Learning Another Lesson

I'm not too adept at sickness, having been disgustingly healthy most of my life. Things go downhill fast when I feel mostly good but just flat out starchless; my patience (never my strong suit) goes right out the window. Talk about crabby. Good thing I wasn't around my sisters more. Crabby drooped downhill to depression as the weeks (six, count 'em) wore on.

I've been told, by many fellow pneumonia sufferers, that staying down is critical to getting better. They tell me, if I were to try to get back to my normal life before it's really time to do so, I would suffer a relapse which would be, of course, much worse than its predecessor. Hunh. Pretty effective threat.

I should probably note that this advice comes from a perspective of some distance for each teller. Like childbirth, I suspect they have forgotten something of the agony and looniness that set in with the long days of cotton-brained, isolated, frustrating boredom. I suspect this because I've now been vertical (except for a pretty good night's sleep) since mid-day yesterday, and I'm already beginning to look backward at this experience with more perspective and less hopelessness. It wasn't all that bad after all, was it?

Wellll ... maybe, maybe not. Not enough perspective yet.

But I feel that inner rising, the bubbling to the surface of optimism, that heralds a return to health and active engagement. Everything I look at or think about is interesting again. Even the foggy, gray day is beautiful once more, the bright red of cardinals and woodpeckers a surprise visual blast of beauty that makes my heart sing—the taste of newly-made cheese a delight on my tongue, cleaning two fresh duck eggs a satisfying use of five morning minutes—in a day in which I am so grateful to be alive, to see and smell and hear and ponder and laugh and love.

Now that I think of it, those long days of feeling only minimally "alive" may have been something of a pseudo-burial; an enforced resting time during which my ability to appreciate was reawakened and focused in ways my "regular" life couldn't allow. I wrote this to a relative this morning: "Isn't it amazing how something awful, like the death of a parent, opens doors that were firmly sealed shut until the awful thing happened? Convinces me yet again that there is a Cosmic Wisdom waaaay beyond our understanding."

It is amazing. Thank you, Cosmic Wise One, for helping me sink into a place where my [st]illness unearthed a key to new life.

Duckie Update

I just realized that we had another duck re-arrangement in the past few months that I missed sharing with you duck fans out there.

Sadly, Terry (Teresa of Avila) died this fall. Somehow she picked up a bacteria that caused a severe infection in her heart. Apparently ducks appear perfectly fine, as did Terry, until they are at death's door. I know people like that — stoic to the literal end. I'm not convinced this is a great idea.

Anyway, Terry was fine until the evening we tried to put her into the duck house for the night and she didn't want to move from under the bush. One of the sisters thought she might have an injured leg, as she seemed unable to get up. She picked her up, called me and we headed off for the vet. Though the doc saw her quickly, she had just died in sister' arms when the vet entered the examining room.

The vet said she had been very ill for months, but ducks just do that stoic thing. There was nothing that could have been done with the amount of bodily damage Terry had suffered by the time she began to show signs of trouble.

We've kept a close eye on the rest of the flock, but so far everyone seems to be just fine. Luckily, this seems to have been an isolated infection. I do think the loss was hard on the little duck family, though. Everyone has been a little more subdued; the egg production slacked off, Petra has been in brood mode for months ... death is a difficult part of life for just about everyone. So we do what we can, we continue to love each other, we celebrated her little duck life, and we appreciate every day, every egg, every funny little waddle that our precious duck family shares with us.

The times, are they a-changin'?

I'm sitting here in a semi-dark room (and yes, I'm still in my jammies, though I have plans to change that), it's nearly noon and I'm eyeing the bed with thoughts of another nap drifting through my head. I'm still thinking I may never feel normal again.

When I'm healthy and begin to recognize that I'm in a rut, my usual remedy is to clean my room and rearrange all the furniture. The sisters laugh about this, usually accompanied by a significant eyeball roll; but for some reason a change of scenery does wonders for my attitude. That works fine when I'm feeling healthy and full of pep. But unearthing the broom and a dust rag is just more than I can accomplish right now. Hmmmm ...

OK, I do have enough energy to sit here at the computer, at least for an hour or two. The least demanding renovation I can think of is the web site and this blog. Soooo ... voila, new looks on both.

Now I'm heading back to bed to wait for that wonderful, energetic surge that comes with change to arrive. Surely it will happen soon.

The Winter Blahs

OK, I know it's been months since I blogged last. I've been hearing about it. But really, I have some great excuses. The best one is that I managed to be "serially sick": first the flu, which swallowed up almost three weeks, followed by bronchitis and pneumonia, which is still lurking meanly in my lungs. Then my computer got even sicker than I did, so I finally had to surrender to getting a new one; I'm still trying to get it on its feet. As I'm sure you can tell, this is to make you all feel sorry for me and not get on my case about not blogging.

And no, I'm not oblivious to the fact that six weeks of feeling only slightly more energetic than the winter mud outside my window doesn't explain why I didn't blog in September, October or November last year. Guess I had an early case of the winter blahs.

You know what I mean. The garden has transformed from a wild green food jungle to a few droopy brussels sprouts and kale, surrounded by mounds of earth-toned mulch. The trees are bare sticks, through which I can see all the way to the top of our hill and across the lower valley to the depressing subdivisions to the west. There's not enough sunlight each day to keep anyone happy for long. And this year the weather stayed way too warm, which may mean the 2007 maple sugaring season won't happen at all. Now that's really depressing.

I'm sure I'd be less gloomy if I felt better, instead of sitting here in my PJs, thinking I should probably take a little nap before I finish this, waiting for GoToMyPC to drag more files from the dead computer to the new one. Here's what I think is going on: I'm just like the parsnips, carrots, turnips, Daikons and their other hearty winter friends, who are snuggled in the ground, getting sweeter every day. They're not growing, not sending up any green leaves to capture a few rays of yummy sunlight ... they're just lying there, waiting, allowing the Earth to work its winter magic in their still bodies.

I'm not so sure "getting sweeter" is precisely what's happening to me, but surely all my recent down time is allowing my body to garner its resources in service of my health. I may not feel it yet, but one of these days I'm going to wake up and feel more like my old, energetic, cheerful self than I do now. And when that happens, I'll probably notice that the sun is already up longer every day, that the maple trees have survived the scary warm spell, that I'm thrilled to have fresh turnips and potatoes and carrots for dinner.

It's worth the wait.

Hands-on help

Although this time of year is extremely busy for us, as we harvest and preserve our garden bounty, I've found enough little dabs of time to spin up some yarn and begin a scarf. I'm still captivated by the process.

But I need to find a human instructor; the Internet is a great source of information and guidance, but when it comes to the fine points of drafting fleece, for example, I need hands-on help. Though I can create passable yarn, I still manage to turn the fleece slowly back on itself as I spin, and I don't understand what I'm doing wrong.

I also learned a lot about the different breeds of sheep by reading articles on the Internet ... but visiting a local spinner/knitter/dyer who uses the fleece from her own sheep made a huge difference in my understanding of the process. Running my fingers through a chocolate brown tangled coat provided more information (way more) about what it takes to transform that warm mess into spinnable fiber than I could ever get from the many helpful Internet sites available.

I've learned several important things on "the farm" up here: Doing something yourself isn't just educational—it's exciting, awe-inspiring and life-changing. Finding your morning egg still warm and snuggled in a freshly made nest, for example, is an experience so far removed from picking up a dozen factory-produced eggs in a plastic box that it seems to come from an entirely different world. It certainly comes from an entirely different worldview. Homemade sauerkraut seems almost to be made from an entirely different vegetable than the store-bought variety. (It's simple to do and delicious to eat—try it!) For that matter, any food taken directly from the Earth and eaten within hours will open and entirely different—and fabulous—world of taste.

Here's another one of my little "ah-ha" discoveries: the human appears to be well designed to give and receive help. Not only do other folks know more than I do about a lot of things, there's something deeper going on when people get together and help each other out. Reading is fabulous, and I would never even suggest giving that up as a resource as well as recreation. The Internet is another excellent source of information. But you just can't beat sitting down with an old friend (or a new one) and learning the fine points of spinning—or farming, or teaching, or anything at all—with them.

And one's own store of learning and experience is a gift meant to be shared. Each of us has something she knows a little more about than someone else does. And when that someone else wants to learn, it feels really terrific to be able to pass along the little wisdoms we've acquired. In the midst of this human weaving of knowledge and learning, wonderful things happen. Friends are made, new ideas appear, fresh discoveries are made.

And that's when the real magic begins.