook his hand, I had a visceral reaction. But we accepted his offer. That was the day I made a deal with the devil.

All these past weeks, as we patiently waited for a close to come, my body was telling me-loudly-that this person was not worthy of this farm. But I would stuff it, telling myself not to be judgmental. My body reacted every time I had to deal with the buyer. I would have stomach aches, my right side became so tight I was having daily head aches. I was drinking a bit too much at night and going to bed early. I was having dreams of rescue attempts. I would wake at 3 am and cry silently into my pillow. I chalked it all up to the usual stress of a move.

The buyer made many blunders as the weeks passed, including having a shady lender from out of state-who went AWOL in the middle of the deal. Literally disappeared. I googled him. He was someone who had fled Canada for being a pedophile. My body shook. The more I discovered about the buyer's life in NYC, the more sick I became.

Because when you make a deal with the devil, you are not in a healthy relationship with yourself.

We allowed him an extension and he released his large earnest amount. We had after all found and bought our dream farm-pending a successful close here- in Maine and were anxious to leave. We had lots of money down-non refundable-for horse hauling. After the extension, he had a local lender, and I once again told myself 'all was well', but my animosity for him grew. I began to despise him. But what I really couldn't accept-yet-was I despised myself for letting my farm fall into his hands.

Every chore I did on the farm with my sheep I disconnected from them. I grew impatient with my flock. I told myself it was part of letting go.

Because when you make a deal with the devil, you convince yourself of all sorts of things.

As the new closing date of 4/15 approached, there were more signs Mr. Big was not who he said he was. He got stuck in underwriting. Because of the new lending laws, there is a mandatory 3 day period before you can close. If he didn't get out of underwriting by Tuesday 4/12, he would not be able to close, and we were not going to grant him an extension. On Tuesday night, he wrote us an email via his realtor telling us how much he was spiritually connected to the land. I spit at that screen, and deleted it.

And then, angels appeared. I am not using that word lightly. I believe angels were involved, as long as all my inner guides and upper guides. Friends of our good friends had loved our farm back when they first saw it online. They were disappointed it had already sold, but they continued to watch to see if it closed. Meanwhile they looked at many farms, and none compared to ours. Our mutual friend suggested they contact us, as she knew there was some trouble getting to closing.

So they came out, and we loved them. This depressed me even more, as we were in a binding contract with the Devil. While we knew he could not close with a loan by Friday, he could possibly close with his swarmy cash. He had many businesses he was running out of NYC and we legally would have had to let them buy the place if he had cash by 2pm Friday.

I reached out to my healer in Minneapolis, my spiritual guide and teacher who has helped me for years work with my own inner guides and abilities. My mistake was put into perfect words for me- I had made a deal with the devil, I was so eager to begin the next part of my dream that I ignored my relationship and responsibility with my current farm. I had fallen off my track, so impatient and eager to get to Maine.

Meanwhile the new buyers came out twice, and we hatched out a plan for them to buy our farm in a way that we could somehow not lose our Maine farm. I was back working with people that deserved my farm, I was working in 'right relationship' as my healer called it. We just needed to get past 2pm Friday to be free of the devil. At 1 pm Friday, I got word the buyer could not get cash. We were free. My body lifted.

I was given so many gifts of learning. Never, ever, lose your soul to something that you know instinctively violates your beliefs. Never give up your own heart to fulfill one dream if it works against everything you put into the last one. The fact these new buyers came at the moment they did, the fact the timing was what it was-it is as if it was all meant to be-for learning, for the preservation not only of my soul, but for this beautiful place, and my flock.

While we were still dealing with the devil, I told Martyn that when we did drive away from Apifera for the last time, I would leave the sheep in the upper barn, so I wouldn't be able to see them as we drove away. I thought that would be easier on my heart. But I realize now, that was my attempt to forget what I was about to do-leave my farm and flock in the hands of the devil himself. I didn't want to see what I was about to do, I was ashamed and I knew it was wrong. I sensed danger for my sheep but i kept making excuses.

The relief we both feel, knowing this great family will carry on here-yes, with my flock- is huge. I am so happy for them, and us. I sat with my flock yesterday and sobbed. I apologized to them and I told them of all my lessons. I know they don't hold a grudge, but when I look at their faces now, and all the land and living things here, I think how close I came to leaving it in the wrong hands.

I'm humbled by my error, but, also I walk away with new respect for the inner sensitivities I have, that I sometimes push away, due to impatience for a desired result. The devil loves to target such people because he is a manipulator.

Pig and White Dog Nap

Birdie senses spring

Diary of a Pig: Earnest's journal

April 10. Sunday evening.

The weather was good. The mud has crusted over allowing me too dust a bit, but also lets me maintain a light layer of mud as the sun heats me up in the afternoon. I have been quite lazy. Why not, I am not allowed in with Eleanor right now. She was not interested in me yesterday when I pressed my body up to the gate. I could knock that rat trap gate over if I wanted to, held up with hay twine, it would be less than an afternoon's work for me. But like I said, I feel lazy. It's the warm air and sun.

This morning we had breakfast and the day seemed like yesterday and the day before. I don't keep track of the name of the day like the people do. Why bother. But I knew something was different about the day when I saw the two of them together in Eleanor's paddock, with wire crates. All of us in the upper barnyard were curious and gathered to watch. The squealing began. One by one my children were caught and carried off to the driveway and the trailer. Eleanor was not upset, so I followed her cue and did not worry myself. I heard no bullets. The llama took care of circling the paddock so there was little I could do to interfere. Then I remembered she mentioned it to me, my woman. She told me the children would travel to a near by farm to live. Children go off, that is the way it is. They don't come back. I have my consistency here though-my food and ample areas to bed in. I have White Dog, and Eleanor, and my daughter Cornelia. This is enough for me. I like the people, they interact with me and care for my feet and rub my belly. But I don't need to be surrounded by piglets running amok.

So the children except one have gone off to their own destiny. I am told they will live out their lives there in the pasture, with goats, and two brothers that came from my seed. A pig either is in a pasture for life, or is eaten. I don't judge the outcome either way.

It was quieter at breakfast without the children. A nice quiet. They were good looking, like their mother.

Pino says farewell to a friend

This morning I had an emotive, beautiful encounter with the donkeys. My farrier came to do trims on everyone. It will be our last time seeing him before we leave. We've had him for years and love him. He came to us back when Paco had just arrived and that poor little donkey had no confidence. It took four of us to hold him for his feet trims. Each time, he got better and more relaxed, now he doesn't even need a halter on.

We trimmed the donks first and usually they hang out in a corner while we trim each one. But today, they all kept close to us, literally huddled in a circle right up on us.

"They're saying goodbye," the farrier said.

It was so sweet. We knew they understood something. Each time we shifted our stance, the donkeys would move themselves back into our sides to be close.

After we trimmed Boone, my farrier started going on about how much he loved working with us and how good a heart I had and to never let that change. I teared up a little, got that cracky voice you get to hold back tears. And as he got in his truck to drive off, he waved one last time and said "Thank you" out his window.

I turned to take Boone to the barn. The donkeys usually just go off on their own and graze the minute they are done with a foot trim, but there was Pino running the fence line with the farrier's truck on the other side, and he was braying.

My former life in a treehouse

When one makes a major transition in life, it seems the natural tendency is to review one's life. I think this is understandable. The past brought us here, the present is launching us forward, and it makes sense to review the material a bit before moving on. So as I stumble on things in my house purging, stories come up.

I am of the lucky ones who got to have a tree house in my very young years, and I didn't have to wear a helmet, or even shoes. It appears I often dressed for an occasion too. This was on Goodrich Ave. in St. Paul, one of my favorite houses and times of my life-or as I recall. It was a large grand house with secret rooms in the basement and an octopus furnace, the attic came with forgotten boxes of ancient stuff, and my bedroom had a window that allowed me to climb out and sit on the roof, naked, waving at the man across the street on his porch. My mother used to tell me stories of how he would nearly have a heart attack seeing me out there, one story up, casually laying about.

"She's out there again without her clothes," my brother would say, according to my mother 's retelling years later.

There was a bakery around the corner where my father and I went every Sunday and I always got free stuff because of my curly red hair and I suppose charming personality. I know I was well behaved but I also am told, and it comes as no surprise, I was spriteful and quite independent from the start. I had a lot of friends at the hardware store that was right around the corner too-that would have been Grand Avenue for all you St. Paulites. It was family run and I remember the son of the owner was named Bob. He was probably my dad's age. Once my father and I returned from the hardware store-we went there all the time-and on our return my mother noticed I had put a brand new red collar on our little black poodle. It had diamonds in it, while they were fake diamonds, I am not sure I understood that. I just really liked that collar. The collars had been displayed on the counter at the checkout, on a cardboard stand up display. My mother asked me how I got the collar.

"It was free, it was right out on the counter," I said. I do remember thinking it was not right to be scolded, I really thought the collars were free.

So my mother insisted my father march me back there and return it, and apologize. I remember being upset, not crying, but feeling strange I was in trouble for doing nothing wrong, and I think I thought this would all be understood once we got there, that those collars were free.

Well, the grandmother of the family was working that day, and she said it was no problem at all, that I could keep the collar since it was a misunderstanding on my part. Of course my mother laughed years later, saying they were trying to teach me a lesson, and I got the goods anyway. But to this day, I tell you with my hand on my pig, I didn't steal it, it was free- in my mind. Many years later, when I was in my thirties I suppose, my parents and I stopped into the hardware store. Bob was still working there and was probably about seventy five. His face looked the same to me and his smile, I can see it right now as I type, but he had grey hair. He remembered me, and my parents. The store still had old creaky oak wood floors, the thin strips, and there were bins of hardware up and down the walls. As each customer came and went, I heard what sounded like the same bells ringing, the ones that hung from the shop door. Of all the places I've lived and returned to, there is one street that makes me feel I am back with my family and childhood–Grand Avenue in St. Paul, Minnesota.

My father made us the tree house, it was out back behind the family room which was behind the kitchen. I remember it being very high off the ground–it would be fun to see that now, how tall it was. But to my memory, I was way up in that tree. I think I might have to make another tree perch in Maine, maybe for a better view of the bay.

I distinctly remember putting my small poodle in a basket once and then I tied a rope to the handle and tried to hoist her up. It was unbalanced and didn't work, no matter how slowly I pulled. So I put a rope on her collar, and started pulling her up to get her into my tree house. I remember the little dog struggling and I thought this probably isn't good, and dropped her to the ground, and then fortunately my mother saw me and intervened.That little poodle was my right hand shadow and she sure tolerated a lot, but never denied me her company.

There we are on an old door from the basement suspended by a sturdy tree-who knows what plot was in my head in this picture? It was at this time that I can say my memories of my childhood really began, since I was four or five. Kennedy died while I was in that house, I remember my mother crying as she sat on the foot stool right up close to the black and white TV, so I cried too.

The World's Grumpiest Pig turns eight

Today is the 8th birthday of The-World's-Grumpiest-But-I'm-Fine-Just-the-Way-I-Am-Pig...aka Rosie.

Some of you may follow along and know that over a year ago, I found Rosie in the rain, shivering, and that was the day she left the goat barn for good to live in Old Barn. Over the warmer months, I have tried to entice her back out to the sun, but she is content in her private suite with a rooster or two, and visiting donkeys or sheep. The sun still shines down through the old fir floors from the upper hayloft. Rosie does not like interacting with others, never has, and we all know Stevie was the only one who really tolerated her grumpiness. But I miss her in the barnyard, I do.

I told her it was her birthday, which she knew, but she had no interest really.

Hrumpf ruperumph, she said, then ate her egg and kibble. She even tolerated me cleaning her eyes.

How we will get Rosie in the trailer when we move, I don't know. But I do plan on creating a private suite for her in Maine-in fact, I'd like to find some little pink rosebud wallpaper, vintage of course, and put it up on her wall, complete with her Rosie birdhouse.

{Read all the Rosie posts}

Sophie blossoms

Sophie is doing very well despite having lost Victor this past winter. In fact, her personality is blossoming a bit and she has become much more affectionate and personable with me. She was never unfriendly, but let Victor do all the love sharing. Like many elder couples, when one passes away it can create a necessity for the survivor to come out of a shell, or allows an opportunity to speak up a bit more. For example, to day I was hanging out visiting the pigs at their fence line, with Earnest. And out of the blue, Sophie came down from the upper barnyard to put her head on my hand for scratches. I'm so glad she has opened herself up. She is a tender girl and her bedtime mate is Raggedy, who will be her travel mate when we move.

Mother Tulip returns! We rejoice in life!

I wondered if she would return this year. I thought it might be fitting if she didn't, since we are leaving. But then again, when I saw her little head poke out of the spring ground, in the same spot as last year, I thought,

"She has come to say Safe journey, be on your way.

Like every year, she begins folded tenderly in a tight closed flower head with her yellow coloring on the edges, which burst out red when she opens. Mother Tulip first appeared three years ago. On April 4th, 2013, my beloved mother died, suddenly really, at age 87. My mother loved tulips, as did I, and in Minnesota we always planted bulbs no matter what house we lived in. When Martyn and I moved to the farm, my mother sent us about fifty tulip bulbs. That was twelve years ago and over the years, the bulbs petered out as they do until there were only about 6 tulips, then maybe 4 the next year.

Several days after my mother died, a lone tulip bloomed amongst the Muscari. I felt my mother greeting me, trying to cheer me on,

I'm around, don't worry, go on now and be happy on your farm with your animals. I'm okay.

For the past three years since then, she has returned, still the only tulip.

It is also Boone's 18th birthday. Back in 2013, you might remember that I mentioned that at first I thought it was kind of sad that his birthday would always be entwined in my mother's death date. But immediately I changed that thinking, for it was a perfect example of life going on after death. We must embrace the living and cherish the memories of the dead, but let them walk with us in different forms as we carry on without them.

So that tulip is symbolic of the circle of life. She is strong and unique. She bends with the wind. I am glad she returned one more time to see us. I guess we will never know if she pops up next year. But that's okay, she has given us all she could here. I will plant tulips in Maine and will think of the lone tulip who brought me happiness, and the mother who taught me to plant tulips in the fall for their cheerful greetings in spring after winter's slumber.

Doctor, can you do something about my baby's face?

Every night the dogs run and we let Hughie out and despite his blindness he is fearless and knows his territory. We let him be a real dog, although I am not sure pugs are real dogs, they are mystical little beasts. When we are ready to sit on the porch, we go grab Hughie and carry him back to the deck, always in this pose.

Hughie will do great on the trip, he likes the car and will have his little bed. I have no worries about him acclimating to the new place. He did so here in record time for a blind dog. He is such a delightful little fellow.

My comet is moving pretty fast for its size...we let go

As we wait to move, we are about to go into overdrive-packing, tossing, preparing the trailer for the Misfits and the myriad of details that will go with all of it. Somewhere in there I am hoping to sell art and books and Martyn is winding up his client schedule so money, as always, will be tight. But I now have to focus on the task at hand. I'm the ship captain. Martyn will do anything he is asked but he is not a big picture guy when it comes to moving. 'Nuf said.

Yesterday was a turning point in letting go. I was able to make arrangements with both my equine hauler, and the small barn where the equines will land, and spend 2-3 weeks as we get to Maine after them. It was a huge relief to find someone that I trust and like for both of those things. It was also a reckoning with the fact time is going by and we are really leaving. I want to leave. In fact if I could go tomorrow I would. It is a time of excitement, tension and sadness. All goodbyes are like that. But when I looked at my calender and saw the date the hauler would pick up the equines, and I thought about that day, I got overwhelmed, and I immediately knew we had to leave as soon as we could after them. So I ordered the moving van to arrive that week, and I could see on the calender when we'd all be together again.

Yesterday, I felt everything around me just sort of letting go, even Old barn as I looked at her, and I in turn felt I let go. Things that seemed to have meaning to me here, are less important today. The signs hanging all over the farm that brought so many such joy-like "Watch For Cats Falling From Trees' in the front drive-they won't have meaning now in Maine, or here even. I gave them meaning. I pondered last week about taking them or leaving them. As an artist and writer, they were part of my living story here, and if I brought them to Maine they would be like props on a fake farm. There will be new signs to make in Maine.

I suppose my friends and those that follow me here are almost as anxious to see us get out of here as I am. The words and posts here have a dusting of melancholy, I know. But that is the stream I'm in now. It will change.

This month will be busy beyond normal busy. I might not have time to mourn, but I know there will be surges of reality hitting both of us. People are starting to ask if they can come say goodbye, some are good friends, some are just supporters and I think I am going to have to real in the fences and protect myself from too many goodbyes. It's just too draining. I have animals to say goodbye to also in the coming weeks-some hard ones.

But the weather this past week has been a blessing. The sun is always a positive sign in any adventure. It lightens any mind frame for the trip ahead. Imagine the original pilgrims at sea when they saw the dawn each day. I am sitting amongst moments like these in the photos, with the animals, in the place that birthed so many stories, trials and tribulations, happiness, and some sadness. man I learned a lot. My little comet in the sky, to pen a Neil Young song, is travelling pretty fast for its size.

When we get to Maine no creature I've cared for will be buried in that soil. My mother and father never sat in that house-I will not see them in chair by the window as a memory like I do here. It will be refreshing that way–a new beginning within my life journey.

White Dog magnificance-no words needed

Listen to their feet

I did this painting today, and titled it "Listen to Their Feet". As I was doing it I was unclear of the entire meaning behind it–but that is the mystery of the muses-internal messages and stories often need to linger awhile before being understood out here in the wide open world. I do know when I finished it I felt it hit a sweet spot. The Native Americans say to listen to the feet not the tongue–one's actions speak louder than words.

I've been focusing on painting this past week and will hope to continue through the month. Once we close here, it will be full speed ahead. I wish we could close now, this second. There are things I can't do until we close, important things, many things. But it will happen. It will. Perhaps this child came to me, her hands unable to produce the results she wants at this moment, but her feet are telling the world what she needs. I did go for a long walk today, something I'm determined to get back into my daily agenda. It felt good, like winged feet.

I don't see me and I am fine

The lite in the morning is always so beautiful on the animals. The deep rich colors– almost black–of the coats this year is dramatic in morning light which is warmer than mid day light.

Everything is happening...fast, but slowly. I am breathing, and trying to go for walks. The rain should stop for a few days so I can get out more. In Minnesota I used to walk four miles almost every day, with my sidekick Louie Louie, the wire haired terrier. We'd hop in the car and drive ten minutes to one of the many city lakes. We'd walk in freezing temps too. There is something about walking in rain that has failed me, or I have failed it. I've put on good old fashioned middle aged lady weight, despite all my riding and barnyard work. It's the way it goes. Hormones and lack of them are a reality. My goals are to remain strong, and trim some blubber off my middle. That size 8-10 sprite I was at marriage is gone. I have become more used to it though-the saggy neck, the wiggle in my thighs. Hey, my butt is still small and somewhat firm, it's my best family genetic asset from my father. The body is my vehicle here, not my soul.

What does it have to do with morning light and the lambs? When I am outside busy, or just being in nature, I don't see me, I am not looking at me. I feel just fine as me. When I'm painting, I don't see me, I am just fine as me. In the past year or so I have become more acquainted with the chubbier, older me in the mirror. She is doing fine, as best she can. I don't judge the sagging backs of my elder animals or the jowels of my women or men peers. I remember their smiles when they leave my home, or their expressions and thoughts. It's the essence, not the physical matter that resonates.

Responding and interacting with the world does not require analyzing one's appearance, or pant size.

And in Maine, I will be walking again, daily. You can bet on that.

Easter is a beautiful celebration. I am not religious, but Easter to me is the best things a religion could present to the world–rebirth, renewal, change, and evolution to our higher selves.

Clan of trees

When I left Minneapolis back in 2002, I said good bye to all the trees in my yard. There were only a few, but I felt a certain sense of guilt leaving them. I suppose the same anonymous hater troll that recently told me to use 'my big brain' and admit that my mother can not be a bird [because "God" wouldn't do that...good God, that's all I could think] will tell me trees don't feel or have any problem with us leaving them.

In that sense, I agree-but I do think trees feel and emit feelings.

Back in Minneapolis, the healer that I was working with to work out some issues, heard my lament-that I was sad to leave all the nature in my own backyard-and she said,

"Trees are a clan, they are connected all over the world."

I could visualize this, their roots creating intricate systems below us, communicating with each other, and perhaps soaking in our feelings as we walk above those roots, or touch their trunks. Now that we are leaving this Apifera for the Maine version soon, I am not afraid to say good-bye to the nature here, because it is connected to the Nature there. I suppose its just like talking to my mother through a tulip or a bird. It's an innate language. It's all one. While each tree is unique and has it's own resonance with my individual encounter with it, the trees here will be happy without me. That's all I want, for them to be okay and live out their time.

The old Doug Fir behind the house is the first thing I see when I wake up, unless Big Tony is sitting on my head, which is often the case. I love that tree. It has helped me through sad mornings when I awake to a hurt heart from memories that came in a dream, or it enlivens me on a spring dawn when the windows are open and the birds are dancing from one branch to the next. With the river song in the background, and a wind blowing, its boughs and the water create a beautiful symphony. In wind storms I've laid in bed, hoping it does not lose its power to bend in the gust. And when we worked in the hot months in the then young lavender fields, I anticipated the shade she would give me. I love that shadow and am always amazed at how long it's shadow is cast in the field.

I caught this photo the other day of the donkeys walking with the shadow of my tree friend. Somewhere in Maine the shadows are responding, or they are busy reacting to the sun there.

There's a solution to every problem

I am focusing as much as I can on getting new pieces painted - once the closing happens on this property....my head and heart will be full speed ahead to Maine, as will Martyn's.

So, amidst the million phone calls and emails going back and forth between here and Maine about buying, securing loans [dreadful process], and things with the closing here, I have somehow managed to paint. I force myself to go to my painting desk and start. Then it usually comes forth, whatever prayer I need. The other day I guess I needed white tulips-a nice contradiction I think to dealing with the loan process. I still have wings on the mind, wings of different colors and capable of landing in different parts of the world...or perhaps even to other realms.

I also take time each day to talk to the animals. each day it seems one or another individuals need me, or I them, more than the others. White Dog has helped me, it is almost like he looks at me now with,

I told you it would be okay.

It is okay, despite some surprises in the selling process that are evening out and upheavals in other areas that all have solutions.  One of the mottos I carry with me-and have for many years- is there is a solution to every problem. Sometimes the solution isn't clear, or is a bit of a different direction, a step outside a comfort zone-but that is what personal expansion is all about.

Apifera is fine. The Maine Apifera is waiting-I communicate with her daily too, in dreams, through ideas that pop into my head for her, and in split second images of all of us there. Martyn and I talk about the types of plants that will grow well there and what we will do in our woods. I found out that there is an old Quaker cemetery on the edges of the property. I am ecstatic about that. The agent suggested I join the local historical society to learn more about it. I was thinking maybe I could help steward it, if possible. You know how I feel about cemeteries, right? This is someone -me-who spent her first two days in Paris at Pierre La Chaise.

Henry came a callin' !

It was a delight to get to see our little friend, Henry, who is four not three because four is very different than three.

I haven't seen Henry since I originally fell in love with him at one of our Pino Pie Days a couple years ago. I've kept in touch with him though, and his mama and auntie [collectively know as The Goat Haulers and Blind Pug Co-Pilots]. So when Henry's mom made a visit to Portland she arranged to come out and see us. Henry was very excited to meet the lambs. And of course meeting the lambs meant he also got to meet Cornelia the pig.

I did not take good pictures. I was focusing on the intellectual conversation I was having with dear Henry. I was telling him why the mama sheep really didn't like Cornelia the pig to get too close to their babies or their food.

"They are different species," he told me.

Kids today. Henry loves animals and nature and his family has given him opportunities to learn as much about nature as he can. He is also a very polite little boy. Very smart but not full of himself as can happen. He has learned to command the camera and has turned into a little poser! But in a good way.

We visited the goat barn so he could meet Earnest and see Moose and Goose and the others. It's always problematic with The White Dogs-Benne because he is so happy and big and wants to 'hold' any guest. Benne is about 90# and Henry is about 50#; Benne is about 5'6" when he stands with his paws on your shoulders, Henry is about 3' tall-so you get the picture. Marcella was placed securely in the hay barn. She is friendly, but also very protective of her charges, as it should be, and can get set off by certain things with guests. I did get a sweet picture of Ophelia holding baby Max with the little Misfits.

Did I just say, MAX?!

What a sweet guy he is. He is one or there abouts-I am better with lamb ages than real human babies, but I do my best. My way of dealing with babies or children is to talk to them like I'm having a sip of wine with my husband-you know, like they are human beings with brains, and lots of good insights.

We finished our visit inside, where Henry took a shine to the Old One Eyed Blind Pug II. Hughie rose to the occasion and I think he'll be a pretty good therapy dog in Maine.

Ophelia took one last look around the place as she loaded up the car. She told me how many people had been helped or made happy by Apifera and the stories. I sometimes forget this. I'm busy after all, just living here and experiencing it-and then sharing. I asked Henry if he remembered me from his first visit...No, he said.

I hope that somehow he might have a glimpse of a memory of his short visit here. I am not sure it will mean anything in the grand scheme of his life, nor does that matter. When I think back to places I can remember as a four year old, they were my Uncle's farm, places I got to go over a period of years so the memories became more ingrained in me as I grew up. But I do remember some things from being three and four-I know this because I would tell my mother and she would say, Good grief you were only three when we went there.

Life is about living of course. But these human bodied vessels our souls reside in on this realm contain memory. I'm glad I have put moments into the soul of a four year old-he is marked now by his visit. What his soul does with it is his journey, and I too have been marked by him.

I asked Henry if he'd write me every now and then, you know, drop me a line, I said.

Sure, he responded, head down, sipping from his juice carton. And then they drove on down the road.

Porch date

We sat on the porch for the first night since last fall. It was divine. We talked about the many types of plants we can have in Maine, and those we will miss. Bit by bit we are saying goodbye to all we have done here. It is like a long movie right now with starring roles. I am taking time each day to acknowledge the many memories we have here, the work we've done to the property and house, the fun and the not so fun. Last night I looked out at the garden which is beginning to spring forth, and I remember the horrible, rotting deck that was there when we moved in. I had the memory of sitting there with my mother and father as the inspector did his job. I've looked at so many houses with them, I'm glad I got to have them here to see some of our improvements.

I almost thought of closing the blog down for a month. I thought I might be sounding like I have a sock over my head, sort of muffled, not my usual self, like a Debbie Downer of change. I am not upset in anyway, but this is a transition. It feels like I'm stuck in the middle. Until we close on this property at the end of the month, we are stuck to do anything really. We can plan, and we are, but then we pull back, thinking, "Not until the house closes will it really happen"

That is the way it goes with buying and selling–unless you are wealthy–you do a lot of waiting, and hoping for the best but it is all out of your control. I'm not complaining, I'm just....ready for the next step.

So last night was beautiful for us. And then it began to lightly rain and the smell of spring was pungent. The hope of spring is every where now.

Do you remember the first time you saw the sky?

It was a big day for the lambs yesterday. I opened up the barn and they got to see and feel Mother Earth for the first time. I was thinking that it would be interesting to be able to venture back and remember our first moment we saw sky. I kept thinking about it through the day and I came to the conclusion that perhaps we do remember it, we just aren't able to verbalize it into straightforward sentences, so we put it into art and poems. To those who are scientists, bankers or non-artists- maybe they might verbalize it in their personalities–maybe those that saw their first glimpse of sky as cloudy bursting forth with thunder and lightening became scared in new situations, maybe those who saw snow became light of heart and always remained childlike.

The month of steady down pours got to everybody, including me, so the first day of real warm sun yesterday was so...rewarding. I took a chair out into the field and watched the lambs. I didn't take my camera, I just needed to soak it in, and enjoy them. But I took this one phone shot of Otis eating with his little herd.

Young pig, old sheep

They melt my heart when they do this-which is all the time-Cornelia the young pig shares naps with Daisy, the elderly matriarch. Lilly isn't that keen on pig shared naps, but Daisy has always been so tolerant of so much-babies crawling on her, dogs sniffing her, my early shepherdess mistakes...and now a piglet companion. I love them both to heaven and back.

Blue wings blue donkey

I am trying to focus on painting this week through the month. This is very difficult right now. I am doing my best and yesterday I did this piece, now available.

To be honest, at the moment I am very stressed. Stress is such a killer, so hard on your body and it can creep up on you and all of sudden you crash. I am a healthy person and understand this and can recognize stress and ways to relieve it, but I have to say...I broke down today. It is partially due to the details–not of moving–but of dealing with the many hoops required to close deals, and if someone besides me misses a hoop, it affects the outcome of our entire life. One missed detail can wreak havoc. I hate incompetence and when I am confronted by it in others that have a job to do, I do not react well.

So I painted my blue donkey–The door is open, but we're all on stand by.

I also cried for my mom today. I wish she were here to talk to...more than any other day I can remember.

Sigh of the shepherd

The tilt of a head, the sigh of a shepherd

One day you have no lambs, the next day you have eight. And so the final lambing of Apifera here in Oregon is complete. Just like that. The moms made it so easy for me, there was no need for me it seems-this is usually the case, but with all that is going on it was a relief, and a joy, to walk into the barn on Friday morning and find both Mavis and Ophelia had lambed. Little Lil was in the corner in pre-labor. By afternoon feedings, she had two beauties at her side.

We ended up with two boys and six girls, all healthy. All the new time mothers are pros already. Like I said, I didn't have to do a thing-except raise healthy sheep and give them my all, and they returned their own gifts. This year, we lambed in the new barn with makeshift jugs. But Mavis and Little Lil are in the large open area with Otis and all is well. I like to jug new moms and lambs for one to three days, depending on how it goes. Some moms need more time to bond and imprint their voices on their lambs. I've had moms that are fine lambing and being amongst others. And did we ever get great color. Wendell the papa must have a strong gene, as all the lambs except one were a deep chocolate. One of the ewes, shown here, is a beautiful buff rose color. She is the gangliest of the group, but cute as a button and doing fine. It always amazes me how far they come from the birth day to the next day. We now have leaping lambs, and they are all checking each other out through the fencing.

I am spending time with the lambs and while we've had non stop rain for weeks, it makes sitting in the barn, the rain drumming on the tin roof, pleasant, almost comforting. It reminds me of being five, sitting in my sumac fort on windy days-feeling protected by the shrubs. I'm planning on taking lots of time to enjoy this last group of young ones. Twelve years has gone so fast.

I'm finding it more and more difficult to look back at photos from our 12 years here. I was looking for a photo yesterday, and was overwhelmed at all the images before me-like a movie on fast forward-so many of the faces are not with me any more. My muses are shifting too-as an artist and writer, the grounding place that has given me courage to write will now be changing. I have no doubts my Maine home will inspire so many things, but being here now, it's like the feeling you might have experienced when you pack the house up but you have to wait one more day for the moving van. The house has let go, and you have let go-you feel rudderless, you want to just get on with it.

I have some crucial good-byes to come in the next month. I won't write about it today, but it is on my mind. I will remain honest here, and hope to not bring my readers down. I just want to share this transition-for there might be others going through big changes that will take comfort in the changes I can write about.

It's symbolic of the time of life Martyn and I are in-mid life-entering our final quarter. Perspectives shift. It is the best time of my life though, I can honestly say that. If you told me I could be thirty tomorrow, I'd say, "No way." The perspective is rich, wiser, less flip, less casual about the important things of life. The lambing season is symbolic of new beginnings, fresh blood, community, and the miracle and strength of Nature. The young lambs and their mothers are juxtaposed with their great grandmothers, Daisy and Lilly, who reside in the stall right next to them. Just as in some households, a baby is heard crying, a child is heard singing, while a grandmother sits knitting, or napping, with the chatter of youth in the near distance. Being a shepherdess all these years has given me that–a home of generations, a place to see life and death as a connected path-nothing to fear, just something to explore wholeheartedly until like the elder matriarchs of the farm, I lay my head down for the final time.

Birthday blessings...and lambs all over the place

Alma preens her new twin lamb in this our final lambing season

Yesterday was my fifty-eighth birthday. I had mentioned that the mothers-to-be were taking their time to lamb, and wondered if perhaps The Head Troll had somehow managed to schedule them all to lamb on my birthday. What a grand send off that would be, I thought.

Yesterday afternoon I arrived back to the farm and as I entered to do chores in the mama barn, I quickly scanned the room and saw no lambs. But then I heard that familiar sound of a tiny bleat, and there was Alma with two beautiful lambs, newly born, still a bit gooey but looking strong and healthy-a girl and a boy- both beautiful rich chocolate color like their father, Wendell. Alma was doing wonderfully with them-you never know with new moms-but she was a pro as most of them are. I gathered them up and put her in a separate lambing jug so she could rest and get used to her charges.

I have to say, it brought a couple small tears to my eyes. It is and will be a very special lambing season for me. The final lambing season...is sad for me. What makes it okay with me is knowing where we are going, visualizing our new life, and knowing I will still have many animals and amazing new stories to tell. I have loved being a shepherdess. But, it is time to make some changes and while I might have a sheep or two someday again, I don't think I will breed sheep. You never know. I want to get to know Maine and our property. I want us to have more time together to explore, and understand our fencing needs and barn needs. I want to ride Boone in our new woods, and sit and enjoy sun naps with Earnest. I don't want to worry about predator issues right now-keeping my flock safe is a full time commitment.

Someone on Facebook made a comment that she had her last lambing three years ago, and she assured me that I will miss it. She meant no harm, and I don't know her, but I told her I was focusing on what we will be gaining, not losing. It is not helpful to tell someone they will miss something when they are bravely saying goodbye to so much. I'm sure she didn't stop to think about that, but it is not helpful. I will have a hard time looking at my photos of my sheep. I don't need strangers telling me such things. So if you know someone making a huge change-don't tell them what they know, encourage them about the new windows opening.

Anyway, we celebrated my birthday last night with a good meal by the fire and good wine. Not much different than any night here, but so many exciting things going on that it was fun. I checked the mamas in the evening and I knew they would most likely lamb by morning. And Mavis and Ophelia did just that. When I arrived for morning feedings, Mavis presented me her two new ewes, beautiful chocolates and strong and dry. She most likely lambed midnight or so. Ophelia had just lambed and her twin girls were gooey and wobbly. Ophelia is a bit less calm than the others, but she was doing fine, and I chose to leave her be to lick her lambs. Eventually I got her in a separate area as she was getting a bit confused with Mavis' lambs. All chocolates so far!

Meanwhile, Little Lil was clearly entering pre labor and I think she will lamb by tonight. She is a big gal and I wouldn't be surprised to see triplets...time will tell.

They have made it easy on me so far. I will enjoy every second with the lambs. I have some people that plan to take them, and I am confidant all will be well for my flock. It is the only way to think about it so as not to go mad.

Crows, art and listening

Just a quick message to any art lovers that I've added some originals-some old, like this one–to the shop. It's time to lesson the load as we plan for the pending move to Maine...and let's face it, raise some money to pay for it.

This piece has hung in my home for many years-crows used to be important messengers for me back in Minnesota. They always arrived at a moment when I needed answers–answers I most likely had inside me. Crows told the truth, but I often wanted an answer they could not give me. But in the end, I learned that their answer was always spot on, and if a crow arrives now a days I ask myself it I'm tricking myself into believing something just because I want a certain outcome, versus the real outcome.

But the crows haven't come around much in these past year. Maybe I've become more in tuned with reality.

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We are so in love

The handle to the barn door at the Maine house

...with the new Maine property. It makes leaving this Apifera much easier. I've actually done most of my hardest mourning, when I had to figure out if I could bring my sheep, or when I began telling people. Martyn is just beginning to tell clients and he admitted he is now going through some mourning. He's lived in Oregon his entire 57 years. But he is so excited. The opportunities for him there, the new house that we don't have to redo [for a change!], the land, the nearby ocean, water everywhere for my fisherman...it's all worth the temporary upheaval.

While Martyn goes off to his business, I take care of the myriad of details of the move. In a way, this is good, I am good at it and I think it allows Martyn to simply work and not get anxious about the many details involved. Things are falling into place.

Today I was at the kitchen and looked out the window and saw a morning dove on the branch. It was calling out with its cooing. I haven't seen one for awhile and said,

"Kelly?"

You might recall my mother, Kelly, returned as a morning dove immediately after she died in 2013, and a tulip, but I used to hang on every dove I saw back when she died knowing it was her checking in on me. It gave me comfort. As I grew stronger, I would see doves and didn't always relate them to my mother, some were simply...doves. But this dove, it was so close to the window and was sitting so calmly looking in at me, I'm sure it was her.

It was her.


I know the pieces of the move, the selling, buying, hauling animals-all of it–have been clipping right along. I think she wants to get us there sooner than later. I think she knows our lives will be enriched in many ways and we will be able to do a lot of things we can't do here-more relaxed times, hiking the woods, visiting the small villages, making more art and letting Martyn have more of a time off period instead of working 24/7.

I guess I was thinking that the new house in Maine...maybe it had a lot of mothers in it, because it already feels like a comfort to me, it feels like it is accepting us as we are, and is there to shelter us. I've lived in many houses and not all of them were mothers. I feel like there is a energy in that house that will wrap itself around us like a mother wearing a wool sweater opening up the door on a windy, winter day.

I do not take this lightly–with all that has transpired since we listed our property here, that house came into our lives on purpose, with intent.

The Maine farm has found us

The Head Troll describes the area in Maine where the new Apifera will be.

Martyn came home Thursday night, opened a beer, and I told him to sit down.

"I bought a farm. It's perfect," I said.

I remember my mom bought a house once when my dad was in Europe on business and she said,

"I have to do it and I have to do it now."

When I showed Martyn the photos of the place, he said, "Wow," and he kissed me.

I have been looking at Maine properties since December. It was still too soon to put offers in, but I had my list ready. One by one, they sold, or I realized they just didn't speak to me. One did, sort of, not the house, but the big barn was okay.

But on Thursday, my Maine friend emailed me a brand new listing, and when I opened the link, I felt it. It was the same feeling when I bought my Portland home, and we all know what that led too. I called the Maine agent, and listened for a few minutes, and said I was making an offer. My friends would go out the next day and look at it. And they did. And it is meant to be, they said it is even more perfect and magical in person. I'm not showing pictures of it...yet. Even as I was putting offers in, there were showings stacking up, and it had only been on 2 days. My friend who found the listing said if she hadn't signed up for hourly notifications from the on site realty site for the area we were looking in, she might not have seen it until the next day and I know we would have lost it.

But wait, the story gets better.

So when my friend, and her father-who is also a friend to Apifera now-when they arrived to see the property with the listing agent, she knew it was his 60th birthday, as I had mentioned it to her. And she brought him copies of my book as a gift-unbeknowdst to me. He loved them and said he was going to show them to the seller couple. He took the books to them, and they immediately said, "They are definitely the people that need to live on that farm," and even though they could have looked at other offers, they chose not to.

I am trying to remain calm, but I am so excited to just be there. I feel like I need to be there as soon as possible. Of course we need a successful close here the end of march and we see no reason why there shouldn't be one, but will be so relieved after closing.

I can tell you this–there are old growth peach, plum and apple trees, a weathered picket fence around perennial and vegetable gardens, a ready made chicken area, woods to ramble in with old oaks, maple and pine-and the ocean coves are on both sides. I can tell tat when I first looked at it, it was like looking at a baby I birthed. The house is a 1760 cottage style, old plank pine with fireplaces and is pure Maine.

The town is called Bremen and it sits between two coves of the Atlantic ocean, convenient to many beautiful places and charming towns. Of course it is not ours until after closing...but is there for us and I feel it wants u and all will be well.

I am giving myself through tonight and then I will go into complete get a move on mode-which means I have so many details to deal with, including hauling the animals, purging, getting this farm ready for the new owners as they will be keeping many of the flock and I want my flock to be all ready for them with shots and feet trims. And any day now, lambing begins.
To say there is a lot going on...an understatement.

I can tell you too that knowing where we will end up makes the leaving so much easier. I was actually having a lot of moments of grief here. It was just becoming so hard, all the goodbyes, all the memories rushing in and out during chores. Now I can think of the new land and house. Oh you will love it, I can't wait to share it with you.

But I have to go now. The Head Troll has a list of questions, Earnest has requested writing tablets, with lines, so he can keep a diary on the road trip...and Paco has many concerns which I fully expected and I need to start reassuring him.

Snapshot moments with goofballs

Empty house

I'm trying to stay grounded, to focus and was able to get a small painting done. I was going to work on it more, but I found myself just sitting and staring into it, and it made me feel calm.