“Let’s try an experiment.  Pick up a coin. Imagine that it represents the object which you are grasping.  Hold it tightly, clutched in your fist and extend your arm, with the palm of your hand facing the ground.  Now if you let go or relax your grip, you will lose what you are clinging onto.  That’s why you hold on. But there’s another possibility.  You can let go and yet keep hold of it.  With your arm still outstretched, turn your hand over so that it faces the sky.  Release your hand and the coin still rests on your open palm.  You let go.  And the coin is still yours, even with all this space around it.  So there is a way in which we can accept impermanence and still relish life, at one and the same time, without grasping.” - Sogyal Rinpoche, ‘The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying’

I think I have a conflicted relationship with letting go. I used to get wrapped up in nostalgia for a time, a place, an experience, or people. It’s a fine balance, isn’t it, of looking fondly upon the past, dreaming about the future and being present in the moment.

Over the past few years I’ve become much more familiar with embracing the here and now. And I’ve put dreams into action. But a wee bit of nostalgia lingered - something which has been niggling at me. As the nights became cooler and bare legs were suddenly covered last weekend, it struck me that a big part of my nostalgia this year has rested in the seasons. In March as spring tiptoed in I welcomed a personal spring unfurling but felt a bit apprehensive for summer. Summer was synonymous with unshackling, exposing, standing in the light. I love the outdoors but I was still being nourished by my cocoon. The warmth lured me out quite naturally, however, and being exposed this summer has been illuminating and deeply healing.

My new-found sense of self is very connected with spring and summer. It’s been a little jostling to think about another transition around the corner. With autumn comes crisp weather and the closing of doors. Some of those doors have taken time to close but then the day comes when it’s just time. I’ve been amazed at the grace and ease that has accompanied this deep inner knowing that it’s just time to let go.

The closing of doors means the opening of others and autumn will also bring a fresh breeze of new opportunities. Social autumn with it’s djembe drumming and painting classes, indoor and outdoor climbing, harvest parties, bike rides, writers’ and jazz festivals.  So while I’m thrilled the weather calls for sunshine and 30+ temperatures this weekend, when autumn rolls around I’ll embrace it… because it’s just time.

I’ve been thrown a slew of curve balls recently. Living solo on a farm has certainly tested my resourcefulness. It’s been incredibly empowering to rise to challenges without getting frustrated or discouraged. But when challenges pile up into a toppling mass, well, sometimes I wonder how I can possibly manage a small farm on my own while working too.

Thankfully, I have some pretty spectacular people in my life. I had a great chat over lunch today with my cousin Tim, who emailed me later with these words that I thought I’d share:

Remember - nothing is “wrong” right now.
Be curious, explore the options life gives you.
Remember that setbacks are just a necessary learning point.
Remind me of these things when I forget them. 

Thanks Tim.

I think we could all do with a bit of wisdom from the humble Chika too, who demonstrates above that the best way to deal with shite is to calmly accept it for what it is and relax in it. (Yes, she is sleeping in the mid-day heat on a huge pile of manure)

On first glance, yes.

….

Hmmm - a good reminder for this piglet lover.

:: new cowboy hats from Nashville (the farm collection is growing!)

:: these oh so sweet tunes by Monsters of Folk, Blind Faith, and Dorando 

:: the calm before the Hillside storm - I so love the frequent visits and off-farm adventures, but boy do I also appreciate the rejuvenating solo time in this fresh country air

:: lots and lots of homemade iced tea sweetened with a friend’s uncapped wildflower honey

:: hot, sunny days broken by thunderstorms, long swims in gorgeous lakes, and crawling into cool sheets on crisp nights

:: gifts from the vinyl fairy: 3 old Bob Dylan’s, 1 Bob Marley, 1 missing Simon & Garfunkel and other goodies

:: the freshest smell of laundry off the line - so nice to bury your face into and inhale deeply… over and over again

:: new acacia wood patio table with umbrella and flowers blooming on the deck - hello work al fresco!

:: mmm - last of the fresh peas (shelled as we waited for Spain to finally score in the World Cup final)

:: first deer sighting in the field

:: munch-free veggies in the garden

:: bare feet

What are you loving right now? 

Simple: set a tray of catnip on the sidewalk for local cats to get jacked on, et voila - instant customers!

Welcome December! I have felt your crisp winter warnings on my cheeks but briefly as I holed up indoors to get well again. But today I immersed myself fully in your biting winds and embarked upon a long overdue chore.

Without the proper tools, I had a choice. Our local hardware store five minutes away in Rockwood, or the ubiquitous DIY giant Home Depot fifteen minutes away in Guelph? A trip to Rockwood would be in vain if a) they didn’t have what I needed, or b) they were closed. At the vital crossroads of decision, I turned right and headed for Guelph. I froze my fingertips in Home Depot’s garden center searching for the perfect impediments. Should I go for ergonomic or standard? Plastic or metal? If only Lee Valley Tools were in my neighborhood all would be well.

45 minutes later I was bundled up back at home, bracing the cold and ready to roll. I found a rhythm with my new rake quite quickly. It actually felt fantastic to be out in the fresh air again. And it was a relief to (finally) be raking the leaves just before serious snowfalls are due. My tardiness has been rewarded by unseasonably mild weather lately. This year our region had the first snow-free November in 162 years! The tides are changing now though. Since the calendar has flipped we’ve woken to three dustings of snow.

Last night was one of them. So I met December head on today and raced against the setting sun to get half of our lawn tidied for winter.

As I found my groove in the blustery wind, my mind wandered to the subject of choice. My decision to shop at Home Depot rested on a simple fact. The store prioritizes choice; I knew they would have a wider selection of rakes and shovels. But what did that choice really get me? I had trouble navigating the behemoth of a store, I couldn’t find prices for everything, I was bombarded with Christmas (am a Grinch, or is it still just a bit too early for decorations and carols?!), and I lost 30 minutes of valuable raking time. And really, a rake is a rake is a rake, unless you buy it from Lee Valley Tools.

I did get half the lawn raked into neat little piles just in time to see the sun set behind the forest. Yes I might have been able to finish the entire job if I had chosen the local hardware store over the big box chain, but my “choice” musings set me on an amusing path:

:: What happens if you just let leaves sit on the lawn until springtime?

:: What would Marjorie Harris do?

:: What would Monty Don do?

:: What would my Dad do? (this was helpful to me. I should do the opposite when it comes to yard work)

:: What would you do?!

I hope you weren’t raking this weekend!

But still not 100%. Chika is doing her very best to keep me warm and well kneeded. And Roddy is keeping the fire stoked. Homemade leek and Yukon Gold potato soup has been consumed, much tea sipped, and Gothic Cottage made more cozy since I last checked in here.

I’m not spending enough time staying warm in bed, however. There’s so much to be done. I have Chinese herbs, remedies from my Naturopath, and marks from the cupping I received on my back (my Chinese doctor introduced me to this detoxifying first - what a strange sensation when the glass cylinders are ‘popped’ off!).

I think I have all that I need… hope to be back here soon!

They both wanted different things.

Until we moved to our farm, I never thought much about the way a house works. If I was cold, I would crank up the thermostat. If I was thirsty, I would run water from the tap and fill up a glass. I didn’t stop to ponder the source of my needs, I just flipped switches, turned knobs, and lifted levers.

In the country, however, I find myself closer to the source of my survival needs. A tank full of oil sits next to our house to keep us warm in cold weather. When it’s empty, an Arthur’s Fuel truck will come to fill it. Our well is also just outside our house. When I’ve been running water for a few minutes I can hear the pump kick in down in the basement. It’s an instant reminder to conserve. After our initial toilet nightmare, I have a new appreciation for fully functioning septic systems. I have learned an incredible amount about how a house lives and breathes like a human system.

Even more striking, has been the spike in my understanding of how a house is pieced together. Tearing down walls and ripping up flooring is like dissecting a cadaver, only better: we don’t have professors, experts or parent’s hovering over us to tell us what to do! With a little self-guided research, we can let the scalpel run wild and settle in the knowledge that anything we do to this house is an improvement (it was in need of TLC when we bought it).

We peeled away at the skin and fascia (wood paneling, lath and plaster), only to discover that our house was incomplete - it didn’t have any fat (insulation), oh my! We had to remedy the situation before winter, but we didn’t want to work with fiberglass. Roddy’s mom tipped us off to a safe alternative made from sheep’s wool which has been treated with borax (a natural cleaning agent). A little research online turned up a company in Alberta, Good Shepard Wool Insulation, and a week later our big bags arrived at the bus station in Guelph.

The long bats of wool are soft and easy to work with, making installation a joy. Ewan and Roddy worked quickly in September to pad our living room and future kitchen walls with a warm, fleece-y layer. The woolly walls have since been covered in a protective breathable vapor barrier (like a Gore Tex jacket), and finally clad with drywall which is now half complete.

Two days ago we moved our “bedroom” once again into the living room, where we began sleeping in this house. But what a change in 4 months! Last night as we were curled up watching a film my eyes scanned the room and picked up on the elements that were making me feel so good. We were surrounded by candles in coloured glass holders. Beautiful bare tree silhouettes were framed by our old sash window. We were cozy under Roddy’s aunt’s quilt, and best of all, I could see the flames from our new woodstove licking the edges of the glass and glowing bright orange and red. And anchoring this picture were our clean, new white walls.

The scene was so engrossing it made me want to keep our bed in the living room throughout the colder months. It feels like a sleepover this way; like we’ve escaped to a cabin in the woods for a romantic holiday. Our house doesn’t feel unfinished in moments like this. It feels like a promise of whats around the corner. Maybe because I understand it better now, because I know what’s inside the walls, and I know why I feel cozy and secure? Whatever the reason, it’s so wonderful to feel at home here.

It’s so easy to slip into a routine.

We forget that there are many paths to our destination, and stick to the same route. On auto pilot, sometimes we forget to look up and take in our surroundings.

The scenery in Wellington County is new to both of us, and instead of keeping our eyes on the road we’re soaking up the bucolic land. The backroads reveal hidden treasures: striking undulating fields bordered with tall hardwoods, character-laden old barns and Escarpment stone homes, elk and osprey, and one expansive field of massive sunflowers.

Back at our own field, I’ve been reminding myself to look up from my (desk and garden) work to soak up our new terrain. But it’s really a fine dance between macro and micro lenses. When I hunch down like a frog and refocus, a tiny wonderland reveals itself: hidden juicy strawberries, tiny slugs munching our lettuce, Mr. Toad and Ms. Praying Mantis protecting our garden, and baby cucumbers and zucchini.

Eyes wide open, I’m so grateful for the scenery where we’ve landed.