the farm is back

It is back to the days of working past supper-time, muddy boots (little ones and big ones), muddy kitchen floors, sowing seeds, seedlings germinating in their little cells in our tiny greenhouse, and extended light in the evenings. It feels like the farm is back. Of course, this little piece of land never went anywhere during the winter, instead it was resting, recuperating, and waiting for its rebirth. And so was I. I looked at the corner of one greenhouse today and saw a few nettles popping up, peeking up from beneath the sand. It brought joy into my heart.

I can't describe the feeling(s) that come to me when I see Catalpa wandering around outside again after the long winter - in dirt, sand, clay, with sticks and leaves and left-over squash that dried during the winter, with the biggest smile on his face. It is wonderful, the process of all of us, coming out of our winter skin.

Exactly three years ago (almost) my friend spent an afternoon with Catalpa and I, he was only about two weeks old at the time. Today I was so reminiscent of that day with my first baby, being such a young and little mama, as she took snaps of Mira and I. Sometimes it seems like so much has changed around me and and within me, but there are things that remain (somewhat) constant -- The cycles and rhythms of the year express themselves differently, but the pattern remains a constant, something to savour and celebrate with each passing.

This will be an interesting year indeed -- our second year farming here, life with a three year-old, many strings pulling us from different directions. I can't wait for the long, long days spent mostly outside, the ache my muscles will feel when I come in for dinner, the wonder in the eyes of both of our children as they explore wild things in the open air, and all of the friends coming in and out -- lending a hand, sharing a meal around the table. It all sounds quite romantic, doesn't it? There are certainly hard times and difficulties, but I always return to this -- abundance. There is just so much. We are enough.

Happy growing season 2015, everyone. I am looking forward to sharing the ins and outs here.

c.

on our way into autumn and the coming of baby dos

Being a parent involves having your heart ripped to shreds over and over again. It is ridiculous how vulnerable and overwhelming it is -- in good ways, in ways that challenge you and push you to grow - grow - grow. You just can't believe you can love something so much. 

I frankly do not tell my parents that I love them enough. I am only two years into this being a parent thing, and only beginning to understand. I am just skimming the surface ... 

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I can't believe this human growing inside me is going to come out ... in 4 to 6 to perhaps 8 weeks maximum. Halloween baby? I can't wait to meet them. They seem so mysterious to me. I can't wait to see Catalpa interact with a sibling. I know I would love it if Catalpa were my sibling. 

I have changed a lot during my second pregnancy -- morphed in many ways. I don't write much or play music. I don't stay up late... at all. I don't go out in the evenings, and I am not surrounded by constant peer support like I was during my pregnancy with Catalpa. I spend most of my time with Catalpa, doing farm-work, cleaning the house, cooking, making grocery lists, responding to emails, canning every bit of produce, and squeezing in sleep whenever I can. 

If I have a spare moment I am mostly interested in spending it doing... absolutely nothing. I would like to just sit, maybe sip tea, maybe stare at something for awhile, day-dream, nothing else. I think this is a symptom of life with a toddler or life growing food or life being pregnant while having a toddler, or just some kind of cocktail mixture of all of that. Going places and doing things that I used to find enjoyable just pale in comparison to moments sitting in silence, alone, at rest. I long for.... moments of nothing. 

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It almost frosted here last night, which would only mean losing all our peppers and tomatoes. Everything else we nestled under row cover or harvested. It didn't happen. Today was beautiful and cool. The sun was the autumn sun - warm while feeling further away. Tyler worked on finishing the second greenhouse while I tried to can a batch of pepper jelly. Attempting a canning project when you are too tired is like the number one rule in canning -- always give yourself enough time, you cannot rush when canning (2 hours in my opinion) and you really must be alert. The pepper jelly didn't jell and it spilled over turning two burners into completely blackened sugary marshmallow goop. Oh well. Now I have "Sweet & Spicy Pepper Sauce" which I think would be perfect poured over pulled pork tacos.

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This winter is going to be beautiful. I am not excited that Tyler has to get a full-time winter job somewhere. I wish he could stay home and our farm income could support us year-round, but we are not there yet. I just want to cuddle with the new baby, bundle Catalpa up and throw him outside, and when I am feeling up to it go to all those winter farm workshops and conferences, cook dinners, make salve and tinctures, and get lost in seed catalogs. 

But first we have autumn -- the decay -- the most striking time of year (for me). 

to the mountains and back

in Colorado last year

We've been back for a week from a short, challenging, yet relaxing trip to Southwestern Colorado - the San Juan Forest near Fish Creek. I realized, as I baked in the sun like a lizard on a rock one afternoon, how disconnected I felt from my pregnancy and surroundings. I just couldn't transition from Iowa life to mountain life as easily as before. My first two days there I felt excited to see familiar plants, but my brain could not remember correct identifications. I became easily frustrated. I was hazy and tired and thirsty. I didn't read much or write anything, all I could do was sit, listen, stare at the water, and walk short distances on dusty trails. My energy outside of caring for my body and Catalpa was non-existent. I was drained.

This new human has finished its first half of life inside my womb, they are kicking like crazy, they are developing so many things and becoming so many things, and most of my days I am rushing around like a busy modern person out here. I am sorry baby.

I want the slow life.

Sometimes I feel like this little human is so much on a journey of its own (despite my housing it inside my body). This is not something I felt or thought while Catalpa was inside me. Is this a normal second child worry? Will they feel ignored? Will I give enough time to both? Will I listen, really, really, really listen to them (in the way I long to)?

What can bring comfort during such a fast-paced time -- Turning off the radio when I am in the car, sitting in the pasture, making a meal with Catalpa's help knowing it will turn out to be what it is, choosing to ignore the pull of internet communication, choosing to be at peace with isolation and knowing that friends are somehow near even though I rarely connect with them, reading in bed, waking up slowly with a lot of kisses, picking flowers, dreaming.

These next twenty or more or less weeks will come swiftly. I know they will. May they be filled with moments where I can connect with the beauty of this journey.

a little bit of spring

spring

Everything is growing and blooming around here. I am tired yet filled with energy. We are usually out planting or prepping or whatever else needs to happen around this little farmstead until dusk. We eat dinner whenever our bellies grumble to a point we cannot ignore and Catalpa is literally covered in dirt. We slip into the bath just to scrub off what we can before crashing into bed with books and cuddles and songs and stories. Then the moon comes out, and the spring breeze makes our curtains flow in and out like the rising and falling of a chest. Catalpa snores. After our bedtime rituals are successful we sneak out to have a moment, finish a project, clean the dishes in the sink, or we give in to our bodies that are begging us for more sleep and stay in bed.

The spring harvest is always so sweet -- greens galore, herbs that overwinter growing vigorously and stronger than last year, garlic popping up (even though you are nervous it will not), spring flowers, and ... radishes! Radishes in every color. It always seems so odd that these tiny bright pink and purple beauties just pop out of the ground from the tiniest seed. I am living on salads and sunlight. The nettles are now up to my hip, the mulberries were hit by frost, but I am begging them to set some fruit. I cannot live without mulberry cobbler. The elderberries are surrounded by nettles, which will make harvesting flowers & fruits interesting and memorable, I suppose.

There is much to say about creature friends; I spotted the tiniest snake the color of sand with a few black spots the other day. Ticks are out now. Bats have become friends, a few sneaking into our house in the evening, helping us with a little bug clean-up. Today I spotted two woodpeckers with bright red heads, chatting, it seemed. And yesterday, during a difficult moment I watched two hawks dancing before finding comfort high up in the cottonwood tree. A week ago Tyler found a rare prairie skink.

I am a spring being. I was born in spring, and it certainly has colored who I am, how I think, how I tick. The rain, the wind, the storms, and every little green poking up through soil reminds me that we made it, we're still alive, we're still breathing, and we can come out from our burrows again.

mamahood part two

I can't say this has been easy. No, in fact, I have been struggling and fighting with the quick and rapid changes my body is making to support another human being. It has all happened quicker, and according to me (how I've "felt" it) with less grace than the time before. I am stretched and achy and grouchy and still wondering why those of us with uteruses have to feel so crappy (much of the time) when something so wonderful is happening inside us.

I decided about two weeks ago it was time to start celebrating. Frankly, I haven't been doing much of that, and admitting it makes me a bit sad. It isn't because I don't want to celebrate, but more because I just...don't...have the energy (nor time). Also, I had a lot of support and friends living in close proximity to me during my first pregnancy, this time is much different. There is much to celebrate and the anticipation of meeting another person, of seeing and touching and being so close with this new child, makes me feel crazy. I cannot wait. (I can wait). Also, I am returning to a time when I can be very, very in touch with my instinctual self. Yes! There are so many things to celebrate.

It is hard to connect and listen, to hum and sing and sit in the prairie grass with this little human like I did so often when Catalpa was growing inside me. It is hard because I am chasing a two-year-old, working 45 miles away from home 3 or more days a week, and I am (despite my best efforts) surrounded by a constant to-do-list when home aka "farming." I must savour whatever time I can spend "connecting" or being present with my current growing-another-human status.

I'm glad to be back here. I need outlets, creative outlets, me-time outlets, self-care outlets, story-telling outlets, a little bit of therapy outlets. You know what I mean? This has always been enjoyable -- sharing, telling stories, talking about dreams and the dreamy world I am a part of. I am happy to be telling my story from Hancock, Iowa -- because being here right now is exactly where I want to be, and growing food for people is just what I want to be doing.

hello december, hello farm, hello again

I decided to write again. I need to write again. For Catalpa and for myself. We are in yet another transition (as we always are, no?) but this one involves moving again, changing homes, towns, states actually. We are moving across the river to Iowa. Right now we are living in three places, I am uprooted and tired, and frankly, not good at this "no home" kind of life. I admire those who are. I can travel, I have traveled for long periods before, but at this point in my life I need dirt, a desk with paint brushes, a clean and ready-to-go for any meal kitchen, and my own bed sheets. I also need two warm, snoring, animals sleeping next to me.

I want to jot these times down, lay them out, so that I can share them with Catalpa later, if there is a time of interest. I also... want to write about the farm, the land, how we got there, what it feels like, the challenges, the frustrations, the growth, and my passion for a simpler kind of living. Something felt, given, and shared. Meals around a table, guests sleeping over, vegetables and eggs distributed and taken home, and days spent playing outside. Days that feel long, full, spent, and overflowing with just enough.

Botna Burrow -- that is what this little place is called to us now. A little less than a dozen acres, a bunch of shabby buildings and two fancier barn structures, nettles, mulberries, box elder bugs, and a little ol' Iowa town full of surprises.

It is December 1st and I am about to bury myself in farm house renovations, along with continual travel. We have about a dollar and a dime, and will be doing whatever we can from scratch. There are holes and walls to patch, kitchen cupboards to mouse proof, old vents to close up, and missing door handles. I pray that I make it through this month, through snow, projects, and farm planning, through holidays, board meetings, two jobs, and farewell Lincoln gatherings. I hate myself when I am this busy. It isn't the way I want things to be, but right now we will buckle down and do it. Next month we will leave the country for awhile, and hopefully there I will reconnect with some kind of rhythm that suits me far better than all this running around. I am nearly a chicken with my head cut off.

On December 20th we will be on our way to completely moved in at the farm, and on December 25th I hope to have the most beautiful, relaxing evening staring at the stars and sipping hot cider after it is all over.

I am glad we made it here. This last year in Lincoln has been something. My heart was pretty broken leaving so many close relationships to move to Lincoln,but I learned a lot about farming, I learned a lot about myself, I watched and learned as Catalpa grew and grew right before my eyes. While feeling distant, I also had the opportunity for some traveling this summer that I am forever thankful for. I got to reconnect (even if for a short while) with very close friends. I said goodbye to a lot of things, and hello to new things -- like watching Catalpa pick raspberries and blackberries and thousands of mulberries, running through prairie grasses together, smelling prairie flowers, and swimming in lakes and rivers. We had one hell of a summer.

We will end this year with a bang, a hurrah, and somehow we will make it through to our new farm, new community, and a whole new year of wanderings.

upward & onward,
c.

hoo hallow part 1

i miss the way our pillows and sheets smelled in the summertime
kind of musty from drying them on the line
a little woody and smoky
leftover from the previous night's backyard fire
like the breeze flowing through all the open windows
and the scent of the maple outside our big white painted window
with chipping paint around the edges

i ache for the summertime in a deep way
even though today the sun warmed my face
and made my palms sweaty
as i drove with our baby asleep in the backseat

and i cannot feel anything about summer
without entering the closed doors
that keep safe the memories of
our first house

i've forgotten the bonfires
the kitchen smells -- bacon, rotting compost, toaster oven, coffee
the dusty feet bottoms
the nights i slept alone in my own bedroom
at our first house

i've forgotten the endless laundry piles
the warm cobblestone
the glass in the church parking lot on the corner
the mornings and evenings spent in the garden nearby
the secret handholds and kisses shared on walks
the day i spoke the first words
about baby catalpa

i've forgotten the chaos
the loneliness
but not the anger

i forget it all
until i mourn
just a little bit

a collection

today i organized some things in my room. i mostly moved things from place to place. here i will write about some tiny and beautiful things i have collected that live together, like a family. they were once on top of my bookshelf, but now they are on top of my nightstand -- a small wooden table with three drawers. one drawer for pens, scraps, a red glove i love but can never find its pair, glue stick, sunglasses, lip balm and other small miscellaneous objects that just need to be kept in a drawer nearby. the second drawer is for thick socks. the third (the bottom one) for small art pieces and letters i'm currently working on.

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three hazelnut shells filled with wax and a small wick. they are candles. ali made them for me and gave them to me this year on my very first mother's day, which was also my birthday. i don't know if i will ever light them. they seem too beautiful the way they are. if i did, it would have to be for something very important.

an elephant carving in the shape of an egg, a small oval with curious blue eyes, from my grandpa dean.

a small log that i can't call a stick because of its thickness. it looks like bark and is very weathered. there is an old man carved into the front of it. he knows things i do not know. also by grandpa.

a pinecone that i picked up at the cemetery in the northwest where my grandmother is buried (and my grandfather). i noticed it on the day she was buried after my family made a circle and said a prayer and cried tears and shared smiles. i promised to never lose it, but many times i have found it under the bed and once i almost smashed it. since bringing it here it has bloomed, opened, yet remained small.

half a walnut shell. inside is a perfect heart shape. this i noticed while on a walk right after catalpa was born and i knew it was for him.

an acorn that is small and tan. when tyler slept my room last late summer and early autumn i would find acorns on my bed. his pockets were full of them and onto my quilt and under my pillows they would spill. for a while i was certain he spent his days with squirrels.

a dark brown nut that is a mystery. i don't know its story and i don't know its type. i just can't remember either. what i do know is that i like the way my thumb fits on the flat surface of one of its sides when i hold it in my right hand.

a deep blue and black shell from angie. it came by way of the pacific. it has barnacles like hearts sometimes have barnacles. angie told me that heart barnacles are okay, because barnacles are also beautiful. this element is interesting. it is the only one from the sea and not a tree.

a small black statue. it is of a tall bird, perhaps a heron or whatever long-legged bird one might want it to be when they look at it. my grandma told me it reminded her of me and sent me home with it one day after a visit in cedar creek nebraska.

a "two-minute owl" carved in soft wood. (you guessed it) carved in two minutes. it is three-fourths the size of my left pinkie. another grandpa dean creation.

here is the one that sits in the center of this interesting collection; the red one-eyed horse. i know nothing of its origin. it is made also of some smooth wood. my memory recalls my grandmother telling me it is a swedish something or other, which is odd because we are not swedish (that i know of). red horse wears a white saddle decorated with green trees and blue hearts. red horse also keeps secrets and gives me some kind of strength when i look at her. the kind of strength you feel inside your chest.