Fear!

We've started on our fall to-do list, and one of the major projects that had sifted its way to the top of the list was our pond. The cattails had migrated out into the center of the pond, threatening a silent take over of the open water. The surrounding grasses had towered and toppled, shrinking the perimeter by about 5 feet, all the way around the circumference. Our pond was disappearing back into the wilderness.

The pond returning to its wild state

We gave it a couple of days for the water to drain onto the pasture, and then we were ready to go. It was pretty mucky work. I started about 30 minutes before Dambara returned home, and had pulled up about 20 cattails before he got there. In the process, I had managed to smear muck across my teeshirt and all up and down my work pants. My gloves were coated, and my boots weighed about 10 pounds each. Muck was in my hair, and I was wearing randomly applied, muck war-paint.

Dambara strolled up to the pond, all dressed up in his town clothes, best leather shoes, crisp white shirt and assessed the situation. He grinned and said, "I'll go change and give you a hand." I grinned back and said, "Actually, I'm finding that it's a surprisingly tidy job. I don't think you'll need to change."

"Ha, ha, ha," said my wise husband, and he turned around to go change.

The shape of the pond starts to emerge

So we worked together a couple of hours, and then went back the next day for another round. We made good progress.

We perched on the bank, carefully choosing solid footing so as not to slide the muddy soil down into the pond, deteriorating the structure of the bank. Neither of us wanted to wade out into the muck, though. I had made a brief excursion, sank about 6 inches into the black goo, then gingerly squelched back to safety.

So from our sloped perches, we reached out as far as we could, sweeping the next cattail into grasping range, and pulled, with occasional success. But we certainly weren't getting them all. We knew that if we just let them go, next year they'd march out even further, taunting us from the safety of deep water, quickly engulfing the entire pond.

Why were we so tentative about venturing out into the water? Why didn't we just tromp out there and dig them up? Two reasons: Dambara is a very tidy person. He remained a crisp, clean contrast to my muck-smeared facade, even though he was working just as hard and being just as efficient as me. But he wasn't predisposed to wade, possibly disappear, into the seemingly bottomless muck.

And me? Me, I'm afraid of water.

I can swim. I love to jump into pools. I camp along streams and walk along wave-tossed beaches. But murky, uncharted, mysterious bodies of water? They are foreboding and threatening. A tail-twitching panther starts pacing around inside my ribcage, snarling, and I have to back off.

And so we called it a day and tromped back to our safe, dry, cozy house, took showers, and made dinner. Ahhh.....

The next day, I was on my own. Dambara was out of town and would actually be gone for the next six weeks. I had to either get those cattails out by myself, or leave them for next fall when we could drain the pond again. Not much choice, really. I reluctantly threaded my way back up to the pond, gravel rake in hand. Maybe I could snare the roots with this long tool and pull the cattails, one by one, over to the bank. I squished my way around the perimeter, inching my way to the defiant cattails, boots sinking, the muck grabbing my heels, threatening to swallow me whole.

Clasping overhanging grasses, I was able to keep upright all the way to the far side of the pond, where the cliff face plunged directly into the water, making further progress impossible. Impossible for me, at least. I faced the center of the pond and the jeering cattails and reached out with my gravel rake.

It worked like a charm! The cattails were rooted in the muck, so with only a jiggle or two of the rake, the roots pulled easily out of the water. I reached, jiggled, and pulled about 20 cattails over to the bank, then grasping them stoically to my once again muck-smeared chest, hauled them out of the pond onto the top of the bank. Ha! With fresh determination I squelched my way back to tackle the next batch, concentrically further out of reach.

I reached . . . . and could just barely snag the far away root. I jiggled the rake. It barely moved. I reached a little further and jiggled. I could not loosen it. And my back was starting to hurt, dramatically cantilevered as I was. Not enough jiggling and not firm enough of a stance for effective pulling. Sigh. This would be so much easier if I would just step out there and stand right over each remaining cattail.

And so I did.

The panther inside my ribcage had curled up and gone to sleep. Squelching along the bank and jiggling all those roots had helped some deep part of me realize that this wasn't so threatening after all. The pond wasn't bottomless. Not even the muck was bottomless. I had waded into my fear far enough to discover that the reality wasn't nearly as perilous as my imagination had led me to believe.

I figured that I could always retrieve my boot if the muck grabbed it too resolutely. The water was only twelve, eighteen inches deep. It would flood my boots, but what the heck. The water was surprisingly clean. Muddy, yes, but not decayed, rotting, odiferous goo. I realized that I probably wouldn't die.

I pulled one booted foot out of the muck along the bank, stepped out into the water, and let that foot sink. Water poured over the top of my boot, and then the sole hit solid ground. Huh. I pulled my other foot out of the bank's muck, lowered it, let the boot flood, then set it down, also on solid ground. Ha! The muck was only along the bank! The bottom of the pond was solid clay, and my boots sank maybe not at all. The panther in my ribcage started laughing and turned back into my heart.

I victoriously moved from cattail to cattail, used my rake to jiggle their roots, and easily pulled out every single one. There were criss-crossed runners, and it was easy to reach down and use both hands to jiggle and pull, feel which runner was under which, sort them out, and bring up every rootball. I threw the uprooted cattails up onto the bank, moved onto the next, even cleared out the roots we had precariously trimmed from the bank, and mounded the whole mucky mess up onto the bank.

I pulled up a couple of poorly placed reeds, scooped out encroaching grass roots, unearthed, or unmucked actually, an ancient, disintegrating, reel-to-reel tape, smoothed out a ragged outcropping, and then clambered back onto the grassy bank. My heart was singing, the cattails lay chastened, scattered along the bank, and our pond was ready to go for another three years.

Almost full after one rain storm

And my fear? Well, I know the panther will be there again, pacing, the next time I'm cornered, but I also know that when I finally figure out a way to step into the fear, the reality will be easier than remaining stuck in the muck of my imagination.

It's okay to be afraid. I simply have to avoid being afraid of being afraid. That's where the panther prowls, and where I'll be victorious the next time, and the time after that.

The Closing of a Chapter

Dambara and I have lived on this gentle hillside overlooking the Laurelwood Valley for four years, almost to the day. I moved up from the Bay Area in mid-August, and Dambara followed at the end of September. During our four years, we've fixed things, grown things, raised things, improved things. I've loved it. Dambara might not have loved it quite as much, but he has been consistently good natured and supportive.

I came here to heal. Adrenal fatigue has ruled my dysfunctional days since 2010; ups and downs, of course, but dysfunctional almost always. Many sources, including professional healers and online advice, stressed the absolute necessity of eating fish and fowl as the only possible path to recovery from adrenal fatigue, so I abandoned my 12 years of vegetarian meals and gave it a try.

Last January, I read the story of a medical medium who suggested that a vegan diet could vanquish the underlying cause of adrenal fatigue. Since I had given the fish-and-fowl strategy seven years to make a difference to no avail, I decided to try something different. And a vegan diet has made all the difference.

My brain can think again. My body can withstand physical labor. My intuition can provide creative solutions once more. I am finally, finally, healing.

Simultaneous with improved health, a series of events have convinced me that our time on this hillside is complete. A cold spring sabotaged our vegetable garden. Several trees died. An orchard expert pronounced me foolhardy. And a daytime raccoon forced us to find safe homes for our ducks and chickens, homes not on our farm. And what's a farm without ducks and chickens? A lonely, empty place.

So, during an eight-minute conversation, Dambara and I decided to sell the farm, and we haven't looked back since. The decision felt right, and after four weeks of hard work to finish all of our projects-in-process, it still feels right. The farm went on the market two days ago, and we'll see what happens.

If all goes well, we plan to buy one of the lots from the Ananda Center at Laurelwood, which is directly across the highway from our farm, and then we'll build a house. We plan on building a group house, with shared common rooms and private bedroom suites. We have friends who are enthusiastic about the project, so we'll be planning, building, and living together. All of it promises to be simply lovely and loads of fun.

Our chapter of the Llamas and Niyamas Farm is closing, and an entire world of possibilities is opening wide.

Farming with a Trowel

I was about six years old when I started tending my first garden. Even then, I loved pulling away the chaotic weeds to make room for orderly groups of flowers and herbs, relishing that satisfying accomplishment of checking in later and seeing them flourishing.

Over the years, the gardens I've tended have gotten larger and more complex, to eventually include ponds, fruit trees, wide assortments of bulbs, roses, trellised vines, lush ground covers and, of course, vegetables. Does everyone enjoy the taste of home-grown tomatoes or strawberries warm from the sun?

Despite the increased sizes and complexities, I've consistently had the problem of running out of dirt. It's too hard to choose between a rose bush with vibrant yellow blossoms blending into deep orange edges and one with rich, purplish pink blossoms. Just get both. Find room somehow.

And then we moved to Oregon.

I remember our first spring, exploring the friendly, neighborhood nursery, with greenhouse after greenhouse burgeoning with plants of every size, shape, scent, and color. Oh, Lordy. Thank goodness for the cargo van waiting for me out in the parking lot.

One variety that I brought home that was new to me was artichokes. I bought three, 4" pots and carried them up to the empty patch of soil that I thought would make the perfect home for them. THAT'S when I read the label advice. "Plant 5 feet apart." What!!!! That's ridiculous. How could they possibly fit? And then I looked around at the empty patch of soil and realized, no problem.

I'd also picked up some bare root strawberries, which I'd never heard of before. They were on sale for $2/bundle, so of course I bought 3 bundles. As I untied the first bundle, I again read the label advice. "Plant 1 foot apart." It also said, "25 plants." What!!!! I had 75 plants that needed to be planted 1 foot apart? I looked around at the still-waiting patch of soil stretched out next to the new artichokes. Actually, no problem.

Ahimsa on the front lawn

Our farm is 2-1/2 acres. Of course, a healthy chunk of it is taken up by buildings and driveways, and most of it is in pasture, but there is so! much! room!

So we're migrating over from gardening into something larger: Farming. The thing is, I've spent 50-some years gardening with a trowel. And hand clippers, loppers, and rakes. I love the heft and power of a grub hoe, but that's as big and powerful as it ever got.

But you know what? It still works.

Our first summer, we tackled the overgrown blackberry briars, intertwined with hundreds of thistles and tall grasses that engulfed the upper third of our hillside. Our tools? A lopper and an electric hedge trimmer. Foot by foot, our little tools chipped away at the chaotic, waist-high thicket, and the contour of the hillside slowly emerged.

That was how we discovered that we had a pond. Who knew? But there it was, a full-fledged pond at the top of our property.

Dambara discussing calmness with the ducklings

It was an entire summer of discovery. The pond has a dam. The formerly inaccessible pluot tree is actually peacefully poised on it's own little plateau. Another plateau overlooks the pond and is a perfect place to linger, with an expansive view of our beautiful valley. We uncovered lemon verbena and an entire, miniature stream, gurgling along the lower edge of our pasture.

Our tools? Every one of them was easily held in our hands.

Now, if we were trained as farmers, we probably would have borrowed a tractor from the Ananda Center at Laurelwood and powered our way across the gentle contours of our hillside, wiping out everything in our path, tossing about new pasture seed, and getting the job done!

Big shovel Little shovel

 We have borrowed the tractor from time to time, for jobs that are mightier than our four hands. But for the most part, we wield scythe, lopper, rake, and yes, trowel to tame the chaos and nurture the beauty inherent in every inch of our hillside. By working with our hands, by using our own muscles and breath, surrounded by shining sun or drizzling grey, we feel a connection to the hillside that holds us on its flank. We become a part of all that is. We join the Whole.

Permaculture Usually Makes a Mess

Permaculture is an ongoing experiment.

We get an idea on how to make things work better, more simply, more in tune with natural flows, with less force from us. We set it in motion, and then watch to see how things turn out. It's a lot like the spiritual path in that way. Learn about something; gain an insight; try it out; see what happens.

And our experiments aren't always beautiful.

Our small farm is on a gentle slope overlooking Laurelwood Valley. It gets sun and rain, soft breezes and storms, visits from wild critters, and the wanderings of our domesticated friends. It's an ideal laboratory.

Autumn leaves are part of permaculture

We've built berms of all sizes and designs. Some are pond muck, clomped and ragged with crags and crannies; miniature Himalayan ranges. Some have chunks of tree trunks, carted in from the Ananda Portland Community, covered with pond muck or garden debris. Others are brush piles, some covered with rich garden soil, some uncovered, providing safe harbor to tiny birds, snakes, and scurrying creatures, the entwined branches slowly collapsing into a composted future.

And all of them are a mess.

Animals are part of permaculture

Our llamas are roamers. They migrate up and down our hillside several times a day. During the rainy winter, they churn up the sodden pasture, sinking up to their ankles with each regal step. We spread straw over the choppy thoroughfare, and wait while the llamas rototill the straw into the mud. We walk across the sloppy mess with our wide, muck boots, leveling the divots, restoring evenness here, then there. The straw breaks down, the worms get to work, we spread some seed, and our pasture thrives.

It's a messy process.

Composted kitchen scraps, fallen leaves, chicken straw, and landscape clippings cover the garden soil, their nutrients seeping down to bring worms by the score, each one a tiny rototiller, leaving castings in their wake. I see eggshells and browned leaves, clumped and slimy from the rain. Despite the mess, I imagine what's happening in the soil beneath, and my heart sings.

The critters' wake is not always beautiful

Our ducks dabble through divots brimming with rain, along the edges of our chortling, seasonal streams, across their spring-fed pond, bringing up mud and murk, staining the pristine flow wherever they wander. Our chickens scratch and forage, scattering compost onto walkways, straw onto gravel, unearthing defenseless ground covers.

They all make a mess.

And yet our hillside is coming alive. After decades of overgrazing and intensive harvesting, we moved onto our crippled hillside to love and nourish it. We tromp around in our wide boots, talking to critters and admiring hearty growth. We delight in the ducks dabbling, the chickens scratching, and the llamas' regal migrations.

Tiny birds that I cannot name dart and flit, colorful and busy with their day. Orchard trees awaken and spread their limbs. Pasture grasses flourish and spread. Chickens murmur and examine. Llamas wander and graze, stand firm to gaze out across our valley, heads high, watchful. Ducks waddle and call, dabble and float, a graceful armada.

I see past the mess, and all I feel is beauty and peace.

Daily Rhythms

Every morning I check my favorite weather forecasting app to see what the day will bring to our peaceful hillside. Then I plan my day. I choose my indoor hours and what will occupy them, and my outdoor hours, pondering the tasks on my wish list.

My outdoor wish list is wondrous to behold. There are things to plant, prune, compost, harvest, scythe, feed, train, water, blaze, repair, trench, bolster, and watch. I've learned to do the things that need to be done soon, to save me the ultimatum of needing to be done NOW.

Last night, a friend informed me that an ice storm was on its way, descending sometime mid-afternoon, today. I realized that the two small citrus trees that had grown enthusiastically all summer might need a bit of protection to come through this storm intact. I also wanted to mulch the four rosebushes that we'd planted last week, since they were fragile and not feeling entirely at home yet.

Early this morning, I dutifully checked my app, and there it was, cloudy all morning with snow starting at 3:00 pm. I lazed a bit, checking email, finishing up various computer tasks, still in slippers and fluffy sweater. When finally the persistent tap-tap-tap from the skylight penetrated my awareness, I looked up to see snow slamming against the glass. The clock did indeed claim 10:23 am, but my soon had unexpectedly become NOW.

I could easily imagine my poor, fragile friends out on the hillside, trapped, with their feet firmly anchored in the freezing ground, blinking their many eyes against the whipping snow, silently whimpering. I chomped down a fried egg sandwich while I changed into thick, winter overalls and woolen sweater and gloves, boots, and a thick, knitted hat.

In the 11 minutes it had taken me to go from skylight-gazer to insulated winter woman, the weather changed. Snowflakes drifted lazily; the overcast sky gazed innocently, pretending indifference; quiet hung across the valley. My NOW had become soonish. My tasks reordered themselves.

I led the ducks up to the pond and poured grain on the bank, their urgent quacking transforming into contented gurgling, reminiscent of nursing babies. I popped open a fresh bale of hay and stuffed the feeding barrels for the llamas. I swirled the grain tower in the stable, to bring bountiful morsels out for the chickens. I checked water and nesting boxes. Everyone had what they needed to wander comfortably through a stormy afternoon.

The citrus trees were soon cocooned inside layers of clear, plastic sheeting, securely pinned in place. Dried leaves mounded around diminutive rose twigs, secured with coffee bags and cardboard, those multi-tasked, wonders of permaculture. I easily imagined the tiny beings nestling into their new covers, snuggling down, out of the wind and snow, drowsing peacefully as winter raged around them.

My NOW and soonish had become done.  The gentle beings that had come to live with us in this valley were fed and sheltered.  The snowfall might turn into an ice storm in a few hours, but everyone entrusted to my care would remain safe.

And then I turned to the most important task of the day. I stood and watched the day around me. I felt the gentle hillside, the trees peaceful in their winter rest, the pond frozen in anticipation of spring, the pastures crammed with grasses who were sending their roots deep into the soil, steadily readying themselves for sunshine and warmth, which was surely, surely just around the corner on this first week in January. I let peace wash over me, as the breeze dipped and danced and the snow flurried and swirled, standing warm and impervious inside my insulated armor, wondering at the beauty of our world.