Month: November 2014

Poor Thanksgiving

/ Julie Atkinson / 4 Comments

If I had a blog, today I would write about the sadness I feel for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Almost Home

Almost Home

I have always felt sorry for Thanksgiving. The sad truth is: It is the bastard child of holidays; the act that precedes the glitz and glam of Christmas as well as the revelry of ringing in the new year. What is a holiday to do when its foundation is in contemplation, not commercialism? Try as they might, the ubiquitous “they” have not been able to turn Thanksgiving into a gift-giving holiday (yet) and I suspect that is why the single aisle dedicated to autumn decor is dwarfed by the countless aisles of toys, ornaments, trees, and prepackaged gifts as soon as the Halloween bric-a-brac is stored away. Aside from the appeal of sanctioned gorging, time off work, and endless televised sporting events, I imagine few would miss Thanksgiving if it disappeared from our calendars altogether. It is just another obstacle in the path to Christmas, and that, my friends, is truly a shame.

At this point, you may be thinking: “Wow, is she cynical or what?” and, I suppose, to a certain extent that is true. Forty-five holiday seasons rubbing my introversion the wrong way certainly shaped my perspective. But it isn’t just cynicism that drives my thoughts. It is also my empathy for the underdogs in life. I actually like the Christmas season a great deal, but I feel a need to give Thanksgiving its due. After all, don’t we owe it to our lives to look for the blessings and thank whatever gods may be for the goodness, however small, that exists in our lives on this one, special day.

My Owain

My Owain

This past year has been a hard one for my family. In the space of a few, short months lost the companionship of three dogs who had shared our lives for more than a decade each. The loss of Emma, Owain, and Hank makes the approach to the holidays a daunting task, but I remain determined to give thanks anyway. If, as I have written before, my heroines, Corrie and Betsy ten Boom, could find reasons to give thanks while imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp, I can do no less. My pain and grief are nothing compared to theirs and a lack of gratitude on my part would not only be be rude to The Universe, it would also fly in the face of the miracle Corrie and Betsy experienced in that darkest of  all dark places.

Hank

Hank

And so, on this most auspicious day, I give thanks that Hank, Emma, and Owain lived such long, happy lives and that those lives encompassed me and my family. I am thankful that, when the end came, we were able to help our companions slip the “surly bonds of earth” with dignity and make The Crossing without fear or pain. I am oh, so very thankful for Bree, the Great Pyrenees who still resides with us. Bree has risen to the challenge of being an only dog and now accompanies us to the barn twice a day, sleeps by Mom’s bed at night, and is a constant companion in all that we do. At the age of ten, Bree has taken on new life. Just a hint that we’re headed for the barn and she starts dancing in anticipation. No one can be sad in the face of such joy. I am also thankful for my four cats, my beautiful horse, Rain, and, of course, my human family as well. It has been a hard year, but the love we share is a balm to our aching hearts and I give thanks for that love every single day.

Emma

Emma

In closing, I will share with you a quote from Robert Fulghum, that, for me, captures the very essence of the love I wish for everyone this Thanksgiving Day: “I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge — myth is more potent than history — dreams are more powerful than facts — hope always triumphs over experience — laughter is the cure for grief — love is stronger than death.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The Spring Chicken In Winter

/ Julie Atkinson / Leave a comment

If I had a blog today I would write about the first snowstorm of the season.

Snow Day

Snow Day

It’s snowing. Real, heavy, stick-to-the-ground snow that’s been piling up since late morning, transforming our little valley into a winter jewel. I am glad the snow has come; not only because of its beauty, but because it justifies the three days of back-breaking work we’ve put in preparing for the storm.

November 15 - Frosty Morning

Frosty Morning

I love nothing more than getting ready for foul weather. There is something utterly satisfying about working your knuckles to the bone so your animals will be warm, sheltered, and well-fed with the snow begins to fall. Since I am the main farm-hand these days, I’ve  taken on most of the storm prep myself. I spent one whole day cleaning and bedding the horse-stalls, washing up the bowls in the the indoor automatic waterers and setting up water-heaters in the outdoor troughs. Once that was done, I set up a heater in the cat-room at the barn so Toby and Miranda can enjoy a balmy 60-degree environment and I placed heat-lamps over the chicken roost to protect my hens from frostbitten combs and wattles. I was a little concerned that by evening, I couldn’t walk or straighten my back when bedtime rolled around, but, I rationalized, “I’m just getting warmed up. Surely my muscles will get with the program in a day or two. After all, I’m still in my forties – a spring chicken you might say.”

The Storm Begins

The Storm Begins

Day two gave my “inner chicken” another run for its money. Early in the day, I took the big truck to town and got a load of straw to use for the hens, Edward the rooster, and Ferdinand the duck. Straw is much lighter than hay, but when one’s muscles have been compromised, unloading a pickup full of bales and stacking them in the barn can be a bit of a challenge. Bedding Ed and Ferdie is easy. Their domain is a box-stall at the barn and I had their bachelor pad looking good in minutes, but the hen house is big and it took two big bales to get their house fresh and clean. I cursed my aching back once the bedding was done, but watching my hens scratch for bits of wheat in the golden straw made it all worthwhile. If I could have called it quits at that point, life would have been grand, but, because farm-life takes no prisoners, I still had horse stalls to clean and horses to feed. By bedtime even my toenails hurt and I began to have concerns about that this spring chicken had passed her “sell by” date.

Day Three should have been a cake-walk: Regular chores with a quick detour to clean the silt out of the automatic waterers. The dirt that was clogging the water-flow came from repairs our plumber made to a broken water pipe. No big deal: Just remover the filters and we’re back in business. Not. The filters came out easily, and they were filthy, but when I turned the water back on, nothing happened. The little spigots were as dry as a bone. I got out the repair manual and my heart sank. “If cleaning the filter does not restore full-function to the waterer, remove the bowl, basket, and counterweight; open the control valve and clean thoroughly.” Egads.

Let It Snow

Let It Snow

And so began the six-hour siege. Dad and I disassembled each waterer, removed the control valve, cleaned it and put things back together again. Then we had to calibrate the waterers. This is an inexact process whereby one tinkers with adjustment screws and weight placement until water flows freely but doesn’t overflow the bowl. “Trial-and-error” really doesn’t do this tedious process justice. Not only is it frustrating and time-consuming, it requires the repair-person to stand hunched over for hours, utterly destroying one’s back, legs, and hips. In three days I had gone from spring chicken to stewing hen and a nice, hot soak in a crock pot didn’t sound half-bad. Dad and I crippled through the evening, faced off with chores this morning, and then, about ten o’clock, our labors were rewarded. It began to snow.

The aimless flurries that came first soon turned into a proper storm and I had to hurry to get the horses inside before they got wet. Moisture is not necessarily a problem to horses, but when the low is forecast to be eleven degrees, hypothermia can be a concern, especially for the fine boned and delicate Arabian horses in our herd. I wasn’t thrilled to return to the barn less than an hour after I had left, but once the horses were settled in their stalls, munching hay and drinking their clean, clear water, all my aches and pains seemed a small price to pay.  All across the farm, my babies were tucked in safe and warm while the beautiful snow fell all around. It was a Christmas card ending to a mid-November day.

Good Night Chickens

Good Night Chickens

It is dark now, the only light the soft glow emanating from the barn and hen house. All is calm. All is bright. As for the spring chicken, she is comfortable on the couch, heating pad and hot coffee in tow. Its been a heck of a week, but worth every ache and pain. That’s what love is all about.

Arwen’s Choice

/ Julie Atkinson / 2 Comments

If I had a blog, today I would write about living through grief.

Winter Sun Over Mockingbird Hill

Winter Sun Over Mockingbird Hill

Living through grief is a journey through shades of gray. After the first blackness, into which we plunge when we experience loss, the pain eases and we come to rest in a place somewhere between pain and joy. Days pass softly, without the demands of desire, the need for excitement, or the drive of creativity to shatter our cocoon. If life permits us to submit to this lassitude, I think it is part of the return from grief, the journey back to a bright and joyful life.

Since Owain’s death, I have struggled to do more than get out of bed in the morning. I do my chores, my office work, and even take my photographs, but there is no energy behind my daily round. I’m not devastated anymore, I just don’t want to “feel” right now. I find comfort in a life without peaks and valleys, where I work and rest, eat and sleep, and demand nothing more of my battered soul.

November Woods

November Woods

In The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien writes of Arwen Evenstar, immortal elf maiden, who fell in love with a mortal man and, instead of following her people to the Undying Lands, she stayed in Middle Earth with her beloved, King Aragorn. After Lord Aragorn’s death, Arwen returned to the now abandoned Elvish kingdom Lothlorien. Tolkien writes, But Arwen went forth from the House, and the light of her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star…she went out from the city of Minas Tirith and passed away to the land of Lórien, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came. Galadriel had passed away and Celeborn also was gone, and the land was silent.

There at last when the mallorn-leaves were falling, but spring had not yet come, she laid herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth; and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.

We who choose to give ourselves to an animal make Arwen’s choice: We give our heart, the entirety of our love, to one who will, most likely, precede us in death by many years. We are willing to love completely, all the while knowing the passing of our beloved will, for a time, bring us pain.

The coming of winter is a mirror of my mood this year. I don’t believe I could survive the flash and dash of summer or face the coming of new life that happens in spring. Right now, I am as mellow as the pale sun shining in my window, as somber as the leafless trees. It feels good to follow the year as it winds down towards its end. Like the circle of the year, I will come back to color and light, but now I am comforted by the sense of finality that the end of the year brings. For now, I am happy living in shades of gray until the day I am ready to make Arwen’s choice and fall in love all over again.

The Lesson of the Leaves

/ Julie Atkinson / 1 Comment

If I had a blog, today I would write about the dance of falling leaves.

The Dance of the Leaves

The Dance of the Leaves

As I walk in the forest on these brisk, November days, I am witness to the dance of oak, maple, walnut, and ash leaves as they tumble from sky to earth in a joyful ballet, a swan-song for golden days of autumn.  A few weeks ago, as I set out on my evening walk, a single oak leaf drifted across my path and landed silently on a dried weed stem.  The leaf was ragged and torn: unlovely in comparison with the still-perfect maple, dogwood, and walnut leaves that lay beneath it on the forest floor. How was it, I marveled, that this tattered leaf had the courage to dance from the heavens as if it were whole, unmarred, and beautiful? Wasn’t it aware how different it was from those that had fallen before?

A Single Leaf

A Single Leaf

As I pondered the courage of that solitary leaf, it occurred to me the leaves have learned a lesson that eludes most of humankind. For all our intelligence, we have yet to realize what the leaves have always known: Our value to the world lies not in our degree of perfection or similarity to others of our kind, but rather in the unique individual we are.

Humanity is obsessed with perfection.  Somewhere in our evolutionary journey, we have come to believe that there is an ideal we are all striving for—a sort of human template we must fit into to be considered whole, good, and acceptable. When we don’t fit that template, we chastise ourselves and struggle to be rid of the things that make us unique. We want to be “normal.” We want to fit in and see ourselves as part of a whole, but the irony is, that we, like the leaves, are each created with a beautiful individuality—a uniqueness that is our strength, our glory, our priceless gift to the world.

From the time they emerge from the bud in the growing light of spring, every leaf is a little different from its kindred. Some are short and some are long; some are perfectly symmetrical while others are misshapen; some are smooth and unblemished and some are brittle and full of holes and tears. Leaves, like humans, are all related, yet none of them are exactly the same. The difference is: The leaves don’t care. They don’t strive to be perfect or waste their lives trying to become something they are not. Instead, they take part in the dance of life—giving shade the forest floor, sheltering creatures great and small,  and cleansing the air that gives life to the earth. It is a lesson we would do well to learn.

What a difference it would make if, rather than striving to be “normal,” we spent our lives celebrating our wonderful diversity. Some of us are born to be solitary—a single leaf floating to the earth like a dancer alone on the stage, while others will fall to earth in a gleeful jumble— swift and free, like partners in a country dance. Some leaves will let go of their mother-tree early in the autumn, while others will hold on to the last moment, letting go on that perfect winter morning when its edges are silver with frost. There is no “right” or “wrong” in such decisions, only what comes naturally. That is the lesson of the leaves: be the individuals we were born to be, live every moment with joy and never question who we are. We were created in the image of something greater and more beautiful that the human mind can comprehend and we must embrace our authentic selves, revel in our eccentricities, and celebrate the glorious beings we are.

The Quiet Season

/ Julie Atkinson / Leave a comment

If I had a blog, today I would write about the gifts that lie hidden in the leaf-bare November woods.

The Quiet Season

The Quiet Season

Over the weekend we had our first hard freeze. We’ve had a few chilly nights lately, but last night was the real thing: Twenty-three degrees; a certified hard freeze. Now the last hint of green in the pastures and fence-rows will turn to golden and the landscape will stretch before us like a somnolent brown beast, drowsing in the mellow sun. From now until spring, the only color will be the ruby red of rose hips and holly berries alongside the crimson and orange of ripened bittersweet.

I like this time of year, even though it is harder to find great photo-ops, but the dearth of stunning subject matter brings a type of relief. Now I have to concentrate, take my time, and become one with the land in hopes it will guide me to one of its hidden gems, resting among the crisp, brown leaves.

The Feather

The Feather

A few years ago I was on my Journey to the Solstice and came upon the feather of a great-horned owl, caught in the bare branches of a redbud tree. The pale sun lit the feather from behind, giving it a light of its own, as if a candle shone from within. I took several photos, then brought the feather home. It rests in my library now, reminding me of that day and the gifts that await those who are mindful as they enter the forest. Had the feather been dropped a month earlier, among the scarlet dogwood and golden hickory trees, I doubt I would have seen it, my mind filled with things bright and showy. It took a day without many options to bring the beauty of my feather to the fore.

In this season of thanksgiving, I am most thankful for this quiet time between autumn and the coming of the snow. It inspires me to look at the familiar with a different eye, to see more in a landscape that offers less. This is a time for listening, for watching, and for contemplating, for now the voice of Nature is most clear. As I take my evening walk up the lane or to the barn, I will be attuned to the whispering wind and unadorned trees. I am here, ready to receive the gifts that only the quiet season can bring.