Twilight

This is the view from the front porch of Lazy Bee Farm just at twilight.... the most perfect time of day. Tonight, as I came in from milking, both guys were gone and I could linger and watch the night come on. The crisp air was broken by the kiss-kiss of one of the cardinal pairs we have living in the woods just behind the house. I adore hearing them call, sounding as if they are tossing kisses to each other.

The chickens had put themselves to bed and were singing their night time song. It is a cross between a hum and a whisper and makes me smile to myself when I hear it. They sound so content! The goats baaad in unison as they began their stroll to the shelter in their pasture. With the nights getting colder, they are due to move to the stable again this weekend. The cow began her night time chat with our neighbor's cows -- mowing back and forth until they have caught up on the news along the creek -- and then they tuck in for the night.

The world takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out again.

Twilight.

The dogs are restless. The coyotes are howling and Annabell, the Pyrennes, responds, as if to warn them that she will not tolerate any foolishness on her farm. The baying stops and the coyotes are heard again, this time farther over the ridge, most likely sizing up my neighbor's fall calves. I listen and hope they are not hungry nor prowling tonight.

Waldo winds around my legs as if to encourage me to pick him up for a kitty kiss. I oblige and he rewards me with a sweet purr and a second kiss to my nose before he leaps to the ground to begin his nightly hunt for mice. Lydia stops for a second for a pat and then (yes, he) joins Waldo in the quest for unsuspecting mice or moles. I know that in the morning I will have to watch carefully when I open the back door for breakfast. No doubt, there will be a fine display for my "eating" pleasure.

And then, as I turned to survey the ridge one more time, the moon burst from behind the mountains, lighting the ridge as if it is a giant spotlight. It takes my breath, which is now tiny white wisps, as it is so unexpected and so beautiful.

Moose speaks to me, "rararrraw" which means, "Hurry up, woman, dinner time." Taking a last glance at the moon, I pick up the egg and the milk buckets and slowly, deliciously, stroll to the back door and back into the harsh house lights. The spell is broken, but the memory remains.

Morning has broken

The best part of my day has to be the time between 5 and 6 a.m. I have an 8 a.m. class and an hour drive before I get to work, so I have, ironically, become an early riser. As a teen-ager and young adult, I always worked a third shift job because I was wired to be a late night person. Mornings made me break out in hives....

Living out in the country as we do, we have no near neighbors for more than three miles, if you don't count the monstrousity being built on the ridge which is a summer and vacation home. We are all alone in our little hollow and always will be as I own most of what I see here. Thus, it is quiet here. So quiet that you can hear the cycadas, crickets, deer crashing in the woods, and the turkeys gobble. Woodpeckers live in our bottom meadow and we regularly hear them chipping at the dead trees for a delicious breakfast of fresh bugs.

This morning there is a magical mist on the meadow between the house and the woods which form my southern boundry. It is in this meadow that the does live and the chicken coop is nestled. My potato bed and garden are in the edge of this meadow, so it is a very snuggly feeling to look out and see all this sweeping off to the south. The mist gave everything a feeling that the Irish in me relates with fairies and all things magic between this world and the next.

The dogs sleepily come to breakfast as do the cats. The does low softly, calling 'good morning' to me. Chickens sing their soft song as they slowly wake up and the rooster announces that dawn is nearly here.

I love this time of day because of the sense of promise. The day is fresh, shrouded as my meadow in the mist, wrapped in what Emily Dickinson called "possibility." Once I open my college email, once I get on campus, my day slips away. It is too busy for me. Meetings, students, classes, paperwork, and all the various things that fill the day keep me from even finding time to take a walk. Lunch is often grabbed between writing lab and club meetings. Often, even in the bathroom, a student will ask, "Is that you? I recognize your shoes."

And yet, between 5 and 6 a.m., my life is quiet. I sit with my friend, God, and we talk for a little bit. I savor my breakfast and day dream of quiet summer mornings, crisp fall mornings, promised snow days, and spring break. I build my castles in the air. And, until the sun melts the mist, my life is my own.

Sunday musings

After reading Brenda's blog here and her loss of a friend, I have started thinking about how we live our lives. I find that I often spend my time in "quiet desparation" as Thoreau wrote. The mundane seems to push me along rather than spending time doing those things I really love -- spending time with family, reading, knitting, spinning, weaving, or just day dreaming. In short, I am a Martha, caught up in the busyness of every day.

The past few weeks, several people we know, not close friends but acquaintances, have died or become seriously ill. All were in their 50s. This scares me to death (no pun intended!). I am not done with living. I am not done doing all the things I want to do! There are books to read, stories to tell, and projects of love that I want to complete. Why, then, do I (and I suspect most of us) spend time doing those things we don't like or want to do??

Last night, I took my blue enamel bucket, half-filled with water, and walked the farm and road with the dogs, collecting wild flowers. I spent a happy hour with the dogs and another half hour arranging flowers in various containers. When I was done, I placed each in a special place where I would see them -- the living room, bedroom, kitchen, dining table. It made me nearly giddy to see the little flower heads bobbing in the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan. And, this morning when I woke, there they were to greet me and say "Good morning." Love it!

All this is to say that today I have declared a cease work day. We are going to play in this house. I am not sure how or what, but we are going to do something we have a passion for and not do busywork. For me this could mean weaving off the scarf on the table loom or organizing my menus or writing in my journal or milling soap or organizing school work. For Don it could mean working in his studio or "watching" TV (through closed eyelids -- I don't understand this mystery). I will make bread and a picnic lunch. We have 30 acres so surely there is a lovely place to picnic -- even the porch will do. And we will take time to dream.

Have a peaceful Sunday, won't you?