They are here! Well, some of them anyhow. Meet Angus and Astrid. Their mom is a Shetland, and father is a Finn...and we are in love. Maple completely surprised us when I came out one morning to find she and her lambs happy and healthy. She had them overnight, without any sign of labor the evening before. In truth, I thought Maple's mother, Emma, would go first. I love surprises!
So. Much. Snow.
I feel as if today was the first day in a week that I haven't been out shoveling...paths, gates, more paths, hay cribs, roofs, cars...
But is has been beautiful, and it feels kind of okay because Spring is coming. The sap is starting to run. The sheep's bellies are starting to round out with lambs. Early seeds are being started. And the days are longer.
All that being said, this is our first season lambing and kidding, and because I am honestly not sure about the full extent of what that entails, I am a little apprehensive about taking on the full load of responsibilities that I usually do in the Springtime. Starting seedlings may have to wait (or not happen at all) in the event that the greenhouse is needed for extra room, and tapping the maple trees just doesn't sound all that appealing right now with four feet of snow on the ground.
We'll see. When the first warm day arrives I may just change my mind...
For Christmas, my family gave me a trip to visit my brother and his family in Maui. At first, I felt guilt at knowing how very much the children would enjoy it. And then, I was excited beyond words. I had no idea what I was going to do with myself, and realized that I actually did not know what two weeks felt like on my terms. The passage of time when you have children is measured by appointments, meals, chores, practices, lessons, needs, weather, etc. I had no memory of what one week, let alone two, felt like when it was spent on my terms.
This trip has been more of a gift than I could ever have imagined. Maui is a very special place, and I'm not sure that this time would have had the same effect if it were spent elsewhere. I have hiked, biked, slept, read, walked, gone swimming, knit, run, sat and eaten as my body asked. It turns out that my self has been neglected for quite some time now; waiting patiently and quietly for me to return to it. As most mothers know, we tend to lose a bit of what makes us us in the beautiful process of becoming more than we were.
Having children has made me a better version of myself, but I discovered here that every so often I need more than just a day, or even a weekend, to remember what makes me feel good about my own being; my own human-ness. Watching families on the beach here was beautiful...naked children and dogs played together in the waves, and they could just be. There is a general feeling of ease here...ease with ones body, children, life, friends...
The beauty is everywhere you look, and affects every one of the senses. Last night I walked barefoot down the sidewalk after dinner, in the dark. It was warm, and the breeze was sweet and earthy. How often do I allow myself to do that at home? Well, actually, I am frequently outside after dinner doing animal chores in one form or another, but the act reminded me to do it more often. And to pay attention to the necessity of the action in regard to its effect on my soul, rather than its function.
After that respite, that period of self care, I feel as if my capacity for love and the ways in which I show it to others, has changed. I am more patient, flexible, and giving of my love. My tank has been refilled, and I realize now how very empty that tank was. Mothers must take care of themselves and each other. I see only now that occasionally spending time apart from our children and families (especially if you are of the homeschooling crowd!) makes us better parents.
What a gift from those I love, and I am so infinitely grateful for it.
Today we are hunkered down, celebrating this first steady snowfall, among other events, with baking, drinking chai and hot chocolate, decorating and general merriment. It's beautiful, this white blanket, and these unexpected snow days mean that suddenly the schedule is clear. Clear of all commitments except those of our family to enjoy these slow days.
We are also celebrating two new arrivals to the farm. These Shetland ladies are not necessarily a planned part of our flock expansion, but they needed a home, and how could we say no to these faces?
Mother and daughter, they have both been bred to Finn rams, and so we'll have more lambs to look forward to in the Spring. They came to us as 'Emma' and 'Maple', and I think that suits us just fine.
They are both very shy, as compared to our outgoing Finns, so I've been trying to be near them as much as I can these past few days.
I do hope that you all are enjoying this day as much as we are. I am feeling so very grateful for all we have in our lives...the ordinary, and the extraordinary. They really are the same thing, are they not?
I have thought, for some time, that what I was doing was "enough". That working closely with the earth, providing food for my family, shopping locally, being careful with our precious resources, honoring our ancestors...that doing all these things, and more, and teaching the importance of these actions to my children, was not only just a basic requirement of my mothering instincts, but "enough". Today, I feel differently. Today, and recently, my sadness for our earth and its protectors has overwhelmed me. How can I simultaneously be so filled with frustration, sadness, fear, longing, anger and love? So very much love, for those brave people who in many cases have risked or given up jobs, school, families, and more for this calling. Though the immediate case may be to protect their indigenous rights and spiritual spaces, they have time and again been the ones to stand up for what is truly right for our entire earth. And have time and again, had taken what is rightfully theirs, despite promises and treaties.
I realize, there is hope in all of this. An opportunity for many people to come together for a common cause. And I see it. It's tangible, this collective concern, about an issue that affects every single one of us. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, but quite possible in my lifetime, and most certainly my children's. This dependency on fossil fuels, combined with ignorance and greed, will eventually cost us all our lives as we know them.
And here I am. Overwhelmed by grief and love, and this urge to be there helping. And anger that other people aren't angry; people that have the means to do more than I. No amount of knitting can help this cause right now, or calm me down, and every able bodied person could be doing at least one more thing to help preserve the very essence of what we are made of.