Keeping some sort of journal is helpful. My mother taught us that, but she also taught it to her school students, and to children in her care at Christian Education Camp of our Yearly Meeting of Friends. For a child, it is helpful in creating writing skills. Journals help families determine what happened when events take bad turns. We worry about privacy and confidentiality in a world where people have ill motivations. But reading old journals takes a person back through their trials and helps them be reminded how they arrived at where they currently are. A journal can be written many ways with any focus. I am not good at writing down daily events. Sometimes I'd like to capture everything people say to me in a day, or everything that happened. But recording everything is impossible.
What made me think about journaling was returning to Phillip Gulley's fiction books about the town called Harmony. I have recommended them to a friend who is going through a difficult situation with a pastor.
http://www.harmonyseries.com/
What made me connect this to journaling was that even though we can write much from memory, there is nothing like having a detailed written account of events that affect our lives. We struggle through the trials in our lives, but when they are resolved, we move on to the next and virtually forget about the entire event and struggle until someone else's struggle reminds us of it. Some of these events need to be written down for all of us to remember. I think the struggle for immigrant rights is one of those topics where those involved in the struggle need to keep accounts and write a book about it in the end.
As much time as I spend on Facebook, and as much as I write here, it doesn't touch most of what happens in one of my days. Patients at work have life-changing traumas. Family members go through terrible events. I go places and do things that would seem inappropriate to write about. Maybe a better word would be insignificant. There are discussions and events that I simply can't put in black and white. I think about them. They affect me.
Today I have 3 big events. I am going to the Farmers Market in hopes of getting more peaches; hoping the chefs publicized as planning to be there (Yay!) won't buy EVERYTHING. But I can go to another farmer's place if I need to for peaches. I am going to go to a Stampin' Up party that my husband's niece is putting on for a fundraiser for their church's youth program. And then I am going to take my older daughter back for her second year in college, a 3 1/2 hour drive one way. That will be probably a 9-10 hour event.
My husband, meanwhile, will be building a small shelter for my sheep and putting up an electric fence for them with a new solar charger I bought a few days ago. I feel like I should be helping him.
This blog is decidedly rambling. It is an online journal. It isn't focused on one political project or one specific topic. There are threads of topics that are important to me. When people around me express interest in learning something about what I'm doing, I sometimes think I should make it a public process here and do a photo story. As the weather cools and my broken toe time draws to an end, my focus' are cleaning up this old farm house, setting up our small sheep herd at our new residence, homeschooling a 5-year-old and returning to work in a hospital during an economy when many people are losing jobs that support their livelihoods. I fast every Tuesday for those who are imprisoned for trying to make better lives for themselves. The locusts are still around but seem to be fading, and one of my old teachers noticed publicly on Facebook that her hummingbirds were beginning to migrate.
I was going to blog about breaking my toe 3 weeks ago. Maybe I will tomorrow. There is too much to do today!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Big Farm Move
The moving of farms was actually pretty little by farm-moving standards. But it was big to us. It was huge to me. Life-changing. We moved 2 miles. We moved from 68 acres to 200+ acres. The responsibilities turned from primarily mine to not primarily mine. The decision-making also turned from primarily mine to not primarily mine. I knew this would be both good and bad and in-between. And it has been.
Last November, around Thanksgiving, my oldest brother's big Mennonite family came up from Virginia, and my youngest brother and his wife came from Iowa. We sat around the table and discussed the future of the farm, and the future of my middle brother. In this conversation were my mother, my oldest and youngest brother, me and all of our spouses. The family farm was falling apart, and I had been wanting out of it increasingly and with more panic as time went by. Boards were falling off the barn. Outbuildings needed painted. Siding and eves needed fixed on the house. My husband had been running back and forth for 6 years between two farms trying to patch things together. I had reached a point of telling my mother, "Sell it, I'm moving."
Where to, some might wonder? Why, to the old, falling apart brick house over at my husband's family's farm. The problem is, 2 people, one of them working full-time in a high-stress job, cannot fix up 2 dilapidated farms.
Embedded in my memory were comments my oldest brother had made to me years before. He was the farmer in the family. My father had wanted him to have the farm, but he and my father could never see eye-to-eye. My father was a control freak. There was always some catch; something held over your head for everything you were given. My oldest and youngest brothers had long moved on, leaving all the "catches" behind, and taking control of their own lives. But Larry had always WANTED the farm. He had wanted it without conditions. My father could never, in all of their dickering, let go of his conditions. My father however, at this notable Thanksgiving dinner, had been gone for nearly 2 years. My mother was not interested in the farm management at all, whatsoever. My youngest brother was not interested in receiving any financial benefit from selling it. It was okay with my oldest brother if my middle brother stayed in his trailer there so long as there was no trouble. I was banking on all of this.
It was a good hunch. My oldest brother, his wife and 7 children, ages 14 up, the oldest son already running his own carpentry business, went home to mull on it. Within the next 2-3 months, all the plans were made. I had begun cleaning out the attic before I had their word. I "knew it in my bones," that this move was going to happen.
No amount of preparation is enough to move out of a family farm. My oldest brother is a hoarder in some regard, but he is also a purger. As his sister, I knew just what kind of purger he was. I knew that whatever I didn't clean out, I'd never see again, most likely, as it would be lost, burned or dumped. It took a few bottles of wine, but I went through every single box that had been thrown into the attic in the midst of every "clean this place up!" frenzy or family accounting argument since 1976 - junk with old love letters, dusted up trumpet music, long lost Muskojuans from the 1950's, class picture books from every school throughout Ohio my parents had ever taught in, paired in boxes with broken glasses, long outdated camera flashes and mouse droppings. I cried, I laughed, I read, I groaned, and I drunkenly commented as I sorted things into boxes for my mother, myself and each of my siblings. My husband took out box after box of discarded papers and trash to be burned. We did not need to keep old inservices, curriculum evaluations and lessons plan from every school they had taught in. Despite everyone saying they had no interest in what was in the attic, they each went through their boxes like it was the best kind of candy store. I even found things to give some of my neighbors from their ancestors.
The move was in March. My deep freezer and my fleeces are still in their garage. It is mid August. We moved my sheep over last week.
There are more than 200 acres here. There is a herd of Hereford beef cows, and there are 3 horses. Now there are 11 sheep. I have a garden again. It is very weedy and didn't grow much, but it is hopeful.
I have taught my 7 nieces and nephews how to make cheese, how to spin, how to shear sheep, and today I will be teaching them how to skirt and pack fleeces for the woolgrowers coop. I'm kind of new to that myself. They dress plain, and will most likely be able to profit more from such things by the mere appearance of looking like "Amish." They have made a gardening paradise out of the garden I dumped manure on for years. They've fixed the barn. My brother, a finishing carpenter, is building a wood shop that is as big as his house. I want to be jealous of all of it, but it is a little difficult to be in my relief.
It was a good move.
Last November, around Thanksgiving, my oldest brother's big Mennonite family came up from Virginia, and my youngest brother and his wife came from Iowa. We sat around the table and discussed the future of the farm, and the future of my middle brother. In this conversation were my mother, my oldest and youngest brother, me and all of our spouses. The family farm was falling apart, and I had been wanting out of it increasingly and with more panic as time went by. Boards were falling off the barn. Outbuildings needed painted. Siding and eves needed fixed on the house. My husband had been running back and forth for 6 years between two farms trying to patch things together. I had reached a point of telling my mother, "Sell it, I'm moving."
Where to, some might wonder? Why, to the old, falling apart brick house over at my husband's family's farm. The problem is, 2 people, one of them working full-time in a high-stress job, cannot fix up 2 dilapidated farms.
Embedded in my memory were comments my oldest brother had made to me years before. He was the farmer in the family. My father had wanted him to have the farm, but he and my father could never see eye-to-eye. My father was a control freak. There was always some catch; something held over your head for everything you were given. My oldest and youngest brothers had long moved on, leaving all the "catches" behind, and taking control of their own lives. But Larry had always WANTED the farm. He had wanted it without conditions. My father could never, in all of their dickering, let go of his conditions. My father however, at this notable Thanksgiving dinner, had been gone for nearly 2 years. My mother was not interested in the farm management at all, whatsoever. My youngest brother was not interested in receiving any financial benefit from selling it. It was okay with my oldest brother if my middle brother stayed in his trailer there so long as there was no trouble. I was banking on all of this.
It was a good hunch. My oldest brother, his wife and 7 children, ages 14 up, the oldest son already running his own carpentry business, went home to mull on it. Within the next 2-3 months, all the plans were made. I had begun cleaning out the attic before I had their word. I "knew it in my bones," that this move was going to happen.
No amount of preparation is enough to move out of a family farm. My oldest brother is a hoarder in some regard, but he is also a purger. As his sister, I knew just what kind of purger he was. I knew that whatever I didn't clean out, I'd never see again, most likely, as it would be lost, burned or dumped. It took a few bottles of wine, but I went through every single box that had been thrown into the attic in the midst of every "clean this place up!" frenzy or family accounting argument since 1976 - junk with old love letters, dusted up trumpet music, long lost Muskojuans from the 1950's, class picture books from every school throughout Ohio my parents had ever taught in, paired in boxes with broken glasses, long outdated camera flashes and mouse droppings. I cried, I laughed, I read, I groaned, and I drunkenly commented as I sorted things into boxes for my mother, myself and each of my siblings. My husband took out box after box of discarded papers and trash to be burned. We did not need to keep old inservices, curriculum evaluations and lessons plan from every school they had taught in. Despite everyone saying they had no interest in what was in the attic, they each went through their boxes like it was the best kind of candy store. I even found things to give some of my neighbors from their ancestors.
The move was in March. My deep freezer and my fleeces are still in their garage. It is mid August. We moved my sheep over last week.
There are more than 200 acres here. There is a herd of Hereford beef cows, and there are 3 horses. Now there are 11 sheep. I have a garden again. It is very weedy and didn't grow much, but it is hopeful.
I have taught my 7 nieces and nephews how to make cheese, how to spin, how to shear sheep, and today I will be teaching them how to skirt and pack fleeces for the woolgrowers coop. I'm kind of new to that myself. They dress plain, and will most likely be able to profit more from such things by the mere appearance of looking like "Amish." They have made a gardening paradise out of the garden I dumped manure on for years. They've fixed the barn. My brother, a finishing carpenter, is building a wood shop that is as big as his house. I want to be jealous of all of it, but it is a little difficult to be in my relief.
It was a good move.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
How Can I Keep From Singing?
Yesterday was the 4th Tuesday I have gone on a bread and water (and coffee) fast. My friend, Robin, started the fast and matching Facebook group, "Starving For Justice! Human Rights for Immigrants in the USA!" https://www.facebook.com/groups/Starving4Justice/ with some acquaintances of hers.
At first her request of me to join made me feel hesitant. Did I really want to FAST for this cause? I roomed with Robin my sophomore year in high school for a semester, at the boarding school we went to. So we knew each other pretty well. She used to complain about my keeping the light on to read the Bible every night. I talked her into breaking most of her record collection because Rock and Roll was evil. Somehow by the time we got back in touch years later, she had forgiven me for that. In a change of life circumstances in the nearly 30 years we had not communicated, she became the pious one of the two of us. She is a P.A. working at a veterans hospital. She has no children, so diverts her energies into her dogs, and into helping the homeless. I didn't really want to read all those links to articles that she posted on Facebook, but I felt drawn to them. Prisons making profits for housing illegal aliens, and lobbying to pass immigrant laws to up their census? Was it real? Link after link, organization after organization, I read accounts of illegal immigrants being tortured and abused, and used for profit right here in our country for nothing more than crossing our borders. Most of them have no criminal record. They have no rights to legal council. If and when they get out, they tell of horrendous stories of people dying in these prisons.
One day around the time of Robin's request, another cause I have subscribed to news on, "Free the Hikers," for the 2 guys who found themselves imprisoned in Iran, was posting stories of an upcoming hearing that they were afraid would be canceled yet again. There were fasts and vigils; none of which I had ever taken part in. This time I wanted to fast with them. Were they not in a prison in a foreign country like all the immigrants here?
I have a list of favorite songs. One I like to sing often is "How Can I Keep From Singing?" It is about imprisonment, but it speaks to anyone who has felt persecuted for their beliefs. I played the guitar and sang this song among many others to my children as they were growing up. It has been cited most of my life as a traditional Quaker hymn, but a Wikipedia post credits it to Robert Wadsworth Lowry, an American Baptist minister, first published in 1869.
Today I am enjoying food more than I think I have enjoyed it for a very long time. I have a cup or two of coffee on my fasting days because I can't seem to give it up the rest of the week enough to not have a headache on the fasting day. The first week the headache was severe. I have tried different kinds of bread. I would like to someday do a complete fast, but I currently have too many responsibilities to suffer through the dizziness and shakiness that causes me. Though I permit myself a couple of cups of coffee, I do not permit myself lemon in my water. I did put a little vinegar in my water the first week when the thought of any more bread and water made me nauseated, and the vinegar helped a little. My mother had done a week long vinegar water fast when I was a preteen.
Following my first week of fasting, the hikers finally had their hearing after it being put off several times over 2 years. I felt like this was the right thing to do. I have posted about it on Facebook. Few coworkers or friends have commented about it to me. It doesn't feel like a great big showy thing to do. But it is a sacrifice. It takes commitment and concern. I believe it makes people think twice about their strong opposing opinions, that I would give up conventional food for one day per week for people I don't even know. However, it is my country that is torturing them, and I pay the taxes that support this. Fasting is a powerful witness, even if it is a very quiet, mindful, suffering one.
It is also a spiritual journey of a kind I have never been on.
At first her request of me to join made me feel hesitant. Did I really want to FAST for this cause? I roomed with Robin my sophomore year in high school for a semester, at the boarding school we went to. So we knew each other pretty well. She used to complain about my keeping the light on to read the Bible every night. I talked her into breaking most of her record collection because Rock and Roll was evil. Somehow by the time we got back in touch years later, she had forgiven me for that. In a change of life circumstances in the nearly 30 years we had not communicated, she became the pious one of the two of us. She is a P.A. working at a veterans hospital. She has no children, so diverts her energies into her dogs, and into helping the homeless. I didn't really want to read all those links to articles that she posted on Facebook, but I felt drawn to them. Prisons making profits for housing illegal aliens, and lobbying to pass immigrant laws to up their census? Was it real? Link after link, organization after organization, I read accounts of illegal immigrants being tortured and abused, and used for profit right here in our country for nothing more than crossing our borders. Most of them have no criminal record. They have no rights to legal council. If and when they get out, they tell of horrendous stories of people dying in these prisons.
One day around the time of Robin's request, another cause I have subscribed to news on, "Free the Hikers," for the 2 guys who found themselves imprisoned in Iran, was posting stories of an upcoming hearing that they were afraid would be canceled yet again. There were fasts and vigils; none of which I had ever taken part in. This time I wanted to fast with them. Were they not in a prison in a foreign country like all the immigrants here?
I have a list of favorite songs. One I like to sing often is "How Can I Keep From Singing?" It is about imprisonment, but it speaks to anyone who has felt persecuted for their beliefs. I played the guitar and sang this song among many others to my children as they were growing up. It has been cited most of my life as a traditional Quaker hymn, but a Wikipedia post credits it to Robert Wadsworth Lowry, an American Baptist minister, first published in 1869.
Today I am enjoying food more than I think I have enjoyed it for a very long time. I have a cup or two of coffee on my fasting days because I can't seem to give it up the rest of the week enough to not have a headache on the fasting day. The first week the headache was severe. I have tried different kinds of bread. I would like to someday do a complete fast, but I currently have too many responsibilities to suffer through the dizziness and shakiness that causes me. Though I permit myself a couple of cups of coffee, I do not permit myself lemon in my water. I did put a little vinegar in my water the first week when the thought of any more bread and water made me nauseated, and the vinegar helped a little. My mother had done a week long vinegar water fast when I was a preteen.
Following my first week of fasting, the hikers finally had their hearing after it being put off several times over 2 years. I felt like this was the right thing to do. I have posted about it on Facebook. Few coworkers or friends have commented about it to me. It doesn't feel like a great big showy thing to do. But it is a sacrifice. It takes commitment and concern. I believe it makes people think twice about their strong opposing opinions, that I would give up conventional food for one day per week for people I don't even know. However, it is my country that is torturing them, and I pay the taxes that support this. Fasting is a powerful witness, even if it is a very quiet, mindful, suffering one.
It is also a spiritual journey of a kind I have never been on.
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