Tuesday, February 4, 2020

gather wood and sit

I am grateful for the mild weather most of January gave us. There wasn’t a week of nights 20 below zero. There wasn’t a storm that caused trees to fall or ice coat the farm like a test. There’s been days in the 30s and 40s and mild snowfalls and I have been able to hunt with the bird, do ground work with the horses, and yesterday I even went for a short run outside. Today I hope to walk a 5k with Friday and pick up some hay after the morning client work online. It’s been this every day.

But what I want, what I hope for? I hope for the kind of security that lets me start planning for spring. The kind of luck that lets me start planning spring chick and seed orders. The kind of luck that lets me sigh and not be behind on the mortgage and scared of losing my home or being scolded by strangers for not doing things the way they have. I hope for the kind of luck that starts saving for a new vehicle. I hope, mostly, for the kind of luck that encourages and invigorates me to write, draw, teach, and make the things that bring the luck I need. I don’t expect luck in the form of any kind of magical gifts. But what I need is the will to make things happen. I think that is what has been lost most of all in these hard winters. The desire to find the version of me that never gave up on her dream. That always figured out the next bill, or the next step, and rewarded herself with jars of strawberry jam she canned or a quiche from her hens’ eggs.

That person is still here but she’s cold as hell. And she’s trying to gather the energy to make it through the month safely, and it makes all the creative energy I muster and have to go towards other people’s work - logo and pet portraits and art - not my own. And at the end of the day I just want the lights to stay on and the house to remain warm. It’s scary here. And I worry writing about that prolonged scariness will just invite more criticism or the same “Just get a job!? Emails I always get from people that don’t realize I do have several part-time jobs because I don’t write about them here in detail.

Mostly I don’t write here because I’m not at the place yet where I can be excited about chicks and seeds and I am not sure I will. I don’t know what will happen to me or this farm. I don’t know if I will sell this book. I don’t know what March will be like. But I know today I can work on the people I have planed to work for. I can promote what I have to offer. I can take care of my animals, my home, my body, and be there for my friends. I can do the kind work of being a person not interested in hurting anyone else. I can be patient with people. I can gather wood and sit quietly.

I am not sure these are the posts you want to read. But I am still here.