Nearly a year has gone by since I last wrote in this journal.
Not that I didn’t try.
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| Sara, hunting weeds |
It took a long time to realize I needed rest. So much rest. More
rest than I felt I could justify. And the only way to find it was to turn from whatever
I could set aside. I would lie down alone, in a place that I reminded myself was
safe, enter the pages of books that never judged my fearfulness, and believe
sleep would eventually reach me in the dark. And be grateful.
December canyon
Back in December in a letter to a friend, I wrote about how often we reminded ourselves that our travails of 2022 were small compared to war, famine, mass or solitary shootings, loss of one’s only shelter or livelihood or diagnosis of a terminal disease. And how we also often reminded ourselves that we have many resources to aid us in withstanding our troubles and that remembering and sharing gratitude for all who inspire, aid, love and encourage us is a proven antidote to gloom, a balm we apply frequently and intentionally.
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| Doublecreek fire starts in the canyon |
That was before I realized I needed rest. A lot of rest. And the ebb of strength and time seemed ever gaining, and our capability to care and hope less regularly replenished, more often rationed out of necessity, like a weakness that makes simply opening a container a feat, even if we know there is nourishment to be obtained and shared within.
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| Fire coming close, Hahn Slide |
Drought and fire drove us through fall. Winter passed in unfulfilled threat and spring arrived in billowing storms and a month of coursing high water. With a burst of green-up we started making our way out of the canyon and now as we approach the zenith of light, it seems the days of the past year have slipped by like grains of sand through an hour glass.
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| Mike digs post hole |
Facing our challenges, Mike and I do a lot of mutual thinking nowadays. That feels good, because it usually involves a compromise between what needs to be done, the hours in the day, and the pace and strength of our bodies. Mutual thinking has always been something of a challenge, and we are trying to notice where we are getting better at it.
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| Brindle steer |
This morning I look out the narrow window of the old farmhouse here in the valley and see our little herd of yearlings wandering single file along the garden fence. Beneath their slick coats, I watch the workings of bone and muscle smoothly carrying them toward the broad irrigation ditch, to drink, to wade, to graze the banks and browse the tips of willow branches. And I see each animal holding a bit of the vigilance they all need to survive, each sharing a bit of reassurance: "We have each other, we’re a herd, let’s go to the ditch, let’s go back to the north pasture, let’s lie down under the spruce trees and chew our cud." And I see togetherness, relation, society. They may butt each other, but they need each other too.
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| Cows on river bar, May |
As we pack up to travel to the canyon and take our turn gathering the last of the cattle, our careful cows with their frolicking calves, and start them on the first leg of their journey to the prairie, I acknowledge the time I’m taking to write this. I acknowledge the replenishing that came before and made this moment possible. The privilege of choice, of rest. The value of sharing story, listening to one another.
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| Sara takes break, Doublecreek fire |
May you know we think of you
during our days and evenings, and are thankful for all the ways you’ve added to
our lives and our learning.
From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef
