A Case of the Drearies

We're into our tenth day of rain, with another ten or so predicted. This tends to cause a serious case of the drearies on our farm--a serious malady complete with mildew in our hair, webs between our toes and hibernation in our hearts. We leave the farm to go to work in the dark with the rain blowing in our faces, and return home in the dark, with the rain still blowing in our faces. I try to recall the 8 weeks without rain this past summer and I think I must be delusional.

Along with the local rivers and streams continually overflowing their banks, including a new lake in our lower field (see above), we have this little problem of our barn, located strategically at the bottom of a hillside, also overflowing its carefully engineered drainage system. Four of our twelve stalls have had standing water for the past 10 days now, so the Haflingers are bunking in the remainder, happy to be out of the wet, but insulted at such a prolonged confinement as there is no place to go outside without mud and mire. Regular flakes of hay seem to bribe them into complacency. Things can't be too bad when the best part of the day involves eating...

Ah, but it takes it's toll on our psyches. So much wet cold dankness without reprieve can be hard on man and beast. We are all waiting, waiting, wishing for something different, wanting relief. The Haflingers wait for their freedom from confinement and desire the sun on their backs once again, but settle for the memory of the sun and pastures as it is tossed in the form of flakes of dried field grass under their noses. I imagine they breathe deeply into that hay and can re-experience those warm lazy days in the pasture with every mouthful.

What are we waiting for? I know I feel discontent, antsy and eager for a respite from this. No one tosses a flake of hay to me to keep me from complaining, though it just might work if it was served with hot chocolate.

Actually, the waiting, the anticipation is for something beyond the temporary satisfaction of hunger or thirst, beyond the diversion needed when boredom sets in. It is a far deeper need, and a greater want and desire. Our longing for light in our deepest darkest times can urge us forward, to prepare us for what comes next.

And it will come from the most unlikely source. It will come from a barn, bedded in hay, tucked in a manger, from the humblest of beginnings.

In our dreariest of moments, we must wait and prepare. The sun will return, surround us, warm us, and we will be ready. In the mean time, I'll crawl into the manger and tuck myself in alongside and breathe deeply of the hay, knowing the promise of summer held within.

Emily

http://www.briarcroft.com/emily.htm

Mountain Lions in the Shadows

Mountain Lions in the Shadows

Chores at our farm are rarely mundane and routine since our batch of
four male kittens were born 6 months ago. They were delivered
unceremoniously in the corner of one of the horse stalls by their young
mother whose spontaneous adoption we accepted a mere four weeks before,
not realizing we were accepting five kitties, not just one.

They were born under a Haflinger horse's nose, and amazingly survived the
ordeal and managed to stay safe until the next day when we came in to
clean and discovered them warming near a nice fresh pile of poop. What
a birthing spot this mama had chosen. Thankfully Haflingers are
tolerant about sharing their space as long as you don't ask for a share
of their food too...

We moved them and mama to a safer spot in the barn, away from big
Haflinger feet, and they thrived, getting more adventuresome by the
week, until they are now in full adolescent glory, mock fighting with
each other, scrambling up and down the hay bales, using the shavings as
their personal litter box, doing rodent patrol, and most of all,
strolling along the shelves that line the stalls, breathing in the
Haflinger smell, and rubbing their fur up against Haflinger noses
through the wire. They are best of friends with these ponies in the
light of day, as after all they were born right in a Haflinger bed.

But at night it's another story. Each evening as I come out to do
chores after returning home from work, it is pitch dark and the
Haflingers, out in their winter paddocks, must walk with me one by one
back to their box stalls for the night. Only this is now far more of an
adventure thanks to four cats who glory in stealth attacks in the dark,
like mountain lions in the shadows, waiting for their prey to pass by.

These rascals are two gray tabbies, one black and one gray, perfectly
suited to be camouflaged in the northwest dim misty fall evenings along
a barely lit pathway between paddocks and barn. They flatten
themselves tight on the ground, just inches from where our feet will
pass, and suddenly, they spring into the air as we approach, just
looking for a reaction from either the horse or myself. It never fails
to unnerve me, as I'm always anticipating and fearing the horse's
response to a surprise cat attack. Interestingly, the Haflingers, used
to kitten antics all night long in the barn, are completely bored by the
whole show, but when the tension from me as I tighten on the lead rope
comes through to them, their head goes up and they sense there must be
something to fear. Then the dancing on the lead rope begins, only
because I'm the one with the fear transmitted like an electric current
to the Haflinger. We do this four times along the path to the barn as
four kittens lay in wait, one after another, just to torment me. By the
end of bringing in eight horses, I'm done in by my own case of nerves.

You'd think I'd learn to stop fearing, and start laughing at these
pranksters. They are hilarious in their hiding places, their attempts
to "guard" the barn door from intruders, their occasional
miscalculations that land them right in front of a hoof about to hit the
ground. Why I haven't had at least one squished kitten by now is beyond
my comprehension. Yet they survive to torment me and delight me yet
another night. I cuddle them after the horses are all put away,
flopping them on their backs in my arms, and tickling their tummies and
scolding them for their contribution to my increasing gray hair.

I'm a slow learner. These are like so many of my little daily fears,
which seem to hide, blended in to the surroundings of my daily life,
ready to spring at me without warning, looking like much bigger scarier
things than they really are. I'm a four star first rate highly
skilled catastrophizer in the best of circumstances, and if I have a
kitten sized worry, it becomes a mountain lion sized melodrama in no
time. Only because I allow it to become so.

Stepping back, taking a deep breath, if I learn to laugh at the small
stuff, then it won't become a "cat"astrophe, now will it? If I can
grab those fears, turn them over on their back and tickle their tummies
until they purr, then I'm the one enjoying a good time.

I'll try that the next time I feel that old familiar sensation of "what
if?" making my muscles tense and my step quicken. I just might enjoy
that walk in the dark a little more, whether it is the scary plane
flight, the worry over a loved one's health, the state of the economy,
or the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.

I'll know that behind that mountain lion is a soft loving purring fur
ball, granting me relief from the mundane, for which I'm extremely
grateful. Life is always an adventure, even if it is just a stroll down
a barn lane in the dark wondering what might come at me next on the path.

Emily from BriarCroft
http://www.briarcroft.com/emily.htm