Day 17. Yikes.

I can always depend on my mom to ask “what’s wrong?” when I’ve missed too many days of blogging. In the case of the last couple of weeks, the short answer is “I have no idea.”

On the surface, nothing in particular is wrong, exactly; the H is overdue on a script and tortured as a result, but that’s kind of normal, unfortunately (meaning, he goes through some version of “late and miserable” on every project–it’s all a matter of degree. This one is somewhat extreme, but it’s not exacty a surprise.)

It’s February, which is torture everywhere but Hawaii or SoCal, but it’s actually been beautiful here. Yes, cold, of course, but loads of really stunning sunny days, which keeps the SAD at bay and forces me to pay more attention to just how beautiful it is where I live. (I’ve noticed that nearly two years into my experiment in exurban living, I’ve become somewhat inured to the extreme beauty that surrounds me. I’m trying to remember to pay attention, to remember how astonished I was when I first arrived here– every glimpse more extraordinary than the next. It’s not the landscape that’s changed, it’s me, and I’m trying to return to the state of awe I experienced two years ago.)

I think my malaise (and it’s a mild one) started with the Great Chicken Death of ’09. A few weeks ago, unfortunately just before a bitter cold snap, I made the (stupid) decision to try to integrate some of our youngest chickens with the older ones. The results weren’t pretty, and between the weather and the territorial and pissed off older birds, there was a lot of death in the barn. I’ve seen and handled a lot of dead birds in the last two years, with surprising (to me) equanimity, but this last go-round was the hardest, by far. With no fanfare, it cured me of my desire to raise more birds than I need to provide our little family with eggs–Dido’s plans for an egg stand will have to be put on hold until I can figure out a way to do a bit better at poultry husbandry.

And, of course, there’s the impending arrival of Dacos, our horse-to-be. (He’s obviously already a horse. The “to be” part refers to “our”.)  He moves in to the barn at the end of the month; his stall is nearly ready, and if all goes according to plan, our fences will, quite literally, be mended next week so that all our paddocks will be usable for the first time since we’ve lived here. I also learned, just today, how to operate the water fountain that serves the second barn and far paddocks. Something about that tiny and yet critiacl bit of knowledge made me feel like I am–we are–finally embracing fully what this life is–horses, fields, manual labor–and maybe that’s what’s muffled my voice a bit.

What is that voice if it is fully HERE, in this crazy rural life that I never knew I wanted? I got back in touch with a–well, there’s no way to say it really but to say a former–friend who knew me well several years ago. She said that what she’d heard about my life now sounded exactly like what I said I’d wanted maybe fifteen years ago when we first became friends. I don’t remember that at all; I don’t ever remember voicing a desire for the life I lead now. Which is not to say that I didn’t want it: but I don’t think I knew that I did–I don’t think I knew that, really, until many months into living it.

Tagged as: Farm, horses, raising chickens, rural life