Journals

 

January 5, 2022

 

 

Here in Laurel Fork, our home sits deep in a hollow.  Only when I walk on the elevated back portion of the property can I then observe the setting sun.  Occasionally, if the whole sky is blazing with color, I can look towards the skyline, above the rolling hills that surround our home, and see a bit of pink, red or orange. In the mornings, there’s no such thing as a genuine sunrise.  The light begins creeping over the peaks much later than other places; by the time the sun finally makes its way over the last ridge, the morning is well underway.  In fact, on cold, winter mornings, it is 10 am before the sun reaches a point that it has strength to significantly warm our hollow.  In the Shenandoah Valley, we had expansive views of the sunrises and sunsets and the contrast with these shadowed, mountain hollows where we now live is extreme.  This past week, the weather created shadows have had me thinking. 

 

The view in the meadow across from our house literally stopped me in my tracks one morning.  Quickly, before the scene could change, I rushed in the house and grabbed my camera in an effort to capture the beauty.  Since I am not professional photographer, and know nothing about how to adjust a lens, my photography typically doesn’t begin to capture the magnitude of the beauty I see.  The morning sun was hitting the tops of the trees and large, dark cloud hung low in the hollow.  A bit of sky shone around the cloud and there were variations of winter blue and grey in the shadows that so starkly contrasted the bright light of  sun on the treetops. 

 

My mind could not stop thinking about how the shadows made the light seem so much brighter. 

 

Passively listening to an audiobook while walking later in the day, I heard the author's mention of shadows. I began to pay closer attention.  Her subject matter was  “seeing” beyond what is immediately obvious while observing the physical world.   The book's brief reference to shadows was only to strengthen the author's main point.  It was this short divergence into the subject of shadows that caught my attention, since shadows were already on my mind. The author, Annie Dillard, referenced a study on individuals, blind from birth who received corrective surgery as adults.  In her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Dillard writes:

 

“When a newly sighted girl saw photographs and paintings she asked, ‘Why do they put those dark marks all over them?’

 

‘Those aren’t dark marks,’ her mother explained, ‘Those are dark shadows. That is one of the ways the eye knows things have shape.  If it were not for shadows, many things would look flat.’

 

My mind hung onto this thought and it circled round and around in my head.  “In essence,” I thought “shadows bring definition.” 

 

Of course!

 

 Leonardo Di Vinci knew this!  His study of light and shade, or the partial shadow known as penumbra (what he termed ombra composta) , brought him the understanding of how to accurately portray shadow and depth in his art making him one of the greatest artists of all time.

 

 I began to think of how the term shadows had been used in literature.  Many well-known authors have referenced shadows as dark and foreboding.  Shadows are often used to depict what is sad, depressing, and destructive. Shadows can depict death. In the King James Version of the Bible, the psalmist poetically writes “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” 

 

. A world without shadows would be flat and objects would lack definition, and I dare say that the metaphorical shadows of our lives are what brings definition to our character.  I remember one time talking to a friend.  It was shortly after we lost our 17-year-old niece in a car accident.  She passed away only 13 months after Josh.  Both losses were fresh, and my heart was heavy.  I couldn’t believe how flippant and unempathetic this man was while simply digging for first hand information to feed the small town gossip.  I became angry.  I let him know that I was angry with his disrespectful behavior.    I am one who doesn't typically hold a grudge,  and the next time I saw him, I  acted as if the previous conversation was forgotten.  He did the same.   After a time, our paths didn't cross as often and it was years before I happened to see him.  When I did, he reached out for my hand and with true empathy, looked in my eyes and told me that he was sorry for how crass and inconsiderate he was when he had talked to me about the death of my niece.  He went on to explain that even though he was in his forties, he had never experienced any kind of great disappointment in his life.  He admitted that he had been living a “charmed” life and only knew of grief as something others experienced.  Now, standing there in a parking lot where we happened to run into each other, he apologized because he had recently experienced grief for the first time and understood what it meant.  His perception of life was limited until he too experienced the shadows of grief which gave more definition to his character and allowed him to have empathy toward others who are hurting. 

 

It would be nice if we could just all live in the proverbial sunshine, free from dark shadows, and never have to experience pain and suffering, but that is simply not how this life works.  Each of us will eventually experience grief and the grief is often compounded.  No one escapes the shadows.  Here's where we have a choice.  We can rail against the shadows in anger, curse them, or try to pretend they don't exist OR we can embrace the shadows by leaning into them even as our hearts ache and look for the ways they can bring definition and beauty to our lives.  And don't despair if you can't yet see the light shining on the tops of the trees.  There's someone looking on from a distance that can see what the shadows of your life have briefly hidden from your view. 

 

“To think of shadows is a serious thing.” ~ Victor Hugo

(Disclaimer:  In the writing of this, I do not want to promote the idea that there is no room for anger in grief.  Anger is part of the grieving process for many and has it's place. It's just not a place to dwell indefinitely.)

 

 

 

 

January 7, 2022

 

The first few days of January swung wide the door and welcomed winter into the mountains with a sudden and drastic temperature drop and our first snow of the season.  I always get giddy with the first sign of a snowflake.  I will admit, for perhaps the first time in my life, I didn’t feel that rush of excitement.  Thankfully, as the snow piled up and the beauty of it crept into my weary heart, the joy of the season returned to me once again.  I could not wait to grab my camera, don my winter gear, and trudge through the snow to attempt to capture a tiny bit of the fleeting beauty.  Maybe that’s part of the excitement for me, knowing that these “Kodak Moments” are quickly erased as the snow melts and the mud emerges. I wanted the snow to last. 

 

Now the snow is gone, at least the beauty of it is.  In the shaded areas some snow remains but mostly it’s just muddy now.  The weather forecast indicated we had another good chance for measurable snow last night, but to my disappointment, we got some rain and then a few snowflakes, but no accumulation.  A few days ago, we dropped from the 60’s into the 30’s. Overnight and into this morning, temperatures dropped from the mid 30’s to 16 degrees.  It’s a sudden change from the unseasonably warm weather we were having just a few days ago.

 

Today with such extremely cold temperatures (wind chills around 3 degrees with gusts up to 40 mph) and the fact my milking machine is fickle in temperatures less than 30 degrees, I decided to wait until late afternoon before attempting to milk.   I have been milking every day despite the fact the calves are growing and are taking most of their momma’s milk.  A daily milking routine gives me a chance to grain the lactating cows individually, control their feed portion, make sure they are being nursed out on all four quarters, and it gives me enough milk to make a little butter, some fresh cheeses, and have milk to drink.  This week has made me especially thankful for the decision I made last week to not be swayed from my goals and plans regarding the farm.  A sweet Jersey heifer was practically dropped in my lap when a local farmer we know contacted Mike and offered her to us for a steal. I thought briefly how I could keep her separated from my herd, have her tested, let her calve and then train her to the milking routine and resale her down the road sometime.  (I wasn’t interested in keeping her long term for myself due to her standard Jersey size.) The gentleman had raised her from the time she was a young calf and wanted a home for her where she would get individual attention rather than being kept in his large herd of beef cattle.  I immediately expressed to Mike that I wasn’t interested but we talked about it and I agreed to go to the farm and look at her.  I wasn’t particularly taken with her, but I did have a great amount of empathy for her condition.  She was in a very pregnant state and uncomfortable.  I remarked that she would calve soon.  With her lack of experience, and lack of shelter in her current setting, I felt almost a sense of guilt at not taking her home with me. I remained determined, however, that I would not take home a heifer that would freshen within days, had never been handled, and would require disease testing and training.  I had intentionally planned and worked toward less responsibilities for January and February when winter weather is typically most extreme. Everything was working out according to my plans and I didn’t want to do anything to shake things up.   I thanked the man for thinking of us and for his generous offer but told him I just couldn’t take the heifer.  (We did tell a friend about the heifer and they purchased her, and she gave birth within a couple of days and is doing well.)

 

 

January 8, 2022

 

Today started out cold with a low of 11 degrees when we awoke.  Fortunately, as the sun gained strength with the day’s progression, the temperatures did rise to the mid-thirties.  Dressed appropriately, Buddy and I had a good walk.  The wind was brisk but otherwise it was pleasant.  When I returned from walking Buddy, I brought the milk cows into the barn, fed them their grain, and milked them by hand.  There just wasn’t any reason to get the milking machine out since the large calves are taking most of the milk.  The colder weather today reminded me of previous years and milking in the frigid temperatures.  When I was running a cow share program in Staunton, it didn’t matter how cold it was or how much the machine wanted to freeze up on me, the cows had to be milked.  Now, with just Mike and I consuming the milk, things are more flexible.  I also recalled the days in Alaska when I helped on a dairy in the evenings, five days a week.  I remember one cold spell when the temperatures dropped to 60 below zero.  The cattle were all kept in the barn and tied in their stalls while the weather was so brutal.  They would have never survived out in the cold. Inside the milking parlor it was tolerably warm even with the extreme temperatures outdoors.  However, I could not turn my truck off while I helped with the milking or I would have never got it started again.  It would sit and run for three or four hours until I was ready to drive home again.  I had quite a drive to get home and there were not a lot of houses between the farm and my residence, which was about half an hour away.  I always dressed for the weather, carried extra supplies in the truck, and honestly never worried about the extreme temperatures in those days.  I was young and I guess I thought I was invincible. Then, I didn’t realize how hard life could get.  I was eager and always ready for the next adventure. Now I prefer my adventures to be less dramatic and further apart.  Still, looking back, I realize how blessed I am to have been able to see and do all the things that I have experienced in my life. 

 

January 9, 2022

 

I totally got my days mixed up this past week.  I guess that’s what happens when you don’t leave the farm for weeks on end.  The exception is that I have crossed the fence on the southwest part of property and spent some time with my neighbor who has pancreatic cancer.  I love her dearly and I am thankful I can be with her when her husband needs to run errands or be at church where he preaches on Sunday mornings.  In the last three weeks, I have been three times to their house.  I went today, Sunday morning and returned early afternoon.  A lot of times my friend is too weak now to talk and I just sit beside her.  Today, she was alert and talkative. 

 

Grace. 

 

That’s what I call days like today. A day full of grace.  Being able to connect with those we love is a gift.  It’s true with everyone and in all situations, but we don’t see it as clearly when we think we have all the time in the world.  When we know our time together is short, we recognize the grace bestowed upon us.

 

I went for a shorter visit with my friend earlier this week.  I don’t know how I got so confused about the day, but I was sure that it was Epiphany and I always try to take down my Christmas tree on Epiphany.  When I returned home from seeing my friend, I jumped right into taking the decorations off the tree.  As I was working, Mike and I heard a big crash.  Mike asked me if I heard the crashing sound and what I thought it might be.  I shrugged, busy with what I was doing and remarked that it might be ice sliding from the metal roof on our house.  Maybe half an hour went by, I finished taking lights and bulbs off the tree, and then I casually looked out the window, as is often my habit when I have time to pause, and I surveyed the scenery.  I noticed the ATV down by the raised, garden beds. For a moment, the importance of this fact didn’t register, and my eyes begin to drift away.  Suddenly, I looked again. 

 

Wait!

 

I had been the last to drive the ATV taking it up to my friend’s house when I visited with her, and I had parked it on top of the driveway by the garage, not at the bottom of the hill by the garden.    

 

"Oh no,” I sighed.

 

"Oh no, what?" Mike immediately responded with suspicion in his voice.

 

"The Kubota (ATV) isn't where I left it,",  I said quietly.

 

"Where is it?" Mike asked, working hard to keep his tone conversational.

 

I took an deep breath and answered, “Well, it kind of slid down the driveway, narrowly missing the edge of the picnic shelter, somehow managed to slide between two bushes without hitting them, and then crashed into the raised beds."

 

I paused before finishing, “The one raised bed is pretty much destroyed on that side.”

 

"You didn't pull the emergency break, did you?” Mike said in conversational tone using great restraint.

 

"No" I replied, matching his tone.

 

Mike rescued the ATV and returned it to the driveway where it belonged.  There was no helping the raised bed at this point.  That would be a job for another day.  It wasn’t until two days later I realized that I had my days mixed up and the day I thought was Epiphany was the day prior.  I laughed.  Mike asked me what I found amusing and I said, “Well, there’s an old superstition that says it’s unlucky to take down your Christmas tree before Epiphany.  I got my dates mixed up and took down our tree on the 5^th instead of the 6^th.  The ATV literally slid down the bank and crashed into the raised bed while I was taking down the tree.  It makes me almost believe the old wives tale!”