September, grief and letting go.

September has always been my favorite month of the year, and it is a glorious time here in Maine. I relish the warm days with cool evenings, dry air and lack of mosquitoes. I love the apples, the crunch of leaves and the scent of the earth beginning its slow descent into darkness. And, despite all the magic, fall brings a keen sense of the passage of time. Another year’s cycle coming to a close…children going back to school and anticipation of all the preparation required before the ground freezes. This year feels heavier than past Septembers, for many reasons, and I am struggling to process the grief that arises on a daily basis. I have zero regrets about homeschooling my children, as it meant I was witness to every stage of their growth, every milestone, every hurdle. And, it also means that their absence, particularly that of the eldest, as he enters his first year of college, is felt even more sharply. This time last year was when my marriage crumbled, and I was forced to reckon with another round of feelings of inadequacy and abandonment as he created a relationship with a different person, again. This past year has been an excavation of myself, my values, my ideals, my self worth, my mistakes, beliefs, inherited patterns and ownership of behaviors and choices.

Are things okay? Yes. But we can feel both gratitude and grief at the same time, and there is no timeline for healing. I can be crying and full of despair at the same moment I love my life and give thanks for all that I have.

Letting go has been the theme of life lately. When I started this farm, I was deep in the throes of mothering, homeschooling and trying to carve out something that was mine. The children were very much a part of that journey. Every aspect of farm life involved them, and it was a gift I don’t for one second take for granted. The sheep taught us birth and death and beauty and the cycles of life. My daughter in particular was my right-hand woman; accompanying me on every delivery and midnight barn check. They learned how to spin and knit, and the hard work of shoveling stalls and wrangling stray lambs. We dyed with materials grown and foraged on our many walks and adventures, and learned heartbreak and saying goodbye when illness struck a member of the flock.

Our garden was enormous, and fed us all for much of the year. It was always a little wild and chaotic, and both children would wander through the rows daily, eating their way through each patch of kale, tomatoes, basil, lettuce, peas, beans, cabbage, potatoes, corn, peppers and more. It was special…magical, even.

And then, they grew. And the innocence of childhood gave way to friends and sports and events…also beautiful in their own way. And now, it’s me and my daughter at home, and many nights it’s just me. And it’s okay. The quiet is lovely most times, but September is when I am reminded of all those memories. My evening walk in the woods is no longer accompanied by a little person, or even a big person. Just me, and the dogs. And again, it’s okay. But, I am facing changes and choices that all seem to arrive at one time. How do I keep the farm going in the most sustainable way possible for my health and sanity? I worked so hard to create my identity with high quality local farm yarn, raising livestock in a way that benefitted both land and people, and dyeing with colors that do not harm the earth or our bodies.

And yet, here I am. A single female farmer, aging and not reasonably capable of making a true and comfortable living from that identity alone.

I recently listened to a podcast episode (“We Can Do Hard Things” - episode from Sept. 1st entitled The Surprising Science of Heartbreak) where the hosts, Glennon Doyle, Abby Wambach and Amanda Doyle, interview science journalist Florence Williams about the impact of heartbreak on our brains, bodies and nervous system. The thing that had the greatest impact on the healing process when we are so full of grief and despair and heartbreak? Beauty. Beauty and awe. If you have the opportunity, please listen to it…they can explain in much more coherent language than I.

But, in my own experience, I feel and know this to be true. The things that have been the greatest comfort throughout this past year, and during the first heartbreak of infidelity 7 years ago, have been a connection to beauty and what is real. The noticing of sunlight through leaves, the colors of a perfect dahlia, the way the grass waves in the breeze, and an incredible sunset.

I want my life to be about beauty. I want to be able to bring that to people, and spend my days in it. Flowers do that for me. And the cultivating of flowers, and a garden, do that for me. I know that spending my days outside, in all the weather and in all conditions, brings me face to face with beauty in its truest form. In order to continue living this life that I love so much, I must make some difficult decisions.

I will hopefully always have sheep, but not as many. I will not be lambing this year, and perhaps not next year either. Who knows? The girls that will be staying will be the older ones; the ones who have given their bodies, their fiber and their gentle presence for years. For now, I need to know that I can keep farming, and that means things will look a little different. It’s scary, and so very, very sad for me, to let go of a part of myself that I worked my tail off for. But, I know that in order to keep farming, I have to shift to a model that provides a more consistent income and is (slightly) easier to manage on my own.