Harvesting My Life

I always have such mixed emotions when harvest time comes around. On the one hand, I am happy to see all of my hard work bear fruit - and veggies! On the other hand, my days of working outdoors in the sun accompanied by birdsong and cows calling are coming to an end. They will be replaced with time spent indoors all warm and cozy while soups bubble on the stove, and my yarn and crochet hooks lay in the bag next to my chair waiting for me to turn them into Christmas gifts of slippers and mittens.

I picked the last of the harvest a few weeks ago. I walked out one autumn morning to see the blueberry bushes from the blueberry farm across the way all standing naked and pruned amidst a sea of green tinged with light frost like silent soldiers, their work done for this year. Down below the sun sent sparkling crystal shards across the surface of the pond while all around the noisy geese talked among themselves, probably taking a vote to see if it was time to move on to the next leg of their journey south. The scent of wood smoke from the farmhouse nearby wafted past my nose and the air was suddenly filled with the thunderous flapping of hundreds of starlings that rose out of the pine trees like a huge black cloud to perform their aerial ballet against a crisp blue sky.

Harvest time is that part of the gardening year when you get to see what worked, what didn't work, what needs to be pulled and discarded, and what can be turned under to nourish the soil over the winter. My tomatoes did well, as did my lettuce. Basil and parsley was a bumper crop, and my spearmint continues to grow like a weed in the pot in my kitchen. The lavender has been a touch and go situation. I got different plants from different nurseries, and it is apparent which one I will be giving my business to next year, and which one did not have plants hardy enough to withstand the wind and cold up on this hill. Some of the other flowers and herbs just didn't make the cut and they have been pulled out and sent to the compost pile. Everywhere else, the soil has been turned and the falling leaves have reinvented themselves as mulch. The outside garden is done for the year, so now I'm turning my attention to my inner garden.

What worked for me this year? What bloomed and created bounty for me, and what just did not manifest because it was not meant to, or because the time was not right? Which beliefs held up and carried me forward, and which had to be pulled and discarded because they no longer served me? Which ones can I hang on to, turning them over in the soil of my soul to nurture and grow the next sets of intentions I plant there? What will I plant next year to bloom in place of the beliefs that withered and died from the top to the roots?

This is the perfect time of the year to harvest our lives. As we prepare for the celebration of Thanksgiving next week, it only makes sense that, while we are giving thanks for all that we have and all that has worked in our lives this year, we also take stock of what hasn't worked and what changes we need to make in our own gardens to have even more to be thankful for next year. Each year will, of course, have its ups and downs, its bounties and its weeds. The true gardener who practices her craft with love and good intentions will likely end up with even more wonderful things to harvest every year.

And so it is.

A Temporary Setback

Flower Bear's blog for this week will be a posted later this week. Right now I need the time to help out a family member who needs my full attention and support. I'll catch up with all of you soon. In the meantime, thank you all for your support and for following my blog for the last 3 years. You all mean more to me than you can possibly know.

Blessings,
Barb (aka Flower Bear)

Finding My Voice

If there is one sound in all of the world that fills me with joy, it is the sound of birds calling and singing to each other. Every morning when I go out to greet the day, it is as if all the neighborhood birds sing me a “Good Morning!” I love to just sit in silence, watching and listening as the birds go about their business. It is a strangely exciting experience to imagine yourself being among them, seeing and experiencing the world through their eyes. I am not one of those expert birdwatchers who can name each type of bird I see. I’m lucky if I can pick out the more obvious ones, like cardinals, blue jays, crows, eagles, hawks, finches and starlings. I am in awe of people who can tell you what kind of bird is singing or calling at any given moment just by the sound they make. I can only do that with cardinals, because I once had a pair that visited my bird feeder every day, and, of course, crows because, well, everybody knows what a crow sounds like!

As a writer, I have spent countless years trying to find what is known in the literary world as “my voice.” I have tried on one voice after another, often copying the style of writers I admired when I was younger. The fact that nothing I wrote during those years felt authentic or truly mine was a strong indicator that if I wanted to be the very best writer I could be, I had to find my own voice and write from there.

We humans struggle throughout most of our lives trying to find our own voice, the one that gives us good advice, that supports us as we pursue our dreams, and comforts us when life throws us a curve ball. It’s the one that doesn’t call us names, or tells us we’re failures, or reminds us of all of our shortcomings. It’s the one who is always there when no one else is, and connects us in the physical world with the truths that we stand firm on in our spiritual world. It is the voice of authenticity.

The other day as I was outside tending to some of the last of the autumn gardening chores, I heard that distinctive sound that could only belong to a crow. He had stopped by on his way to or from the corn fields where my neighbors are harvesting and perched in a tree close by to where I was working. He squawked a hello and proceeded to tell me a story while I worked. It did not matter that I don’t speak fluent crow. What mattered was that the voice I heard was distinctly his, and I thanked him in a voice that was distinctly mine.

And so it is. 

All For One And One For All

There's no denying that Autumn is a feast for the senses. The color pallet for this season burns its beauty into our eyes and hearts. There is a certain smell in the air, a crispness that whispers to us that winter is just around the corner. We enjoy the fruits of the harvest on our dinner tables and the aroma of apple pies baking gets our taste buds watering. One of other things I love about Autumn relates to a particular sound. What? Didn't think Autumn had a "sound?" Oh, but it does and the minute you hear it, your eyes are drawn skyward. Know what it is? Of course, it's the geese.

From the moment I feel that first crispness in the air, I strain my ears to listen for that familiar sound of the geese making their way to the pond down the road from my house. I have been fortunate that for the last 23 years I have lived near a body of water that attracts flocks of geese each and every year with a place to stop and rest themselves on their journey to their winter homes to the south. Even when I moved away to the city for 15 years, I was still within walking distance of a branch of the Chenango River, and the geese would fly right over my apartment from north to south as they headed for their next rest stop.

Have you ever watched a flock of geese in flight? I once read up on them for a project I was working on. When the one in the lead begins to tire out, another one will move forward and take his place so the first one can fall back and rest. If one of them goes to the ground because of injury or fatigue, another will go and stay with it until it is fit to fly again and will lead it in the direction of the rest of the flock. All that cackling and honking that goes on when they are in flight are for two reasons: First, they will alert each other if there is any danger from a predator in the area; Second, they call to each other to encourage the flock on, to keep them flapping and flying, to boost their morale. Truly, these beautiful animals are living examples of the old saying, "one for all and all for one."

I know I've said it before but it bears repeating - we can learn a lot about life from watching our animal relations. They have so much to teach us. Can you imagine a world where we watch out for one another, encourage one another and take care of each other without question or expectation of payment? Can you image a world where it's citizens act out of love and compassion without even stopping to think about it but out of sheer instinct? I believe that instinct is in all of us although for many it has lain dormant for so long that they have forgotten it is there. Sometimes we need  Mother Nature to send us a reminder that makes so much noise we just have to pick ourselves up and look skyward to get the picture. We accomplish nothing when we work against each other. When we work with each other, everyone reaches their goals.

Once the visiting geese have moved on, the local geese, who have nice warm barns to winter in and have no need to become snow birds, will fly overhead and check out the pond to see if there is still time to get some fish to augment their diet of grain before the pond freezes over. When I hear them coming, I look up and see these hearty souls who, although their numbers are few, stick together, urge each other on, and watch each others' backs for the short trip from the farm to the pond and back again. What's that other old saying? Oh, yes: "Where two or three are gathered ..." - love is in their midst.

And so it is.

As Above, So Below

When I moved to the Village of Marathon, New York the first time some 23 years ago, I lived on Front Street, so called because it fronted on to the Tioughnioga River (don’t even try to pronounce it). Shortly after I moved there, I would wake up in the wee hours just as the day was waking up as well to see a blue heron standing in the shallows on the river bank right outside my bedroom window. I would sit for a while and just watch this beautiful creature standing silently, not moving, as the rest of the animal world went about their business of greeting a new day. I knew it was waiting for its breakfast to put in an appearance and didn’t want to scare it off by moving about, but to me its silent presence seemed more mysterious than that.

You see, it only appeared if I was struggling with some kind of decision or problem that I needed to resolve. If I went looking for it on my walks along the river, I was never able to find it. Yet I could be walking along with my mind on some issue or other and look up only to find Mr. Heron standing there like a statue, his feet in the shallows and his majestic body standing tall. Most of the time, I saw it at dawn and dusk, but I also saw it at other odd times of the day. The most magical time was one night around midnight when I was walking home from my daughter’s house after spending the evening babysitting while she worked second shift at a nursing home (yes, Marathon is the kind of place where you can walk around after midnight and no one will bother you). As I was crossing the bridge, thinking about how glad I was of the fresh air to wake me up, something made me look over the railing. There, standing in the shallows in the glow of the lights on the bridge, was my heron. I swear he looked at me.

 I was at that time immersed in my Native American studies, so I looked up the meaning of having a heron as an animal totem. I learned that heron medicine is the power of knowing the self by discovering our gifts and facing our challenges. It urges us to dive into the watery world of our feelings to find the truth. Heron reminds us to stay grounded in our beliefs (under the water representing our inner most or spiritual selves) while operating in the outer world.

This teaching has always stayed with me. Over the years that followed, and especially the 15 years I spent away from the village, I always tried to stand firm in my truth when facing whatever challenges life threw at me. Sometimes I would lose my footing and then I would have to dive deep back into that watery world to find the answers.

Now that I am back in Marathon, I am a little more than 2 miles from the river. I sometimes catch a glimpse of a heron majestically flying overhead, its long legs out behind those beautiful wings. Is it my heron? I rather doubt that, but who knows? Only last week 3 different people shared photos or videos about herons on my Facebook page, and only one of them knew the significance of that bird to me. As it happens, I am wrestling with a new writing project, something bigger and more daunting than I have ever undertaken before. Perhaps heron has come back to remind me to go deep, find my truth, and stay grounded in order to face my fears and do what spirit calls me to do.

We all need something that helps us to stay grounded in our truth. It’s what keeps us authentic. It helps us to find our voice, and it shows us how to use our gifts. May we all have herons in our lives to remind us to when to stand tall, and when to fly.

And so it is.

A Touch of Frost

This is what greeted me one morning last week:

The first touch of frost dusted the grass and reminded me that, even though we would probably still have some warm days yet, the year was winding down towards winter. There were more months behind us for this year on the calendar than there were left ahead of us.

The year I turned 60 was a lot like that as well. For some reason, as long as I was still in my 50's, I never gave it a thought, but after my birthday I suddenly realized that I had more years behind me than I was likely to have in front of me. That was a sobering thought for sure. It's not as if I thought my days were numbered, but when I looked back at those previous decades, I realized that I could not say with any certainty that my best days were behind me as well. There was nothing outstanding about them except for the birth of my two beautiful daughters which I consider my crowning achievement, but I didn't feel as if I had achieved any of the goals I had set up for myself or made more than one of my dreams come true - leaving the city behind and moving to the country. For a while I wondered if there was still time for me to go for the gold and make the rest of my dreams come true. Was I now "too old" to give birth to them?

Then I discovered my hero, Louise Hay, who affirmed: "Each age has its own special joys and experiences. I am always the perfect age for where I am in life." Maybe that was the key to it all. When I was having and raising my children, I was the perfect age to do that. Now that I am older, and my children are off living their own lives, I am the perfect age to experience the special joys and accomplishments that come with the wisdom of having lived 60+ years. As I sat down at my desk and picked up my pen again, I discovered that my writing had taken on a different hue, a warmer, deeper voice, and I knew that it wouldn't have been possible to write like that in my younger days. I needed a touch of frost, a touch of life experience, to add the color that my writing needed. I have since published two ebooks, have been writing this blog for three years, and am working on a new book that is longer and deeper than anything I have done before. I could not have even begun that project until I had lived it first.

Yesterday morning I woke up to yet another surprise:

Our first snow of the season (no, the bear isn't real. He has been standing guard over my gardens for the last 20 years). It's all gone now, melted away by the Autumn sun and temperatures reaching back for the 50's. Change happens. Seasons change. There are special joys and experiences in each of them and I know I am the perfect age to experience each and every one of them as only I can from where I am in my life.

And so it is.

Happy Anniversary To Me

On October 1st I celebrated one year since I moved to the country. I can't believe that it has already been a whole year. I have watched all the seasons come and go with a new fascination like a small child who experiences them for the first time. I still become overwhelmed with emotion when I watch the magnificent colors of the sunset every night, and am currently being blown away by the explosion of Autumn color all around me. Even the piles and piles of snow outside my window last winter were amazing to me although I admit to wondering if I would every see Spring again. When Spring finally got here, it came with tulips, and daffodils, and the return of morning birdsong, and soft breezes instead of frigid ones.

As the seasons changed, so did I. I have spent the last few days taking an inventory of the things I've learned since I downsized my life. I've learned that one can happily exist with very little, freeing up time and space for experiences and pursuing hobbies or passions. I've learned that a home cooked meal from fresh, local produce and other food items not only feeds the body with better health, but feeds the mind and soul as well because every time we slice a tomato or pick some produce from our own gardens, we are connecting with the Spirit that created it all and us as well. I've learned that taking time to just sit and listen to nothing isn't a waste of time, because there is no "nothing." There are the sounds of birds chirping, geese in flight, the wind in the trees, cows mooing, rain dripping off the roof and so many things that resonate like a beautiful symphony. I no longer have to lock myself in a closet to get away from the cacophony of cars, trucks, fire engines, sirens, buses, and people driving by with their music turned up to ear-bleeding volume, while sucking in exhaust fumes and other toxins.

Some folks have wondered how I survive out here when I sometimes go days without seeing another human being up close (I am surrounded by farms so I wave daily to the guys and girls driving the hay trucks and tractors as they go by, and my landlords live right upstairs but they both work). The biggest gift I have received from moving here is that I have learned to like myself and my own company. It has not been an easy process, and I spent many a dark, snowy winter day getting reacquainted with myself. There was a little girl inside that had been yearning to hear someone tell her that she was perfect just as she was, that she was capable, and creative, and strong, and smart, and enough. So I put my arm around her and told her all of those things, and more. When the snows melted and the days grew warmer and longer, we went for walks together and watched the earth rebirth and renew itself. We rediscovered our love of cooking and, having made the decision to go vegan - no small task in the middle of cow country - we discovered how creative we could be. Most of all, we found our voice again and it began to speak once more on the page, and we began to tell the story of our journey.  Hopefully by early next year we will be able to birth it to the world.

So Happy Anniversary to me. May the peace and love I've found find its way out into the world to inspire someone else to leap into the life of their dreams. Don't be scared. It's so worth the journey.

And so it is.