Happy Birthday, Jesus.
Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.
Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
Happy Halloween
And it looks like a cold one this morning.
Friday, October 14, 2011
It's Raining
It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”
And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.
This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.
And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask?
Where are
they during this courageous display of damp dedication?
Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting
marshmallows.
I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made
a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're
all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their
loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear,
Your Majesty.”
Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly,
totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of
suggestion:
Go
inside.
Seriously, girl. Go lay down wit
h the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.
But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.
You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.
So we’ll just let her be.
Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.
Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.
Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur
lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a
ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp
sense of duty.
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| "Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet." |
And where, you might ask, are the goats that this faithful dog is guarding? Hiding in the barn of course!
Might I make a suggestion to the dog? Perhaps it would be better to sleep in the barn with the goats where it's dry. Just sayin'.
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Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
New Pasture Mates
We originally got Kirby—the mini donkey, aka Barack Kirby, aka BK, aka The Goat God—as a pasture mate for Talon, the horse. It was a good plan. Logical. Sensible. Which should’ve been my first red flag.
Because the goats took one look at Kirby and decided he was theirs. Their idol. Their four-legged messiah. Their fuzzy-eared prophet of grazing. Wherever he went, they followed. It was like watching a very hairy Beatles reunion tour, with Kirby as all four Beatles rolled into one, complete with groupies.
So then that plan had to change. The new plan was to try and make everyone—horse, donkey, goats—into one big happy, non-stomping, non-chasing family. Except Talon had opinions. Specifically, that goats did not belong in his pasture, and every time one wandered in, he’d make it his personal mission to chase them back to the barn like a cranky old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.
Enter fate, stage left.
We went away for one night. One. Came back today to find Talon not in his pasture, but somehow on the goats’ side of the fence. Just standing there. Grazing. Surrounded by his former enemies like they were old poker buddies on a coffee break. Everyone was chill. No screaming, no trampling, no donkey-led cult worship rituals. Just… peace.
I have no idea how he got in there. The gate was latched. The fence was intact. Unless Talon suddenly discovered how to teleport—or dug a tunnel like a very motivated POW—we may never know.
Maybe I should’ve just left them alone to figure it out from the start. I was always afraid he’d run them over in a fit of “horse superiority,” but maybe I underestimated his emotional intelligence. Or maybe the goats just wore him down with their persistent adoration. (Goat worship is exhausting.)
Either way, cheers to new friendships, unexpected , and the magic that happens when I stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics.
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Monday, September 26, 2011
Hotel Canoe
I would think there would be more comfortable places than the dry end of a wet canoe to check in to take a nap. Just sayin'.
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| "Do you mind? I'm trying to take a nap here." |
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| "Huh? What? Who's clicking the camera?" |
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| "What's that? There's water in the other end of this thing? Well, I'm sure it'll come in handy if I get thirsty." |
Thursday, September 8, 2011
New "Government Math" Diet
You may recall how we got our “free” tractor using what I like to call Government Math—a magical financial system where saving money is the same thing as making money, and if you don’t spend what you could’ve, then obviously that leftover imaginary pile turns into profit. It’s flawless.
So naturally, I figured: if it works for multi-trillion-dollar budgets, why not for my hips?
This morning, I had two donuts for breakfast. Now, before the food police show up with their little calorie citation pads, let me just say—I could have had a bacon egg and cheese biscuit with a side of hash browns and regret. But I didn’t. So technically, I saved about 400 calories right there. That drops the donuts down to a negligible 100 calories. Barely worth mentioning, really.
Then, for lunch, I had a salad. Not one of those fun ones with fried chicken and ranch dressing masquerading as lettuce. I’m talking actual rabbit food. Lettuce, cucumbers, maybe a slice of tomato just to say I live dangerously. Easily saved another 400 calories by not going with a cheeseburger. At this point, I’m basically operating at a caloric surplus in the healthy direction.
Afternoon snack? Carrot sticks. Raw. No ranch. No hummus. Just cold, crunchy disappointment. That’s gotta be worth another 150 calories saved just for the trauma.
Dinner? Another salad. Because I’m committed to bad decisions and leafy greens. That’s another 450 calories banked like some kind of sadistic savings account.
So when dessert rolls around and I’m eyeing that banana split with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top like it owes me money, guess what? That 800-calorie tower of dairy joy only counts as 200. Because I earned it.
Tally it up:
Donuts? 100
Banana split? 200
Total for the day? 300 calories.
Which leaves me plenty of wiggle room (pun intended) for an evening chip buffet while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. And no guilt, because this is Government Math, baby. If the federal government can “balance” the budget by redefining words and moving numbers around like it’s a shell game at a carnival, I can definitely justify a second helping of Cool Ranch Doritos.
The scale won’t budge? Must be a data error. Probably Russian hackers. Or the batteries.
Hey, if this system is good enough for Congress, it’s should be good enough for my thighs.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Free Tractor (aka Government Economics)
Our old tractor was getting, well... old. Not the wise, dependable kind of old like Aunt Ethel who bakes pies and remembers the war, but the kind of old that groans every time you try to start it and leaves mysterious puddles on the barn floor. So last summer, we started looking at new tractors. Then we looked at our bank account. And promptly stopped looking.
But this year, I got smart. I figured out how to use the same economic principles the U.S. government uses to get a free tractor. That’s right. Free. Tractor. And before you start questioning my sanity or checking for fumes in the barn, let me break it down for you:
Let’s say you want a $60,000 tractor. But instead, you choose a $30,000 tractor. Boom. You’ve saved $30,000. Apply that savings directly to the cost, and you’ve now paid nothing. Zero. Nada. Tractor = free.
But wait! It gets better. The dealer gave us a $10,200 trade-in for the old one. (Bless their hearts, they must not have actually started it.) Now, we also got a backhoe attachment for about $10,000. Which means, according to my math—and I checked twice—we are now owed $200.
Naturally, we expected the finance company to send us a thank-you note and maybe a nice fruit basket for helping stimulate the economy with such brilliance. Instead, they’re demanding we make monthly payments. Can you believe it? I even tried explaining the government-style math to them, complete with hand gestures and everything, but they just weren’t getting with the program. I may have to draw them a pie chart. Maybe with actual pie.
Anyway, I’m now applying the same economic model to future projects. That new $12,000 roof I need? If I just don’t get the $24,000 slate one I was never going to buy anyway, I’ve saved $12,000. Meaning the roof is already paid for. Technically, I should have $12,000 leftover to fund the matching chicken coop expansion.
I don’t know why everyone isn’t doing this. It’s genius. It’s foolproof. It’s… exactly how the government does it.
Only difference is, they have a printing press.
Budget Breakdown (a.k.a. How to Retire Rich on Barnyard Math):
Wanted Tractor: $60,000
Bought Tractor: $30,000
Instant savings: $30,000
Trade-In Value: +$10,200
Backhoe Attachment: -$10,000
Total Owed to Us: $200
Finance Company’s Opinion: Irrelevant. Clearly they don’t understand economics.
But wait, there’s more!
Order your Free Tractor Plan™ today and we’ll double your confusion at no extra cost! Operators are standing by to explain this exact system to your accountant, your spouse, and the poor kid at the bank who’s about to reconsider his life choices. But act now—because logic like this doesn’t come around often, and neither do interest-free financing options.
Call 1-800-GOV-MATH. That's 1-800-468-6284.
The Free Tractor Plan is not responsible for repossessions, financial audits, or hard stares from your spouse. Use with caution. Offer not valid anywhere sanity is still required.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Remote Control Cattle Roundup
Every once in a while someone, somewhere, comes up with an innovative idea. This one just might have possibilities. This person is either incredibly ingenious, or has to much time on their hands. Either way, there's said to be a fine line between genius and insanity. You decide.
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Wednesday, August 31, 2011
All Hail BK, the Goat God
Let me introduce you to BK—a shaggy redheaded mini donkey with oversized ears and a face like he just got caught chewing on something he shouldn’t. You might assume his name stands for something like “Barnyard King” or “Big Kicker.” But no—his full name is Barack Kirby, and yes, there’s a story behind it. Because of course there is.
Jim, in one of his finer moments of comedy, suggested we name our new miniature donkey Barack. As in “Yes-we-can” Barack. I suggested we not insult the donkey like that. The poor thing already had to share a pen with three baby goats, and if you’ve ever had baby goats, you know that’s a sentence in itself. My daughter, granddaughter, and I preferred Kirby—charming, harmless, emotionally stable. So we did what all mature families do: ignored Jim and called it a compromise. His official name? Barack Kirby. But around here, we just say BK, because frankly, I have standards.
BK is five months old, which puts him squarely in the “awkward middle school boy” phase of donkey life—all legs, zero grace, full of opinions. He’s small, stubborn, and currently convinced that electric fencing is just licorice with a kick.
The grand plan (oh, how we love our grand plans) was for BK to be a pasture companion for our horse, Talon. We imagined them galloping through dewy meadows like a Hallmark movie come to life. But as usual, the farm laughed in our faces and rewrote the script.
The goats took one look at BK and immediately decided he was their personal savior. Their messiah. Their four-legged prophet of hay and hope. Wherever he went, they followed. If he sniffed a fence post, they’d form a worship circle. If he lay down for a nap, they’d flop around him like loyal cultists attending a barnyard meditation retreat. “We’re doing downward goat now. Breathe in the hay. Exhale the bleats.”
He became their Donkey Deity—the Goat God. I was no longer their trusted chaperone. BK was. They went where he went. Ate what he ate. Tried to scale what he scaled. (Which, for the record, now includes a hay bale, a chicken roost, and my wheelbarrow.)
Naturally, Talon, my Gypsy Cob, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Anytime a goat tiptoed into his pasture, he’d go full grumpy-old-man mode and chase them back to the barn like they were trying to sell him extended warranty coverage. My hopes for a cross-species bromance were fading fast.
But then fate stepped in. We went away overnight—just one night—and came back to find Talon not where we left him. He was in the goat pasture. Grazing. Hanging out. No trampling. No screaming. No ritualistic donkey worship. Just quiet harmony, like they’d all gathered for brunch and decided to stay.
The gate was latched. The fence was fine. Unless Talon grew thumbs and figured out how to unlatch gates—or tunneled in like an equine version of Andy Dufresne—we may never know how he got there. But there he was, standing peacefully among his former enemies like they were discussing stock tips and debating whether alfalfa or orchard grass makes a better brunch.
So maybe I should’ve just trusted the process. Maybe goats and horses can get along. Maybe BK really is the bridge between species. Or maybe—and this feels more accurate—I should stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics and just let the animals do what animals do.
Because here’s what I’ve learned: On a farm, plans are fragile. Fences are suggestions. And sometimes peace looks like a horse, a donkey, and three baby goats standing together in the grass, proving once again that I am not in charge around here.
Also, you can never trust a redhead with hooves. Especially one named BK.
Monday, August 29, 2011
He's Here!
That handsome redhead in the back? That’s BK. And yes, there’s a story behind the name—because when isn’t there?
See, DH thought it would be hilarious to name the donkey Barack. I, on the other hand, thought it would be a tragedy. A five-alarm insult to the intelligence of an innocent animal who has, thus far, done nothing to deserve such a burden. I mean, the poor thing already has to live with goats—why add insult to indignity?
Now, my daughter, granddaughter, and I? We’re a little more sentimental. We wanted to name him Kirby, after a favorite character from a movie who, incidentally, is charming, lovable, and not at all interested in running the country or carrying the weight of political debates on his fuzzy little back.
So we compromised—and by that I mean I ignored DH and declared my side the winner. He is officially Barack Kirby, or BK for short. I just call him BK. Because again, I have standards.
BK is a 5-month-old miniature donkey, which basically means he’s got all the stubbornness and attitude of a full-size donkey, packed into a pocket-sized frame. He’s currently in the “awkward middle school” phase of donkey-hood, complete with gangly legs, endless curiosity, and zero awareness of personal space.
Right now, he’s bunking with three goat kids who have already taught him how to scale furniture (donkeys are surprisingly agile when peer-pressured), and two Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs who’ve taken it upon themselves to teach him barn etiquette—namely: don’t eat the chickens’ snacks and don’t pee in the communal water bucket.
Eventually, he’ll graduate to pasture-mate status with the horse. That is, once he gets a little bigger, a little bolder, and stops trying to chew on the electric fence like it’s a Twizzler.
For now, he’s learning the ropes, making friends, and providing plenty of blog material—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
You can never trust a redhead with hooves. Especially one with a name like BK.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Pin The Name On The Donkey
Well, it’s finally happened. DH has been yammering on for years about wanting a mini donkey, and I—being the kind-hearted, practical, and occasionally slightly off-my-rocker farm wife that I am—finally caved. Mostly because I found one that didn’t come with a price tag that required an organ donation or signing over the deed to the house.
Meet our newest addition (pictured in front), a baby mini donkey. And yes, he’s just as soft, fuzzy, and ridiculously adorable in person. Most of the mini donkeys I’ve come across were priced higher than a full-sized horse, which is insane when you realize you’re basically buying a furry, braying lawn ornament with an attitude.
But this little guy? This one was fate. Or Craigslist. Either way.
Now, as with any new addition to the farm, integration is key. He’s still a baby, so he’ll grow up alongside our LGDs and hopefully learn they’re part of the team, not intruders who need to be launched into the next time zone with a swift double-hoofed boot. Fingers crossed he extends the same courtesy to the goats, the chickens, and anything else that happens to wander too close. Including me.
Eventually, he’ll be pastured with Talon, who is either going to love having a buddy or throw a dramatic tantrum like a spoiled prom queen who has to share her limo. But hey, that’s farm life.
Now, here’s where you come in. We need a name.
Jim, in all his wisdom and subtlety, suggested Barack. And while I appreciate the clever political pun, I’d like to think this donkey has slightly higher cognitive functioning than your average bureaucrat. No offense to my liberal friends—okay, slight offense—but come on, this little guy deserves better. Or at least something that doesn’t start political arguments over the breakfast table.
So I’m opening the floor. What do we name him?
Here are a few early contenders, just to get the ball rolling:
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Eeyore – Obvious. Maybe too obvious.
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Burrito – Because he’s small, wrapped in fluff, and occasionally spicy.
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Festus – Because he already looks like he’s been living on the frontier for 40 years.
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Sir Hee-Haw-A-Lot – For when we want the neighbors to think we’ve gone completely off the rails.
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Deputy Dawdle – For his very slow, very deliberate stroll across the yard this morning.
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NotBarack – Because I’m petty like that.
Leave your name ideas in the comments or shoot me a message. If we pick your suggestion, you’ll win…well, absolutely nothing except bragging rights and my eternal gratitude. And maybe a shoutout in the next blog post.
Let the naming games begin!
Monday, August 1, 2011
Coming to a Farm Near You
The U.S. Department of Transportation has proposed a rule to reclassify all farm equipment as commercial vehicles. This proposed change would mean that anyone operating any piece of motorized farm equipment would have to have a CDL (commercial driver's licence), with all the resultant schooling, expensive licensing and insurance, and record keeping that those who drive 18 wheelers have. It would also mean that farm workers, from the farmer's 14 yr old kid who helps with baling hay, to the elderly farmer who no longer drives on public roads, could no longer operate farm equipment, even on their own property. Now just to be fair, the DOT is holding public hearings on this matter until today, August 1. But in my experience this really means they're going to do what they want but want to give the impression that they're listening to input from affected parties. However, just last week, a DOT opinion piece closed with this statement:
"Everyone in this Administration - from President Obama, Vice President Biden, and Secretary LaHood on down - is committed to the long-term success of America's agricultural industry. In many ways, agriculture is the backbone of our economy - feeding hundreds of millions of Americans and billions more around the world. As the largest user of freight transportation in the nation, the agricultural industry is also one of USDOT's most important constituents. We hope that this comment period is the start of a new and productive relationship. We may not ultimately agree on every issue, but we will always listen - and do our best to help America's farmers succeed."
If this is helping farmers to succeed I'd hate to see what damage they could do if they were actually TRYING to hurt us. It is up to not only every farmer, from those with backyard gardens to those who make it their livelihood, as well as everyone who eats, to oppose this. If you think this doesn't affect you because you don't own any farm equipment, wait till the increase in costs is reflected in the increase in prices at the grocery store. To make a comment to the DOT, visit www.regulations.gov. Follow the instructions for submitting comments on the Federal electronic docket site. Or you can fax your comments to 1-202-493-2251. To read more about this proposed legislation see http://www.theblaze.com/stories/agenda-21-update-family-farms-are-under-attack/
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Thursday, July 28, 2011
Missing Child
Law enforcement has asked that this photo be shared everywhere. Celina Cass, age 11, is missing from her home in W. Stewardstown, NH, since Monday, 7/25/11, at 9pm. She is described as 5 feet, 5 inches tall, weighing about 95 pounds, with hazel eyes and waste-length brown hair. She was last seen wearing a pink shirt, a pink pullover, blue shorts and shoes. If you have ANY information at all that you feel is relevant to her disappearance or whereabouts please contact New Hampshire State Police at 603-846-3333.Post Script: 8/1/11 - After a massive search effort by local authorities, volunteers from various places and organizations, State police from several states, Fish and Game, Border Patrol, the FBI and the Canadian Royal Mounted Police, divers discovered Celina's body this morning in the Connecticut River about 1/2 mile north of her home. Please pray for comfort for the family, friends and community that are devastated by this horrible act, and that whoever is responsible is quickly brought to justice.
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Wednesday, July 27, 2011
My Birthday Bouquet
My birthday bouquet from my sweet hubby. He even remembered that I love yellow flowers. On the note card he said he's taking my out to my favorite restaurant Saturday night. YUM! BTW, just in case you're wondering why he told me that on the card rather than in person, it's because he's gone for work from Monday through Friday. He retires at the end of this year so we'll be able to talk face to face every day rather than over the phone and email.
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Monday, July 25, 2011
Flat Out Of Luck
Some days don’t just go sideways—they veer into a ditch, set up camp, and start roasting marshmallows.
It started like the perfect morning. Sunlight pouring through the windows. Birds doing their little Disney chorus thing. I actually thought to myself, “Well, isn’t this lovely? Today’s going to be a good day.”
Cue the record scratch.
I stepped outside and there it was—a tire that had clearly given up on life somewhere around 3 a.m. Not a slow leak. Not a subtle sag. This thing was flatter than roadkill on I-93. Aggressively horizontal. A crime scene in rubber.
It sat there like an air mattress the morning after camping—wrinkled, useless, and impossible to revive. No warning, no farewell hiss, not even a dramatic pop for flair. Just slumped over like, “I’ve been holding your sorry self together for too many years, lady, and I’m DONE. Figure it out.”
So, instead of my tidy little to-do list and that smug, get-stuff-done satisfaction, I got a pop quiz in “tire triage.” Which, for the record, involves kneeling in gravel while the wind tries to sandblast your face, balancing a jack that sounds like it’s been crying for help since 1998, and muttering words you wouldn’t say in front of your grandmother.
I haven’t crouched that long since I was elbow-deep in a goat birthing situation. And let me tell you—both experiences involve heavy breathing, regret, and the faint hope that someone will arrive to save you.
The jack was, of course, hiding. I finally found it buried under the back seat, keeping company with a fossilized French fry and what I’m 80% sure was once a map of Ohio. We’ve never been to Ohio, which means either the car’s been sneaking off without me or I’ve been storing roadside garbage for sport.
Anyway, I got the spare on. I survived. The tire. . . not so much.
The soundtrack to my morning? Picture muffled grumbling, the groan of a rusty jack, and the faint sound of my will to live rolling down the driveway.
But hey—I got the tire changed. I still made it through the day. Because sometimes life goes flat. . . and you fix it with grit, sarcasm, and just enough air to keep going.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Skunked
In the grand scheme of things, the two things I'm thankful for this morning may seem trivial to the general populace. But you fellow homesteaders, as well as dog owners, will totally relate, I'm sure.
The first thing I'm thankful for is dogs who convinced the skunk that was heading toward the meat chickens, to change direction. They further convinced the skunk that a late night chicken dinner wasn't in its best interest. This is not an open-all-night KFC drive-thru, or in this case, walk-thru. After all, that's why we have dogs - 2 Great Pyrenees livestock guardians, and 2 English Shepherds who provide backup as needed.
Which brings me to the second thing on my thankful list. A fence that kept the dogs away from the skunk while it was making that very wise decision to seek dinner elsewhere. The dogs obviously intercepted the skunk while it was still a suitable distance from the fence and weren't close enough to get sprayed. While my yard was very stinky for a while, it was definitely preferable to having to bathe 4 dogs in tomato juice. You might say that the skunk got skunked!
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Thursday, July 14, 2011
Farewell, Old Friend
"Every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are." ~~Author Unknown~~
Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.
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| I've had a very busy life. Every since I was a pup I've had lots of work to do. |
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| I've learned lots of lots of things to take care of my family. |
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| There were children to keep warm..... |
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| The whole yard to patrol..... |
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| Friends to make...... |
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| Dinner to catch..... |
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| Dinner to eat..... |
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| Smiles to capture..... |
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| Children to keep clean. |
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| Under my watchful care children flourished, a family was kept safe, and a home was filled with my love. |
Indy - (Gunmettle's Independence Day) 5/4/98-7/13/11.
You will be loved and remembered forever. Well done, faithful friend.
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Friday, June 24, 2011
Peace
I found it years ago, on my workbench. A butterfly. A yellow swallowtail with bold black stripes. Perfect. Still. Wings fully open, like it had just landed for a moment—and then. . . let go.
It hadn’t folded up in defense. It hadn’t struggled. It just stopped, in the middle of the mess, between my hammers and feed scoops, as if to say, “This place will do.”
And something about that felt. . . holy.
Not in the stained-glass kind of way. But in the kind of way that slips in quietly and finds you elbow-deep in the chaos of daily life. The kind that makes you stop mid-step, heart thudding with something too big to name.
I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Or bury it. Or brush it aside like just another thing that didn’t belong. So I carried it to the house with both hands, like I was holding something sacred. And I placed it, gently, in an empty drawer of my old roll-top desk—not with the paperclips or the clutter of the other drawers, but in its own little space. Quiet. Undisturbed.
Because it deserved that.
It’s still there.
All these years later, that butterfly hasn’t changed. The world around it has—storms have come, animals have gone, people I love have aged, or moved on, or passed—but the butterfly remains. A moment frozen in time, wings outstretched, still perfect.
Sometimes, when I’m digging through that desk looking for something I’ve misplaced (usually patience, if I'm being honest), I open that drawer by accident. And there it is again. Waiting. Whole. Beautiful.
And
suddenly the noise quiets. My hands stop moving. My breath slows.
And
I remember—to pause, to soften, to just be.
That butterfly has become a kind of stillness I carry with me. Not in my pocket or wallet or on a keychain, but tucked deeper—where weariness lives, and memory settles, and faith occasionally flickers.
It reminds me that beauty doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers from a drawer you forgot you had. Sometimes it lands in your life and never really leaves.
Because peace isn’t something you chase. It’s something you notice—when you finally stop moving long enough to see it was there all along.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Window Garden
A few months ago I decided to see what would grow in the winter months in my south facing windows. I also decided to try hydroponic gardening rather than take up room with soil containers. I completely automated the system since I was leaving for a week for vacation. The nutrient solution pumps in the top, drains out the bottom and is on a timer to come on for 15 minutes, 3 times a day. The growing medium is 4 parts perlite, 1 part peat. As you can see, I came home to a jungle! I'm really amazed at the growth from hydroponics using just natural light in the windows. I didn't take a picture of the strawberries but they're looking just as good and are starting to blossom. And I've been eating snow peas for weeks now.
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| Beet greens growing in a window box. |
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| Buttercrunch lettuce in a 20 oz. plastic Dixie drink cup. |
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| Summer Squash - note the blossom on the left. If you look closely you'll see loads of buds. |
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| Cherry tomato in a 1 gallon bucket. Buds are starting to appear. |
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| Kale and Swiss Chard. The cabbage on the left looks like it just might form a head. |
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