Lessons learning...

The lessons I have had to learn after having my knee replaced can be summed up in two words. Slow Down. I have been diligent in performing the prescribed exercises and, in fact, do more of them more often than instructed. Determined to heal well, I power through the list with grit and some cuss words. The physical therapist has to remind me to slow the exercises down, be deliberate, and retrain my muscles and nervous system. It is frustrating, and I must remind myself to give the process time.  Meanwhile, spring is happening outside my window, rushing past in a blaze of bright colors and heavenly scents. It does not know how to slow down, either. 

In the past four weeks, I spent much time on the reclining sofa with ice on my leg. The Owlet thought it was rather nice having a captive audience. I read many books to her, and it became her daily habit to snuggle up with me for her nap. Since she often sleeps for two-plus hours, she held me captive. I thought I might read several novels and accomplish some writing while on mandatory rest, but instead, I bonded more closely with the baby. It was a sweet time well spent. 

The veterinarian came out to give the goats their annual vaccinations and health checks. She performed an ultrasound on Plenty, who had been bred but then had what I believed was a miscarriage. Indeed, there were no babies to be seen. Other than that sad news, everyone was declared healthy, and they behaved nicely despite the prodding and poking. We expect Grace and Glory to present us with kids in August, which is something to look forward to. 

My first week back at work was uneventful. I was worried that returning to my normal daily rhythm would be challenging after weeks of downtime, but besides being ready to rest at the end of the workday, all was well. It was good to spend hours chatting with Rachel and fun to see customers, too. 

Chris has been kindly doing most all of the animal chores while I recover. I miss my time interacting with the goats and chickens. Taking care of them wonderfully grounds me. Yesterday afternoon I had enough stamina to sit outside and enjoy the beautiful weather. The layer flock entertained me with their antics and looked so pretty in the late-day light. 

In the past, I've typically had flocks of all one breed of bird. This mixed flock is fun because I can tell each bird apart from the others. They are an attractive bunch and tend to stay in a tight group as they explore the meadow, searching for fine dining opportunities. Stan the Man is a glorious-looking rooster and is quite polite with humans. He does like to chase poor Bravo, though. 

A pleasant trip to the local Farmer's Market on a lovely day was made even sweeter because the music from this gentleman filled the air. I bought water buffalo yogurt (delicious!) and chatted with neighbors as I meandered from booth to booth. I guess I am learning my "slow down" lesson after all. 

Spring planting...

 Because it is almost safe to put plants in our gardens in Maine (technically, we could have frost until Memorial Day), Rachel picked me up for a plant-shopping expedition this morning. It's a pip of a day, bright and sunny, with a brisk breeze to keep the dreaded black flies at bay. We started at the local fairground where a sale was going on. It was busy, and a long line of folks smiling happily and chatting to each other over their armfuls of purchases. We left there empty-handed but pleased to have experienced it. 

Next, we went to one of my favorite plant nurseries. Rachel wisely brought the baby stroller and let me push the Owlet around. It did triple duty, not only keeping the baby safe and happy but working as a walking aid for me and my 17-day-old knee, and I could balance a big box of plants on the top of the thing. I walked through every greenhouse, inhaling the heady scent of sun-toasted plants and soil.  After the long New England winter, it is a delight to see things growing and plan where I will tuck each bright potted thing, all brimming with promise. 

We filled the back of Rachel's car with our brilliant bounty. I felt giddy to see it.

The Owlet took advantage of some lovely dirt at the edge of the parking lot. She plopped down with deep intent and sifted the pebbles and gravel through her tiny fingers. She was utterly absorbed in the moment, as I plan to be later when I fill my front flower bed with marigolds, petunias, and more. 

As if the day could not get any better, I received a text message from farmer Cheryl. "Couple of cows coming after lunch." 

It was only a short time before the stock trailer backed up to the gate. Mike nimbly unloaded Moxie, a Jersey, and Marilyn, a Holstein, and walked them through the backyard and into the pasture. After a winter of eating hay, they barely acknowledged their change of venue, just dropped their heads to eat the fresh new grass, and looked instantly content. 

Father Bluebird paused with a bug in his beak, watched the bovine parade, fed his chicks, and headed back out to find more grub. The goats will soon get over their astonishment at having giant new pasture pals, but I will spend the next weeks feeling delighted whenever I look out a window and glimpse a cow. 

Boot waffles...

 I heard a story about a woman who was mightily vexed throughout her long marriage because her husband had the habit of leaving his dirty socks on the floor. Then, when he died, after all her years of bitter complaints, she suddenly felt that she would give anything to have more dirty socks. 

Chris wears big, serious work boots with deep treads almost all the time. When he comes in from outside, he deposits what I have dubbed "boot waffles" around the house. They tend to shed from his boots on the white stairs most of all. Because we live on a farm, the mud he tracks in is so much more than mud. Let's just be frank. It's poop and dirt. I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning everything from layers of fine grit to big chunks of yuck from his boots. And I am here to tell you right now that I would NOT miss that if he died. 

Here is what I would miss. When we go to bed at night, I like to lie on my back for a while, feeling the smoothness of the sheets and the deep softness of the mattress and letting my muscles know it's time to rest. Chris rolls to his left and scoots toward me until his knees press against my legs and his chin touches my shoulder. Then he inhales deeply as if presented with a bouquet of lilacs. He makes a little happy sound as he exhales. He puts his right arm around my waist, tucking his hand beneath my back and pulling me tightly towards him. It's like I am on an amusement ride called The Dreamland Express, and his arm is the safety belt keeping me firmly in place. And then? He is asleep. Just like that. 

I usually read for a little while or just lie still and let my mind wander. I think about my day, what I could have done better, what I wish I had not done (or said), and what I intended to do but forgot about. I do a little tomorrow planning, think about what I might cook for supper, and what projects top my list. Not Chris. He finishes his day and shuts off like someone flipped a switch. Once I am done reading and thinking all the busy thoughts, I want to roll on my right side, and even though he is sound asleep, when I softly ask, "Hug your back?" he flips instantly. Then it's my turn to put my arm around his solid warmth, match his breathing and join him wherever our souls go when we sleep. That. That is what I would miss. 

"Small" gifts...

 Sunday came over the day I had my knee surgery. "I brought you some small gifts," she said. A wee bird's nest and a vintage jar of lanolin shampoo were in a neat box. She shares my love of vintage and wild things and gifted these treasures she knew I would enjoy. 

Because I was wobbly from anesthesia, Chris followed me from resting spot to resting spot and close up and down the stairs, lending his strength when I needed a boost. He arranged pillows and ice packs, fetched water, cooked meals, and managed to not look harassed at my endless requests. 

Our son-in-love brought me some lobster tails and shared the jolly fact that I am now, officially, bionic. 

Every time Rachel sweeps through the room, she straightens something askew, clears a glass or plate, and tidies any messes left behind that I cannot manage. Then, she asks, "Can I do anything?" and when I answer does that thing instantly and without question. She is tender and concerned. 

The Owlet demands to clamber up on the reclining sofa with me. She snuggles in, then stares into my soul, clearly wondering why I am not doing all the usual things. Her silent questions unanswered, she snuggles in again, warm and solid.

The dogs are concerned. They press against me reassuringly and mostly avoid trompling on my long incision. 

Every day there are phone calls from relatives, emails, and messages from friends far and wide. Happy cards come in the mail. The concern is palatable. I am awash in "small gifts."