lady in red

It happened. For the first time since my divorce, I heard that song on the radio.

My ex husband always said it was "our song", but I never really thought it was.  I loved the song when it was first released, but something about it made me want to keep it for myself. Maybe it was because I always knew something was lacking in the way he saw me. Maybe it was because he was always in the band when there was dancing and so we never danced "cheek to cheek".  Maybe it was because he called me a lot of things, but "lady" wasn't one of them. Maybe it was because some of the lines reminded me of how he wanted me as an "escort"- ie: arm candy so that he wouldn't have to go alone to events where his co-workers came in couples. But still, he referred to it as ours whenever he heard it. I came to not even like the song out of resentment.

I can usually recognize an 80's and early 90's song by the third note of the tune. It's a game we play in the car, in which I'm the only contestant but the children get a kick out of seeing how long it takes me, and if I am correct, before the title appears on the digital read of the dash or the lyrics begin. This song was no exception; in fact, I think I caught it from the first chord.
As soon as I heard the chord, I froze and I had to catch my breath.
My first reaction was turn it off; I did not need a flashback while I was driving. I experienced one of those flashbacks from my marriage this week. I don't even remember the trigger this time, but I could hear the name calling in my head which spiraled into self degradation. When this happens while I'm driving, the only escape is to pray aloud and/or crank up the radio. When the radio is the trigger, that leaves me with one option.
This time, however, I left the radio on and sang along. I listened to and held on to every word and the smile that started on my face from the sound of Chris DeBurgh's raspy voice slowly spread to my heart. And by the end of the song, I was holding on to every word and feeling every chord..
and 'he' wasn't there. Not only was there no flashback, but there was no thought of Tom at all. In my mind I was on the dance floor, and he wasn't.

But  I can see myself dancing with someone. This man and I create our own rhythm, as he patiently awaits my next move as only a gentleman can. In my imagination, the lover with whom I am dancing loves me for who I am, not just for whom he wants me to be for him. He sees no one else in the room. He's not dancing with me so that others can see us together; he's dancing with me because he can't imagine a life without me. He breathes me in as he looks into my eyes, seeing me for the lady that I am.
And as the melody fades on the radio, the song becomes  my song, ready to be shared.


Lady in Red

to better pasture

Who needs a lawnmower?

sheeeeeeeeep!!!!!!!! and a donkey.

It wasn't easy, but H was able to, with the help of our neighbor who pulled his trailer to Hempstead,  load Ringo the donkey onto the trailer with the sheep. 

He has proven to be a true guardian for the sheep, and we're thankful for him. 

Since we chose the sheep three months ago, they have begun to grow a beautiful coat of wool assuring us that we chose wisely. 

After research - including talking with the keeper of the farm from whom she bought the sheep - my homesteading daughter ordered a flexible fence that we'll move every twenty-four hours, which will not only provide the animals with fresh tall grass ever day, but also help to prevent them from getting parasites (in theory) by giving them a clean pasture. She has attached a solar powered battery which electrifies the wire with a click of a button.

When the fence is not turned 'on', our ram attempts to find tastier grass on the other side.

We have developed a good pattern and work well as a team to move the fence each day. This team work did not happen automatically.
The second day with our new borders, Harmony waited until two children and I  were on our way out the door before she asked us to move the fence. I was dressed for a doctor's appointment and lunch date and no intention of going out to the pasture to move livestock, but I allowed her a few minutes to borrow the siblings who were supposed to accompany me. "A few minutes" turned into almost half an hour, and ended with loose livestock on the property. My younger daughter's appointment was not to be canceled, so she and I left while sheep and donkey were roaming.

I awaited texts from home, watching my phone like a hawk, begging our guardian angels to get those animals into the fenced area. After a few hours, the children whom I had left at home finally corralled them.

I arrived home to find the portable fence in our side yard instead of the back pasture. The children had indeed corralled them, not by leading them to the fence, but by circling them with the fencing. In doing so, they also corralled a few trees. The fence has only one gate, so our trick was to move the fence around the trees with livestock still corralled.

This is where grace came in.
The animals were loosed because the young people were not communicating. One person had the idea of how to move the animals, the rest had no clue how to move them, and the first person expected the others to read her mind.

I gathered four of the children around the fencing. I spoke and moved in baby steps, directing each move as though I was deactivating a bomb. They obliged every step, and quietly and carefully, watched and took each small step and motion I asked them to take.
Not once did I raise my voice, and not once did anyone argue. Grace.
This day- those moments- come back to me like a wave and wash over me when I get caught up in the squabbles and the little failures of the day. I know we can do this, because we did this.

Before long, we had three sheep and one donkey moved to a suitable place.
Now, each day, my homestead daughter and at least one sibling (or more) goes out to the pasture and moves the portable fence to give them animals fresh grazing space. I help most of the time, but they don't need me every time.

I wish I could say that about all the other challenges that have been thrown at my young blessings. My step-by-step help and advice isn't always as well received, and when it is, it is often only because they- like with the sheep moving- have already tried their own way and are desperate for my alternative. It's difficult enough to watch them fall and get hurt while they're learning to walk,  and then navigate through the emotional challenges of growing, divorce, mental illness and all the other crosses they've been asked to help Jesus carry. But when they reject me- either intentionally or unintentionally- my heart crumbles and I lose focus of purpose. I can't say they don't need me; I know they do. Often I have to stand back and wait for them to fall and sometimes get hurt before they know it and can accept it.

After two weeks here, the ram was showing signs of anemia. It took two of us and a shepherd's crook to catch him and look closely at his eyelids in order to diagnose the problem. I was so afraid I was going to hurt him when I grabbed him while he tried to run from me. But I had to grab him; I knew what was best for him and we couldn't wait for him to get sicker. As days have gone by, the ram was easier to catch in order to treat. I hope it is because he has learned to trust us, and not because he has become a weaker animal.
Sometimes getting my children to do what I know is best is like walking around a flexible fence, taking baby steps, talking them through it,  and sometimes it's like wrestling a young ram to the ground.
I have hopes that they will become more and more receptive to my help, without becoming docile and weak.

At least they can now move livestock around the pasture without me.

one step closer

What's better than a luxurious breakfast with fine china and crystal?

Breakfast with fine china and crystal followed by a visit to a sheep farm, of course!

We were gifted by a cancer support group with a weekend away to a place of our choice- a family get-away to rest and relax and enjoy each other. After exploring the Bellville Castle, we spent a beautiful day and a peaceful night in a cabin nearby. The cherry on top was the breakfast in the main house where we were treated like princesses and princes.

To make the most of our mini vacation, we came home through Hempstead and my second oldest daughter- my homesteader- chose and made a down payment on two ewes and a ram. She could tell you all about why she chose this breed and how she decided what and how many of everything...
but I'm the driver and I just do what she asks when it comes to her farming decisions.

We all fell in love with this donkey. His name is Ringo and I wished so much to pack him up and bring him with us. I'm not sure what we liked more: his friendly disposition or the way he picked up a dog and threw it  when it got too close to the sheep.
It turns out the owner didn't appreciate the latter, so he offered the donkey free if we could load him when we came back for the sheep.

Back at Shamblewood,  it's time to prepare for bringing livestock home. On two different occasions some men from our home school community and parish drove out to our place and helped us with pounding the posts and attaching the rolled fencing. We were able to use old telephone post polls that were left from old fence that had rusted. rotted, or otherwise fallen apart. My oldest son had a few trees to remove using an ax since our chainsaw was out of commission. 

With more research and shopping, my darling homesteader chose the proper gates for the space between the shed and the property border fence and for a small space at the other end of the pasture for walking through.

 

It didn't take long for the vines to find their way up the welded wire. It won't be a problem once the sheep move in; it simply adds variety to their diet.

Soon I'll be sharing images and stories of the new hoofed borders. It's difficult for me to believe we have come to his place in our lives. It was a pipe dream at one time; we had talked about finding property and creating a home and a working farm. And now even though it's actually happening - albeit slowly- I walk around in disbelief and concern that we can actually pull it off.
But my daughter is determined and, following her lead on this matter, I have faith that we can make this happen.

Shamblewood growing

Much has been happening on our property and in our home. I'm hoping to catch up and make a better habit of recording and sharing the progress in both image and journal.

When we moved on to this property, we thought we'd have to demolish the shed. But H was determined to save it. She 'encouraged' her siblings to help her move out the stored (rotting) wood

Much of the wood was either moldy or rotted and needed to be burned. My younger son was eager to strike the match and tend to the blaze.
Some of the planks are salvageable, and I hope to use them for projects. There seems to be a market for large flat wood pieces with motivational sayings and scripture verses, so my plan is to sand down several pieces and try my hand at painting. I have no idea what the previous owners who left the piles had in mind for this wood, but it was doing no good piled up in the shed.

It took some heavy lifting and laughing to clean out the space; D enlisted a friend to help him carry the several broken toilets that had been thrown away and forgotten in the dark corners.  That's an experience he won't likely forget.
H then swept, wiped, aired out the space, and then spread pebbles on the floor of the tack room.
She did all this when I was away from home. I called her to check on her day, and her reply was, "I just spread gravel on the floor of the tack room." When I left the house that morning, we had no gravel; while I was gone, she had ordered it, paid for it, had it delivered and carried it wheel barrow load by wheel barrow load across two acres to the tack room and spread it!

Finished tack room floor

can you see the little pink ear? 

We chased this little critter out a few times, but he keeps coming back. As long has stays out of the duck food and alfalfa we can live in harmony.



Behind the shed and tack room is a large hole that fills with water during rains. We had originally planned to fill the hole with dirt, but my second oldest daughter had a better idea.

We borrowed a water pump from our parish and H once again headed the effort to pump out the water and then cleared out the junk dumped there by previous owners. Found was a number of light bulbs, various piece of garbage and a few more railroad ties that D had not yet pulled out because they were under water.

Before all the water was drained, the little one gathered as many tadpoles as she could and transferred them to the permanent pond on the property.

After the water was completely drained, H then spread a few loads of the gravel on the bottom of the water hole. I didn't get a photo before it rained again and covered the gravel, but at least now we know there is no trash under the water.
Our original plan was to fill in this hole with dirt and try to forget about the trash, but my daughter was determined to fix the problem and not just cover it. Thanks to her planning and diligence, we now have a 'sink' which gives the rain water a place to collect and prevent soggy areas and flooding in the pasture and tack room. Our next step is to plant proper foliage that will help keep the rain water clean and prevent mosquitos from using it as a breeding ground until we get our ducks which will eat the pests.

To think that we almost chose to rip apart something of value- something that just took some careful planning, and a few days of hard work and attention to be made usable again. As homesteaders, this is a valuable lesson to learn, and something we'll need to apply over and over again in order to become more independent. As a mother, I'm proud that my child knew to do this without my orders or even my prodding. She had it written somewhere on her heart and in her mind to find the value in what is in front of her, work with what she has and find the resources to fill in the gaps and get the job done. 

deep in yellow

I spent the morning in the garden. I planted sunflowers.
When I moved into this house, I envisioned my favorite golden flower growing in the yard.
Determined to see the bold yellow I remember of my drives through Umbria, I painted my house yellow, and held on to the hope that I would see the blooms that inspired it.

I tried last year to plant them, but I made the mistake of sowing the seeds directly in the ground. I expected those dry shells to shoot roots down into the garden next to my bulbs and grow strong stalks along side the grasses and ground covers, tall enough to bear heavy brown centered blooms. I had to plant them somewhat shallow, or they seedlings might never have made their way to the surface. Most of them sprouted, but immediately shriveled up or fell over and couldn't grow tall enough to blossom. The little sprouts were too weak to brave the weather, and the roots and bases of the stalks weren't deep enough to hold the weight of the growing leaves. I had maybe two pathetic little flowers that lay on the ground to bloom.
I also planted bulbs in the fall, but although they grew and bloomed this spring, because I did not plant them deep enough, the stalks fell over and lay on the ground before blooming. Those bulbs will need to be dug up and re-planted. The stalks will take longer to grow next year, but the waiting will produce stronger stalks that will hold the blooms up off the ground. The effort I put in will be worth the larger blooms.

It's been almost four years since my separation, and over a year since my final divorce.

The first year after the separation, I focused on survival. I was still married; he just wasn't there anymore.  I tried to keep life as 'normal' as I could in order to keep a stable home for my children. We stayed in the same house, we went to the same church, and we kept our schedule as close to what it was before their father was arrested. My healing came in the form of dealing with separation, and managing life without another adult in the house. There was little that was apparent to my personal growth.  I was shedding pain and anger, but living one day at a time, nearly emotionally dormant, with nothing being planted for the future.

After a year, when I had pushed and prayed past the anger toward my former spouse, and learned to forgive him,  I made the decision - with the advice and support of a holy priest- to divorce and file a petition for a declaration of nullity.  I started noticing when people paid attention to me, telling me I deserved respect. I was beginning to see where Tom ended and I began- a line that had been blurred to me for the past twenty-six years.

I literally grew half an inch. Was I just standing up straighter?

I started sowing the seeds of personal growth. I was afraid to plant them too deep though, for fear they would just lay dormant and buried and so most of what emerged from the seeds was too frail when they broke through the surface. The relationships I tried to cultivate tried to bloom before they had strong roots and they either shriveled up, or fell over lifeless. I knew I needed to go deeper.

This year, I got wise. I took the time to plant the seeds in a starter box. I watered the seeds, covered them and left them to germinate. When the first seedling appeared, I uncovered them and moved them to a window.

 

I kept them watered, turned the box  when needed so the tiny stalks grew straight, and left them to grow.



 

Then I planted each seedling in rich soil, in a large pot, putting the pod deep into the pot, covering most of the stalk. Much of the growth was then covered up, and couldn't be seen. But the plants were strengthened by soil surrounding the stalks, and the depth of the roots.

When the weather turned warmer, I put the pots out in the sun, but I didn't plant the seedlings right away.

Only when the stalks were what I thought to be tall enough and strong enough did I transplant them into the garden. Then, I planted them even deeper than they were in the pots, making sure the roots had a good hold in the dirt, and the seedlings would have plenty of support for growing tall. I added more soil, covering even more of the growth of each seedling.

I've unearthed some deeper understanding of my former spouse's issues. This new understanding has brought me a great deal more empathy and even more peace. I also have more patience now for slow and steady growth.

The bulbs I dug up last year and planted deeper take longer to get the surface, but the stalks are strong, and the blooms are worth the wait. Maybe now they are deep enough to divide and multiply. The sunflower seedlings, though still smaller than the surrounding flowers in the garden, are growing straight and steadily. There won't be anything to show for the tedious work put into them for quite some time, but they show promise of an Umbrian garden, with tall strong stalks, deep roots, and lots and lots of happy, golden yellow.

 

funny Valentine

Champagne, a candy heart that says, "Let's kiss" and a red rose.
Candlelit dinner, soft jazzy music playing ....
I lean over my dinner..

....and laugh with my daughter who is sitting across the table from me.
Valentine's day has never been one of my favorite holidays. I have had two memorable ones. One was in high school when my friend, a local radio celebrity, heard me say that I had never had a boyfriend on Valentine's day. He showed up after my play rehearsal on the night of Valentine's day with a box of chocolates, flowers and a Valentine card that wouldn't fit through his car window.
The other was when I received a basket of live flowering plants and a card that tugged so much at  my heart strings that I can't part with it even if this man never speaks to me again, as it contains a prayer beseeching God to show me that I am worthy of being loved - a sentiment which I believed  for a while.

Up ahead on the beltway I could see that the traffic was bumper to bumper. The exit was clear and the service road traffic moving so I made my choice, and exited right.
Two miles later I was bumper to bumper with other cars on the service road moving more slowly than the beltway, and there I was fuming with my choice. About twenty minutes later, a firetruck approached me from the rear. I moved over, allowing it to pass by, but as I tried to regain my place in the traffic line,the driver of the sedan behind the truck not only lurched forward preventing my entry, but laughed at me and gestured antagonistically with his arms. 
Already feeling emotionally weak, I let his actions get under my skin and rattle me. However, I didn't let loose with the sobbing tears until I saw what the driver did at the next traffic light. This man, the same man who was not only rude to me a tenth of a mile before but looked me in the eye and mocked and laughed at me, put down  his window and handed money to a man standing on the corner holding a sign asking for help. I wasn't crying because a stranger was rude to me. I cried because of the memories this stranger awoke in my head. 
I spent twenty-five years with a man who could call me vulgar names until I was crying on the floor and then take his coat off and give it to a homeless man the same afternoon. Seeing how generous he was to others made me think that I was the problem. I knew he had goodness in him and wanted to be kind, so when he was unkind to me, I thought it must be my fault. I believed it had to be because of something I said or did that caused him to behave the way he did. Of course it wasn't my fault that my former spouse could not control his rage or his abusive tongue. I know that thinking I deserved it is neither constructive nor even true. But I don't yet have a new truth to replace the voice telling me I am at fault when things go wrong.  I am like a child who has learned a language badly, with mispronunciation and bad grammar.  I know what I'm saying is the wrong way to say it, but I have no one with whom I can practice the correct way and so I'm stuck speaking it wrong. No amount of telling me that the words I'm saying are mispronounced will help me; until I learn the language the way it is supposed to be spoken and have someone with whom I can practice, I feel like a bumbling fool, wondering what I said wrong, or what I did wrong that caused a relationship to end, or made a person walk away and how I can fix it.

I keep that Valentine card  in a drawer. Although looking at it from time to time and thinking about a time of being loved makes me smile, the words of hope that were once so meaningful to me are now simply printed letters, no different than rules of grammar of a language I am still trying to learn.  I think about my beautiful Valentine date, my daughter, and at times I just want to keep silent, and not speak at all because she is still learning this language, and I'm afraid she will pick up my mispronounced words and my bad grammar. I know it's my job to teach her the true beautiful language that is our mother tongue, but years of bad practice has left me mute at times and a cruel teacher at others. She recognizes the bad grammar, as I do. She also knows how it's supposed to sound, how it can beautifully flow from the tongue. I only hope that she hasn't heard so much of the damaged language that she won't be able to speak it when she finds her own Valentine, and that her card will be much more to her than a book of grammar to be tucked away in a drawer.

kintsukuroi

It was for my sixteenth birthday that my parents bought me that mug. It was big and white, and on it were my name and a rainbow. The mug followed me to college, and into my adult life.  I don’t remember how many years into my marriage I was or how many children we had, but I remember vividly the feelings of fear, of dread and of shock rolling over me very ordered, yet seemingly at once as I watched him pick my mug up from the counter, hold it in the air, and- as I begged him not to- slam it down on that counter and watch it shatter into  many, many pieces.

I think I remember that he was instantly sorry. I’m sure I remember not caring how sorry he was at that moment. It didn’t matter; the mug was gone, I was going to forgive him, and then convince myself that whatever I said before he robbed me of the memento of my sixteenth birthday was what caused his outburst, and therefore I was responsible. Taking responsibility every time he broke something or frightened me was the only way I could convince myself that I should stay. After all, I knew I  would be able to change, but I could never change him. I swept up the broken pieces, and I threw them away- along with all the other things he broke in anger over the years- and tried to start over as if I was never hurt.

One of those things we veterans of domestic violence share in common is that we celebrate any act of non-abuse as an act of kindness. As long as we have days, weeks, or even months when there is not a violent outburst, we convince ourselves that our significant other is good to us. And when they are good, they are very, very good. Then one day we realize that non-abuse is not good enough. We decide that we don’t want to ever confuse again a normal act of humanity for an expression of kindness. We sweep up the broken pieces one last time… but this time, instead of just tossing the porcelain into the garbage, we stand in front of the mirror, we see the hurt, and make a commitment to go deep, dig that hurt out, and replace it with something beautiful.

What has happened to me is not my entire story. How my spouse treated me, or how many things he broke- including my heart- is not who I am. My response, and the choices I make are now my story.

Someone once told me to love like I’ve never been hurt- to love with all a whole heart instead of with a broken heart, and to give myself  as someone who doesn’t know what hurt feels like.

No, I am going to love like I’ve been hurt very, very deeply. Because I have been wounded,  I know how far is the depth of my heart. The pain went deeper than the love the first time around, and now that I have gone there, and allowed those wounds to heal from the bottom up, my restored heart is stronger and more capable of loving and giving than it ever was before it was broken.

The Japanese have a tradition of repairing broken pieces of pottery by using gold to fill in the cracks and spaces between the porcelain. The result is a stronger vessel that is less likely to break again. The repaired vessel is also considered as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than the original with the strands and veins of gold showing on the surface.
This art - this necessary practice - in a world where something precious cannot be replaced nor simply thrown away is called “kintsukuroi.”

I don’t want pity for my past. When people look at me, I don’t want them to see how I was broken by the abuse or the trials or the sorrow. I want them to see only how I have been strengthened and restored.