Life, motherhood, existential crisis. Oh, and moving from Hollywood to the farm. That too.

Is it just adulthood that makes you feel that something wonderful always has something not so joyous tagging along? Is that just the way the universe balances, or is it middle aged pessimism? I just don’t know. A glorious walk down to the barn tonight to check on the horses, give them a bit of hay (not much, as they are on sweet, new grass most of the day now, weather permitting) turned into a grimacing, trying (and failing)-not-to-curse moment,when I reached for a bale of hay, and felt an intense, fiery sting in my hand, like a cut, but with a poisoned blade. When I got of the dark loft, the bale still in hand, I looked: was there a shard of glass there somehow? An extra sharp blade of dried grass? No. A small, wobbly yellowjacket was moving, in slow motion, right where my hand had landed. He was fine; I was in agony. The kids, who’d been feeding carrots to General and Rodney, two mini horses who are living here for the moment, looked panicked, as children always do when a parent reveals  pain and vulnerability. For five minutes or so, my hand, which I  held at my side, very still, even as I loaded hay onto a barrow and toted it out to the far pasture, was on fire. And then, it stopped. The absence of pain was so sweet, and I pointed it out to the kids. “You saw how much that hurt, right?” Solemn nods. “And look–it doesn’t hurt at all anymore. So don’t be too afraid, even of wasps.” This was marvelous to them, for a moment, and then they moved on to the creek and the mud.

I am feeling particular grateful lately for the absence of pain, for moments of grace, for friends and family and love and joy. So I’m making stuff. That image above is the first piece of mail art I’ve ever made, or mailed. I sent it to my friend Suzi, a fellow student in my collage class who inspires me every week with her persistence, her creativity, her freedom. It’s a bit literal for me, something I tend to avoid, but I thought Suzi would like it, and it’s a powerful theme for our class, for her recent art exhibit with our teacher, and, let’s face it, for pretty much every woman I know. So if being on the nose makes me a hack, so be it.  I made another piece tonight to send to a friend who’s in a hard place. I realized that as much as like making stuff for me, I don’t know what to do with it when it’s done. Making something to release into the wild is much, much more fun. I think there might be a project brewing. Stay tuned.

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It occurred to me this morning as I waited for the kettle to boil, that my life here is much smaller, or perhaps, narrower, than the one I had in Los Angeles. But I mean this as a compliment. Here, I more often know the sources of the objects I interact with, the things I consume. And I like that connection, that knowing. It grounds me. It was my tea that brought this point home.

I don’t usually have much interaction with the anthroposophist (Rudolf Steiner devotées) communities which abound in this area. I like the people, usually, very much, but the dogma is too heavy for me. Camphill is a Steiner project that cares for developmentally disabled adults in a village setting, where they live and work side by side with normally-abled adults and their families. Its presence here (about 10 miles from my house) means that we often see the residents out and about, which I think is a great thing for my kids, and for me. (In California, I now realize, I almost never saw disabled adults, and rarely children. Where were they?)

Anyway, the people at Camphill tend an herb garden and make wonderful teas (really, tisanes) with lyrical names like Douceur de Fete (one of my favorites.) They also make the prosaically named Tea for Colds, which seems to actually help. So, with my head stuffed and snotty with a cold, I made myself a cuppa just now, using my newest (non-local) fave acqusition, my Tea Stick. (Pricey, but genius. If you drink loose leaf tea, get one.) And I poured the nearly-boiling water into my favorite new mug (one thing you may not know about me is that for years now, I’ve been searching for the perfect mug. It’s more challenging than you might think, but I think the search is over.) My mug was made by a potter/friend down the road who gave it to me in exchange for using my home as a location for a photo shoot for her new website. So my soothing tea was in my perfect mug, which soothes the palm of my hand in addition to holding my medicinal tea, and I thought: this is all from right.here. If I had a younger horse (and, let it be said, was a better rider) I could get to both of them in an afternoon. And that thought just made me so happy that I live in this random, odd, lovely place.

Meanwhile, last night I made a discovery that also has everything to do with where I live and what I do here, and it also made me shiver with quiet joy.

Mary Oliver is one of my favorite contemporary poets, but I only recently discovered this work of hers. To make it even better, I found it on a work of art made by my teachers and friends Karen Arp-Sandel and Suzy Banks Baum. If you live near me, check out their collaborate mail art show, Femail, at the Berkshire Art Kitchen.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patcha few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorwayinto thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak

~ Mary Oliver

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“As a writer, I have to believe in invisible things.” –Roger Rosenblatt, being interviewed on NPR about his memoir, Making Toast, which I now must read, just because its writer had the genius to say those ten words.

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