My mother died. Depending on what you define as “sick”, she either was sick for 15 years or about two weeks. This week has been a month long. August must have lasted at least a year. And was over in the blink of an eye.
We still have to eat of course, and when you get us too far from the farm for too long, it can become quite difficult. My in-laws took us out after the funeral which was a real godsend, and the day between her death and the receiving of friends, I baked those roosters and bread, and made butter and cheese, and that pretty much got us through.
Originally uploaded by Contrary Goddess. Times like these, you know how important food is.
And in this time, this most difficult time, what a comfort the milking routine has been. Solid. A meditation. Peace. Constant. An anchor. And that, my friends, is life on the farm, with the family, who are my rocks.
There is this star I see every night. It is bright and steady and in the southern sky moving west but I don't know what it is. There is a very red, smaller star directly under it, and I can see them both early. After milking I stop and look. And in the looking that part of the sky breaks up, every night, and shows an even pattern behind those stars, like you held up a black piece of cloth with a light behind it, and the light was coming through the weave. I keep wondering if I can step through it, like Alice in Wonderland. I do believe it is the solidity of the daily chores that allows that kind of intimacy with the otherworld.