Things Learned When Walking is your Sole Transportation

It has been almost three months since Mom’s car had to be taken off the road. And while I still yearn for an adult-sized tricycle to get me around more efficiently and safely than my feet, I’ve also learned a great deal from this experience:

1. People look at walking, and sometimes even bicycling, everywhere as hardship!!??! In some ways, that’s true. When you’re forced to “grocery shop” for only what you can easily carry two miles from the local grocery store, it does get “old” and it makes for having to seriously manage your time and resources better. Those little hand shopping carts they sell in department stores everywhere help but…

2. Little hand shopping carts filled to the brim with cases of cat food and cat litter do NOT make it up steep hills without making one feel a deeper empathy for beasts of burden.

3. Friends come from unexpected places.

4. Walking in extreme cold is much easier than walking in 90+ degree temperatures; an extra layer or two, a good pair of gloves and socks to cover the extremities, and a hat make all the difference when it’s cold…and a brisk pace will set the blood moving that much faster. One can only remove so many layers of clothing before Connecticut’s finest gets involved…

5. Those kitchy, supposedly eco-friendly reusable grocery bags, when full, are much more capable of cutting off circulation in your fingertips than are the equally-full, bad-for-the-environment plastic numbers.

6. You meet people when you walk…neighbors…people you would never meet when behind the wheel; find a sense of community you never knew existed.

7. Despite traversing concrete walkways and macadam road shoulders, walking puts you deeper in touch with nature. Damage done by this year’s gypsy moth invasion; small wetland areas on the other side of guard rails…and the diversity of life that lives in them; longer days/shorter nights; shortening days and lengthening nights; sadly, a greater awareness of how many creatures really lose their lives on a major interstate all become more apparent when walking.

8. My piggy bank has grown due to all of the loose change found in parking lots, breakdown lanes and along the sidewalks near local gas stations.

9. Bursitis flare-ups, sore knees, hips, calves all help to remind me that I’m not 25 anymore.

10. Despite the 6 lbs. lost when I first started, walking alone will not readily shed pounds if a proper diet is not incorporated with it.

11. My status as a single woman seems to have reached the attention of far too many local gentlemen…

12. Wearing a bright, fluorescent vest (so that you become more visible to local traffic while traveling on the shoulder of the road) when visiting the local Walmart will get you mistaken for an employee…and prompt you to memorize where everything is located in the store so you can answer all those “Can you tell me where (fill in the blank) is, please?” sort of questions.

13. Wearing a bright, fluorescent vest often gets you mistaken for a crossing guard.

14. Trying to traverse 2 miles of extremely hilly territory without arch supports in your shoes is a good way to flare bursitis up…especially if you’re over 50.

15. Horror stories of missing women flash through your head when you walk home at dusk.

16. Strange men will offer you a ride.

17. Strange men who are also attractive will also offer you a ride…tempting good reason but provide relief that such good reason still exists as you pick up your pace towards home.

18. I don’t tan; I freckle.

19. Even if it is only 2 miles, travel light.

20. We need a better infrastructure in our cities and towns…one that includes sidewalks that connect everything so that people can walk safely; bicycle lanes so that cyclists can also travel safely, and good public transportation lines that don’t require walking several miles to a small handful of bus stops.

21. While there are buses in northeastern Connecticut that will come directly to your doorstep–elderly and disabled only–it took over 3 weeks for Mom to get her bus pass…I wonder how many other seniors and disabled persons are left isolated due to their lack of transportation…

22. Even with a bright, fluorescent vest on, motorists do not stop for pedestrians in the crosswalks…especially if that crosswalk crosses the entrance to Walmart’s parking lot.

23. Walking in the rain, as long as there isn’t any lightning to go with it, is actually kind of fun…sort of like being a kid again and splashing in the puddles.

24. The creative genius engages while walking…I “write” my best chapters, work out my best plots when I walk.

25. Walking provides the perfect medium for finding that quiet stillness where we meet God.

May God bless you & keep you!

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Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

“He does not fear bad news, nor live in dread of what may happen. For he is settled in his mind that Jehovah will take care of him. That is why he is not afraid, but can calmly face his foes.” (Psalm 112: 7, 8)

Growing up in an alcoholic home, change often meant something bad. Or at least I learned to associate it as such. Not the little changes that occur everyday but the big changes. The yet another move across country, either to Rhode Island or to Missouri, depending on where we were at the moment, meant beloved pets were sent to a shelter and the loss of sentimental items; a change for better financial circumstances meant more alcohol and more fighting; the sudden loss of a job also meant more fighting, creditors at the door…and possibly another major move.

As you can see, it was a vicious cycle. And it sent a message to an impressionable little girl that, even when things are looking up, expect the worse to quickly follow. It’s an anecdote for insecurity, wiping away whatever joy one might find in this life, and damaging to that little something called faith.

Yes, both good and bad exist in this world. And life is a never ending wave of ups and downs. All things balance under the sun. Hardships don’t last forever. And the good times will come to an end, too…only to swing back up again at a later time. As it says in Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”

It took me a long time to truly believe that passage.

And, of course, here I am on top of the world with this new position coming up…yet waiting for some ax to fall.

You see, there’s even more to the story than this. Things were promised to me repeatedly…only to be taken away just before they were supposed to happen. The trip to buy school clothes was cancelled at the last minute. The dance lessons had to be dropped. The babysitting money I earned was “borrowed” and never paid back. The piggy bank was raided without my knowledge. Sure, it did teach me a lot about handling disappointment. But, because this was a steady situation, it also taught me that I wasn’t worthy of anything better in life, that it was wrong to want, to strive for success. That no matter how hard I worked, the end result was always the same.

The saving grace was school. I worked hard, got good grades and, yes, there were rewards. This balanced some of the negativity coming from home and mitigated the apathy of such an existence. Is it any wonder that in my late-40’s I went back to college? Or that, in so doing, my confidence levels have steadily soared?

Of course, the New Age gurus who hang upon the every word of “The Secret” would say I’m attracting this negativity. Maybe I am. But, after having read said book, my first thought was one would drive one’s self around the bend trying to stay positive all the time. Despite everything I’ve just written, it’s just not logical–or possible–to be positive 24/7. And to deny, suppress, etc. the negative is a form of denial. It’s unhealthy. Instead of facing whatever negative thing or thought, and working through it, you’re suppressing it…where it does more damage in the long run.

Faith is the key.

I have hit at least one snag in this new change…maybe. But I’m striving to take it on faith. He brought me to it; He’ll lead me through it. To deny that there’s a potential snag looming, is to get broad-sided later with something bigger. Maybe that bigger something is His plan. But, while Jesus is referred to as the Good Shepherd, and we his flock of sheep, denial is not the answer.

Faith is.

And faith is telling me that, yes, we moved around a lot but, because we did, I have friends in Rhode Island, Missouri, and now Connecticut. If we hadn’t moved so much, I would not have my best friend, Mary, in my life…or countless other good friends. The promises made that were forever reneged? Finances didn’t always allow those promises to be kept…which has taught me the value of budgeting, thrift, living within one’s means and having some sort of an emergency fund.

So I guess I am incorporating “The Secret” in my life to some extent–I’m looking for that silver lining in every situation and focusing on the positives learned from it. The bad times hurt. But maybe they do for a reason–to make sure the lessons are painful enough to be remembered.

Either way, I’m taking it on faith…because while there is “a time to cry”, there is also “a time to laugh”. And this promise is for all of us…no matter our situation. He will never leave us.

May God bless you & keep you!

References

Byrne, R. (2006). “The Secret” Oregon: Beyond Words Publishing.

Independence Day

“Now here is what I am trying to say: All of you together are the one body of Christ and each one of you is a separate and necessary part of it.” (1 Corinthians 12:27)

I always consider myself an independent person. In fact, I have always taken pride in my ability to take care of myself and to persevere in doing so. “Pride” would be the key word of that statement. Funny how He molds and shapes us for His work, His will.

Over the last few weeks, I haven’t been so independent. The pain and swelling in my right knee, ankle and toes has meant I’ve had to actually ASK for help. That’s usually the equivalent of pulling teeth with me. I feel weak. I feel ashamed. And I cringe, worrying that I’m being a burden to those near me. The flip side of it all is that I don’t want to become a burden, I don’t want the help that has been given to become “old” for anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel taken advantage of so I ask only for what I absolutely need and have done my best to express the appreciation for the help that I’ve received. And, amazingly, it has come from some pretty unexpected quarters…and in unexpected ways. I am grateful. Beyond what any words might express…despite my facile abilities.

We’re not meant to be islands unto ourselves. That is the message that He keeps telling me over and again…as long as I don’t let my own long-headedness get in the way of listening to Him. When I take charge. When I try to do everything myself. When I don’t allow others to help me. I am actually being a bit selfish. I offer an insult to that offer of help. No, this isn’t justification for suddenly becoming that burden I fear becoming. It’s a means of defining that fine line between being the sponge, the mooch, the burden, and accepting help when there is a real need. It’s about becoming a community. As I may be receiving help now, in time, I may be the one to give it when a friend is in need–not that I wish a time of need on anyone, but what I’m trying to say is that a true community, true friendship, is where there is an endless flow of give and take so that each feels blessed and less alone than they would be if they were that island unto themselves. I have always tried to be there for everyone, friend or family member; all are welcome. There is no one unworthy or less than. Maybe there’s a bit of pride ringing in that statement. It goads me to no end that I can’t still be that helping hand to others, that I must be reduced to being the one who has to ask for help instead. And maybe, by this forced convalescence, He is teaching me another valuable lesson with pride: no matter how much I might wish it, I can’t always be there…no matter what…and no matter how much that hurts. I am human. And, as it says in Ecclesiastes 3:1: “There is a right time for everything”. And one of those is “a time to heal”.

I am healing right now. In more ways than one. I am learning that while my independent living may bring a sense of confidence because of the skills and knowledge acquired along the way, it is not a utopia without faith in Jesus Christ, and the fellowship–and helping hands–of those near and dear to my heart.

Happy Independence Day, America…and May God bless you & keep you!

PS For those who may be wondering, I visited the doc on Friday. It seems I have developed bursitis in my right hip, knee and, possibly, ankle. In short, I can expect this sort of thing to happen again from time to time…it’s tough being 50 years young. (heavy sigh)

Ow…

I had a similar problem last summer when I started adding an hour’s fitness walk to my daily routine. Suddenly, my right leg started hurting and the third and fourth toes went numb. Last summer I went walking in inappropriate shoes, which is what I blamed this painful experience on. The doc ordered an ultrasound; they did an MRI; they ran all kinds of tests. Ruled out a blood clot, though I was advised to start taking an aspirin each day (and, no, I confess, I haven’t been consistent with it). The conclusion was that I must have strained or twisted something while walking. I tend to be klutzy so any ankle turning or twisting, nine times out of ten, is regarded as “routine”; I scarcely notice it. However, this summer I’m wearing decent walking sneakers with a good arch support in them. And the pain is back…with a vengeance.

Last night’s walk home from the dealership, I confess, I didn’t think I was going to make it. I had a stop to make at the local Walmart so, while there, I picked up a tube of Ben Gay and, before heading up the hill towards home, I slathered it all over my right shin, ankle and calf. As soon as it kicked in, I started walking again. The pain was less–enough so I could make it home–but I was close to tears by the time I reached the side door.

Mom helped with feeding everyone last night and I’ve been trying to take it easy. But I have work tomorrow and that requires another long walk. I am not looking forward to it. I took a very short walk today to pick up some birdseed at the local feed store, which is two doors’ down…and came limping back in agony again. And I’m not usually a baby about such things…only the enforced inactivity that is ultimately the end result (chuckle; I’m a terrible patient).

This northeastern corner of Connecticut has a very limited public transit system. This morning I signed Mom up for door-to-door pick up, which is available for seniors, but, for the rest of us, we have to go to the nearest bus stop. In this rural corner of the state, the nearest one would bring me almost to the dealership’s door so it doesn’t really solve the issue. And I am writing all of this, not to garner sympathy, but more as a way of brainstorming and trying to think of a way to bring about some sort of reform. I am hoping this is a temporary thing with my leg. The doc will have to be called and an appointment made again. And, yes, I know most people have automobiles and can drive themselves. But, surely, for seniors, for the disabled, and as our economy still struggles to recover from the Great Recession, for those who find themselves financially challenged and cannot afford the high loan payments, insurance premiums, maintenance fees and/or tax bills that car ownership brings, there must be a way to provide better transportation options. I’m hoping by brainstorming, some little light bulb will go off in my head, an “A-ha” moment, an inspiration that might show me the way to bring about some positive changes.

Of course, all of this circles around to the environmental impact of automobile ownership. I have long been an advocate for walking, bicycling and/or taking public transit whenever and wherever possible to mitigate the effects of fossil fuel usage. For those who sneer at this whole global warming thing, or succumb to denial about it, my present difficulties might seem to them a justification for all the number of autos on our highways and byways…and “proof” that one cannot exist without one, the lie we all tell ourselves that car ownership is a necessity. If it is true, it is only because our present infrastructure has been built around said automobile ownership and backed by funding from the same fossil fuel industry that promotes them. If we take a look at the Netherlands, the city of Amsterdam has been totally re-vamped and is now centered around bicycles. Children as young as four years old are seen riding them. And automobile traffic is kept to a bare minimum, with the bulk of it being deliveries for local businesses (Van der Zee, 2015). Their carbon impact has been greatly reduced, as well as the instances of heart disease, obesity, diabetes, and many of the other diseases that plague us in our sedentary lifestyle.

I am willing to concede that this may be part of my problem in this: poor circulation brought about from the sedentary lifestyle of a writer. Though I am also a homesteader, even many of my homesteading chores see me sitting down: rabbit grooming, nail trimming, knitting, sewing, looming, etc. My part-time endeavor at the dealership is also a sit down, sedentary position as I stuff envelopes, answer phones and create the next newsletter each month. I’m thinking maybe our automobile fetish may be killing us in more ways than one.

And yet, I also enjoy a long drive in the country; a trip to sight see, etc. I’m not totally against the idea of auto ownership but rather a more judicious use of them. If one can walk, or bicycle, instead of driving, then by all means, please do. Despite my present circumstances, in the two months since I started walking instead of driving, I sleep better; feel better overall; have more energy; and my moods have been elevated. I find myself more concerned and aware of what’s going on in my community. And with the local environment (those gypsy moths I lamented earlier this week have been wreaking havoc all up and down the Interstate.). I’ve even had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a young woman one afternoon while walking in to work. She was having her car serviced at the other dealership almost across the street. We shared the walk and a happy exchange of conversation. It would never have happened if I’d been in my own little fiberglass bubble, puffing out an unhealthy dose of CO2.

My leg will heal; Mother Earth may not.

May God bless you & keep you!

References

Van der Zee, R. (2015).  “How Amsterdam became the Bicycle Capital of the World.”  The Guardian.  Retrieved April 13, 2017 from: https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2015/may/05/amsterdam-bicycle-capital-world-transport-cycling-kindermoord

Who’s Really in Charge Here Anyway?

“We ought not to insist on everyone following in our footsteps, nor to take upon ourselves to give instructions in spirituality when, perhaps, we do not even know what it is.” St. Teresa of Avila

I’ll admit it. “Charles in Charge” has nothing on me. I’m in control, or so I tell myself, and then hear the echo of what can only be God laughing as I tighten the reins…and chaos erupts.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think I remember reading somewhere that 98% of us have at least a touch of it. Some of us have a bit more than a touch, unfortunately. Oh, it comes in handy at times. The alphabetized CD, DVD, VHS and book collections make finding whatever I’m looking for a snap. Because, really, who wants to waste time looking for something that may be right in front of your nose? I have bigger fish to fry, as they say. And, maybe it’s a bit extreme but my closet is color coded with all the yellow garments together, all the red, all the green, etc. Again, it makes finding that outfit easier. And I’m all about economizing my time. However, these little impulses and neuroses also tie me in knots and can make me a rather difficult person to live with.

Poor Mom.

This feeble attempt at perfectionism often manifests as criticism. I hear myself and cringe. Criticism was definitely NOT the intent but that’s what surely came across if I put myself in her shoes. And really, how important is it if the buttery popcorn bowl wasn’t rinsed first before it went into the sink? Or if the spoon rest is backwards on the stove? This latter “pet peeve” doesn’t get spoken; I simply turn it around again but then I think, as I’m doing it, does it MATTER???

And here is where the knots get tied because, as one voice is asking about the importance of such an act, another voice knows how much of a mental distraction it will be if I leave the spoon rest backwards…or the toilet paper feeding from under, rather than over.

Of course, I’ve never really sat down with Mom and tried to explain exactly what it’s like to live with OCD. Sadly, such a conversation tends to veer off into why mine is so intense in the first place: it’s a response to the molestation I grew up with. And that is a subject Mom would rather forget about altogether. As a child, I couldn’t control what was happening to me so I acted out by adopting these little “habits”. It gave me a false sense of security. And I was desperate to feel secure. Not only the abuse but also the alcoholism, the drunken accusations that told us all that we were “stupid” and couldn’t do anything “right” and to “look a little harder than you have to”. Like many children who grow up with some sort of substance abuse…as well as the abuse of their bodies, minds, and spirits, I turned all this negativity onto myself and shouldered all the blame. If I was a better student, he wouldn’t be so angry. If I kept my room neater, maybe he’d leave me alone. If I did all the chores around the house, all this chaos would stop.

Who was I kidding?

I’ve been tied up in knots since I was a very little girl. Is it any wonder that I’m still tying myself in knots? Unhealthy though it may be, it’s also a comfortable numb. It’s familiar. And, if I don’t grasp, and clutch, and sterilize my whole life, I start to relax…and then chastise myself for being “lazy”.

The paradox of all of this is that my property from the roadside looks like tobacco road. This is another coping mechanism from dealing with alcoholism. It keeps people away. But such a desire never cropped up until a few years ago when I had a live-in boyfriend…who was also an alcoholic. He seemed a nice enough guy when we met. And there was an instant rapport. This last one should have been a red flag…heck, it should have been flashing in neon red. Because that kind of comfort level so early on, well, they say a girl looks for her father when she dates…or, in this case, father figure. I was embarrassed. The sometimes-arrogant self, who would never allow herself to be caught in such a situation, got caught in it. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? And, worse, it took me forever to finally get out of it. The same mind control that I grew up, manifested again in this romantic partner. The same self-doubt and shame crept in. And I felt sorry for him. He, too, had grown up with abuse in the home. I knew what that was like. And, while I had had a network of family and friends behind me as I sought therapy and tried to claw my way into some sort of normalcy of life, he was still wallowing in the beaten-down misery he grew up with. He even threatened to beat me physically…and I still let him stay. It wasn’t until, in a drunken stupor, he cut down a beloved shade tree in the yard that I snapped and gave him the boot.

Tobacco road’s been growing ever since…because I’m mortified that I allowed myself to be caught up in this unhealthy situation. I fell down on my principles. Every stitch of therapy went out the windows. Though I have no actual proof, I even suspect he was abusive to one of my cats as Trooper’s behavior while he was here was almost unbearable. And it stopped almost immediately once this man was finally gone for good.

A little bit at a time. That’s what friends tell me as I tackle this overgrowth. It’s a little bit like that “One Day at a Time” motto advocated by both Alcoholics’ Anonymous and Al-Anon. A little bit at a time, one day at a time.

This homestead is healing me as well as it is healing the land. My OCD says I should be able to perfectly landscape the 3/4 of an acre I’ve set aside for fruits, vegetables and herbs in a weekend’s work; it’s not good enough otherwise. Reality says, as I am implementing Charles Dowding’s “No Dig Gardening” method to bring as low an impact to the earth as I can, that such an enormous undertaking simply cannot be done in one weekend…not to the scale I envision. And not by one single person…especially one on a part-time income.

No, the “No-Dig” method isn’t expensive. Quite the contrary. It uses flattened cardboard boxes laid out on the ground (something easily had for free from many of the local businesses who don’t mind not having to pay out to cart the cardboard away instead) and then composted waste, from both the kitchen, and the animals, layered on top of the cardboard to create a raised bed. I’ve been dismantling a broken section of stone wall that runs along the front of my property to outline the beds once they’re made and using old feed bags that I’ve cut open and laid flat for the walkways in between. As funds permit, I buy a bag or two of red mulch and lay it atop the bags. This is where the part-time income comes into the picture as I cannot purchase enough at one time to cover all of the walkways at once. And, as I am on a major interstate, as well as in the commercial district, it has to be “pretty”.

So, a little bit at a time, one day at a time.

And, when the OCD starts kicking up again and stresses perfection, I need only look outside to see the rhubarb growing tall and strong in the three-tiered pyramid I built for it and the strawberries; I need only look at the green beans poking their kidney-shaped heads out of the ground in one raised bed and the beautiful purple flower heads of the chives, and the lush expanse of marjoram in another to tell me that, yes, one day at a time is good enough. It doesn’t matter that it’s not “perfect”. Obviously, these plants don’t care a fig if it’s perfect or not; they’re still growing in imperfection.

As for the grass?

Mankind has ever strived to tame and “control” Nature. I refuse to use anything gas-powered, or any chemicals, to kill it off. Even with the raised beds, the weed and grass barriers being laid down, there’s still the occasional blade that pokes up even amongst those sections already landscaped. This is a reminder that, despite my valiant efforts to control and manipulate this landscape, much like the landscape of my life, there is Someone greater than I who is really in charge. Someone who takes those knots I’ve tied myself into, lays them out flat…and helps me to grow.

May God bless you & keep you!

A Bigger Life

“Ask, and you will be given what you ask for. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened. For everyone who asks, receives. Anyone who seeks, finds. If only you knock, the door will open. If a child asks his father for a loaf of bread, will he be given a stone instead? If he asks for fish, will he be given a poisonous snake? Of course not! And if you hardhearted, sinful men know how to give good gifts to your children, won’t your Father in heaven even more certainly give good gifts to those who ask him for them?” (Matthew 7:7-11)

Believe it or not, I often struggle with this biblical passage. Struggle because there is too much doubt in my heart that what I wish for, what I hope will come to be, I am not worthy to have. This passage says nothing about worthiness. It asks only that we, well, ASK. No other hidden clauses.

Of course, when/if I discuss this passage with others, I invariably get that old standby of predestination. If it’s meant to be, it will be. Yes, that’s probably true. Does not the Bible also tell us that even the hairs on our heads are numbered by God? And that He knows when every sparrow falls so, therefore, He also knows our struggles…even the desires of our hearts? And yet, I hear that old adage and, no sooner have I gone to God in prayer for what I need, or even want, and I’m already deciding that what I’m asking for is probably not a part of His will and, therefore, why am I asking? I defeat myself as soon as the prayer is out of my mouth…or head.

What kind of lukewarm faith is this? Is there nothing too great for God? Did He not make me along with everyone else?

Then we get into the whole thought process of accepting that maybe He is instead trying to mold and shape me for something better, something that is in line with His plans. And my anxiety ramps up because maybe it will require too much of a sacrifice…like the loss of someone I love (did not The Twelve leave even their closest family members to follow Jesus?) in order to have that dream. Because, whatever dream He put on my heart, I’ve already convinced myself I’m not worthy of. So I try to guess His plans. What does He want me to do? Show me the way. And then I start chastising myself for being so ungrateful for what I already have. And I shouldn’t want or ask for more. Who cares if I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul and find that Peter’s flat broke? I’ve reached the cap on God’s mercy, or gifts, or grace. Such thinking, I consider, must surely anger God. For where in the Bible does it say He has a cap? Nowhere. His love is unconditional. Passage after passage tells us that He wants only the best for His children. Yet still I doubt. If You’re going to show me the way, I need neon signs and strobe lights highlighting that way. And even then I’d probably doubt if it was “meant” for me.

You see, people who grow up in abusive homes, especially if the abuser was their father, or a father figure, have difficulty believing in a loving and compassionate Father in heaven; it’s an alien concept. We get the angry and vengeful God who punished the Israelites for worshiping other gods and erecting idols, for being stubborn, etc. But the God who loves us, who will give His children good gifts, we struggle with.

I am grateful for everything I have. I know I have been richly blessed already. Even when so many others were losing their homes during the Great Recession, I managed to hang on to this one…despite only being a part-time and/or seasonal worker (the only jobs available in this sleepy New England town)…simply due to His grace. It does seem a bit, well, sinful and selfish to be wishing for something more. This house is a fixer-upper; the homestead is small and, because of it’s smallness, it can also be limiting. However, the smaller size has forced me to get more creative as I continue to landscape and design, to find ways to re-purpose certain areas. It’s also on a major interstate so the dream of growing organic vegetables, fruits and herbs is already out the window. With that much carbon zooming by in a continuous stream, even with the row of Thujas across the front border, that carbon is undoubtedly settling onto each and every leaf; the Thujas can only filter out so much. And, though I am grandfathered in for the use to which I put the land, as big box stores continue to climb the hill, closer and closer to home, I can’t help but fear how much worse that carbon impact is going to be…or how long before that grandfathered use gets challenged. Of course, I probably wouldn’t say “no” if some big developer came by and offered me a decent price for it, enough that I could start over somewhere else…but that’s a bit like waiting to hit the lottery.

I dream of acreage somewhere. I dream of that plot of land down that dusty, country lane, with pastures full of goats, sheep and chickens, maybe a horse or two, and border collies zipping around “Come by” and “Away to me” as they herd those sheep and goats into the barn at night. I dream of a small pond, or lake, on that property where my ducks can swim until their hearts’ are content. I dream of paddling a canoe, or pedaling a paddle boat, out onto that lake or pond after the workday is done. I dream of campfires, with friends and family sharing meals and some good music as we break out the guitar, the dulcimer, and open our hearts and lips to song. No Kumbaya, mind you, just a gathering of friends. I dream of herb gardens, lush, full, and diverse. Gardens made for teaching how to cook with herbs; how to tincture, infuse, poultice and compress. Maybe even some “magickal” uses for luck and love and a bit of romantic whimsy. I dream of equally lush vegetable gardens and small fruits growing and a greenhouse that houses an aquaponics’ system for growing even more food. I dream of a thriving produce stand, or a booth in the local farmers’ market. I dream of supplying the local food pantry with fresh, nutritious produce instead of the packaged, processed donations they typically receive. I dream of looms full of brightly-colored threads, all weaving a brilliant tapestry from the wool, angora, mohair and cashmere fibers routinely sheared, or plucked, from the animals I raise. I dream of a little store where yarns and fabric are sold from my stock. I dream of fresh goat’s milk and cheese, and goat’s milk soap scented with some of the herbs I grow. I dream that all, or at least most, of these animals are rescues, given a second chance at life, for a forever home. I dream of summer days out on the road with a trailer full of goats as we clear land for others in a manner that is much gentler on Mother Earth. I dream of an orchard with healthy and thriving honeybees buzzing in and out of the blossoms. I dream of honey and beeswax candles. And I dream of walking into that bookstore someday, or logging into Amazon, and seeing my name on the cover of that bestseller.

And I dream. And I yearn. And I consider that, maybe, these are just dreams and never “meant” to be. Maybe someday I will do as that Garth Brooks’ song says and thank God for unanswered prayers. Surely, His plans ARE bigger and better than anything I could ever imagine. But, maybe, just maybe, I can finally find it in my heart to TRUST that God truly has put these dreams in my heart for a purpose, that it isn’t all a pipe dream, fueled by an over-active imagination. Perhaps *Someday* I will trust that, yes, I am worthy of such dreams, that God loves me beyond any human ability to comprehend. Just because. Not because I “earned” it. Not because I prayed the most compelling prayer and that was the one He chose to answer. Not because of anything of my will but because His will shall be done. Maybe, just maybe, He’s using these dreams and yearnings to first answer another prayer, a prayer that asked to draw closer to Him, to know Him better, to learn how to trust in a loving Father.

Can I let go enough to let that healing begin? To allow His miracles to take place? Can I trust that, even if these dreams do not come to light, that wherever He does lead me, will bring me more joy than I can possibly imagine? Can I trust that His gifts are not like those given on earth, to sometimes bribe, sometimes stifle, to sometimes manipulate? This isn’t a toe-in-the-water sort of thing. It’s that proverbial, giant leap of faith. Can I do it? Can I accept God’s will for me on this earth? And, more importantly, can I accept that, yes, I do have a loving Father in heaven who does desire to give me good gifts?

Okay, then.

Breathe.

Relax.

And let go.

Thy will be done, Father. Thy will be done.

May God bless you & keep you!

Over It

“Get over it!”

I hear a lot of this whenever I talk about, or add a new blog post, that shares about my childhood. Oh, the fun and games that every child remembers is acceptable. But the darker, more sinister aspects of my childhood should be kept quiet…if only because it offends the delicate sensibilities of others.

I say, if it offends your delicate sensibilities, then good. Great, in fact! If I’m offending your delicate sensibilities, then I’m getting under your skin. I’m making you aware that 6.6 million referrals of child abuse/molestation are reported annually in the United States alone–many involving more than one child, and alcoholism affects 15.1 million adults over the age of 18 (Child Help; NIAAA, 2017). Quite often, the two are irrevocably linked. And these are just the incidents that were reported…because the delicate sensibilities of those closest to many of these lost children dictate that these children should suffer in silence, rather than exploit the family dysfunction. I say, to what purpose should I “get over it” unless both of those statistics change to a big, fat ZERO.

SPOILER ALERT!

I hate to burst a few bubbles but, I am “over it”. You see, if I wasn’t “over it”, I wouldn’t be able to blog, or talk, so candidly about my childhood experiences. 20+ years in therapy have led me to a much healthier place, mentally and emotionally. I know sometimes it may seem otherwise when there are so many “hang-ups” that still trip me from time to time. But, honestly, before therapy, I bottled everything so deeply inside that I couldn’t see the proverbial forest through the trees. And I guess this blog post is coming about as a means to change some misconceptions…about a lot of things.

First of all, therapy. Whenever I get tripped up by some sort of coping mechanism I adopted as a child, or by a wave of self-doubt, there are some who cast aspersions on that therapy…or the therapist who worked so closely with me. But therapy, while valuable, can never truly wipe away those “hang-ups”; my memories aren’t going to disappear. I’m not going to forget what happened. However, I no longer dwell upon it. It isn’t an all-consuming nightmare from which I cannot wake up anymore. Therapy has helped me to put those painful memories, well, not really on a back burner but, instead, I can look at them with some distance, take them out, study them, study their effects, and, like an onion, peel away another layer of hurt and dysfunction in manageable bites. This is important because, if I tried to deal with everything all at once, I would get overwhelmed and incapacitated by that overwhelming. The abuse that I endured growing up was spread out over several years; is it any wonder that the recovery from it would also take a number of years?

Another blessing of that therapy is that, while I am peeling away those layers, I also have tools to help lift me out of depression and anxiety, to boost my self-esteem when it wants to plummet, to deal with anger and even the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that became one of those coping mechanisms. I will probably always be afflicted with some trace of OCD. In fact, with Mom now living with me, I find myself falling back into some old obsessions. I’m guessing it’s because I am suddenly exposed to some of that learned behavior from dealing with active alcoholism again. I escaped life with an alcoholic when I was in my early-20’s; Mom lived with that same alcoholic for over 40 years. For at least half of those years, I was in that therapy, peeling those layers away; Mom was still in the midst of it, dealing with it. Yes, she did choose to do so but that doesn’t change the fact that she learned a few coping mechanisms of her own. I see it, hear the sometimes sarcasm, the passive-aggression, the lack of concern for her own well-being, the escapism, the manipulation, the desperate attempt to develop a new co-dependency with me. It saddens me. Because, overall, she’s a good woman who simply allowed herself to get caught in a bad situation…partly because she didn’t believe that she deserved better treatment, and partly because, underneath the alcoholism and abuse, she saw something–someone–that she loved despite the abuse…and she’s still struggling with the ill effects of that choice.

Of course, I will also concede that the OCD has become over-active again because some small part of me may still harbor some anger at Mom…for not acting when I first told her what was happening to me. I was eight years old. Today, she says she doesn’t remember me telling her. I’m not sure how one would forget such a conversation but, I am willing to concede that it may have been such a shock to her, that maybe some part of her did block it out. Because it was too much for her to deal with. It hurts too much to think that maybe she simply didn’t care enough to help me. Either way, acceptance is the only way to true forgiveness.

And therein lies another misconception: forgiveness. A lot of people look at forgiveness as giving in, giving up, as saying that whatever vile and/or hateful thing that has been committed is okay. No, it is never okay for a little child to be abused…in any way, shape or form. It’s not okay for any living creature–human or humane, child or adult to be abused. Forgiveness isn’t about the actions of the abuser. We’re not forgiving the act–or lack of action–but the person committing the act, or lack thereof.

“Your heavenly Father will forgive you if you forgive those who sin against you; but if you refuse to forgive them, He will not forgive you.” (Matthew, 6:14-15)

Forgiveness isn’t truly about them anyway. Forgiveness is a gift for the one doing the forgiving, for the peace that settles over the soul once we finally let go of the grudge, the anger, the stubbornness that inhibits further healing from the transgression. Forgiveness releases the power the transgressor still wields over us to hurt us even more…because by hanging onto our anger, truly, the only person we hurt is ourselves.

So, what does all of this have to do with homesteading? I get asked that one A LOT. Because, really, that’s the whole reason I started this blog. I wanted it to be a daily accounting–or at least a weekly one–of my journey as a homesteader. However, as I technically started this blog back in 2010, but never really contributed to it on a regular basis until last August (2016), obviously, I didn’t have as much to say about my homesteading endeavors. Or maybe I just needed to get into a regular writing routine, which I have done, and see which direction it evolved. I’d like to think that these two separate journeys are somehow intertwined…above and beyond the fact that this modern-day homesteader is also the one still healing from the effects of childhood trauma.

In fact, there’s the link: a journey of healing from childhood abuse…and a journey to heal Mother Earth from the effects of Mankind’s abuse of her. What’s in our food? A lot of things that should not even be used in the same sentence as “food”: high fructose corn syrup, monosodium glutamate, dyes, aspartame, saccharin and sucralose. Where does it come from? A package? A can? From over 3000 miles away where a huge carbon footprint is created to transport it across country, across the globe, after lacing it with these artificial preservatives, and growing it with chemical pesticides and fertilizers…which kill us, kill the animals, the plants, kill the honey bees. What’s in our clothing? Nylon, synthetics–by-products of the petroleum industry. Athletic wear, especially, contains a lot of plastic. Plastic off-gases in our landfills. It gets dumped into our rivers and streams, our oceans, where tiny particles of it…and sometimes even larger pieces…get ingested by wildlife and aquatic life. I recently did a presentation regarding climate change. I found a photograph of a seal that had died from ingesting run-off from lawn fertilizers–such as Scotts or TruGreen. We’re killing our planet, ourselves. And, while one lone homesteader may not be able to make much of a dent in that carbon footprint, I can lead by example. And I can rest knowing that I’ve done the best I could to lessen my contribution to the abuse. That’s worth it to me.

As this homestead is also intended as an animal rescue and rehabilitation, a sanctuary to help heal animals of abuse and/or abandonment, here, too, is another journey of healing. I need a bigger homestead if I’m to achieve the level of success that I envision but, for now, I work with what I have and mitigate whatever suffering I can, one heart at a time.

For every new skill I learn as a homesteader, whether it is canning, preserving, a new gardening technique, a new fiber art mastered, for every new animal that I learn to care for and that thrives, I gain a new level of confidence that takes me even further away from those painful memories. And that’s a link that will endure forever.

May God bless you & keep you!

References

Child Help, (2017). Statistics. Retrieved June 2, 2017 from: https://www.childhelp.org/child-abuse-statistics/
National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. Statistics. Retrieved June 2, 2017 from: https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/alcohol-health/overview-alcohol-consumption/alcohol-facts-and-statistics