Things to see...

 Because the world is filled with wonderous things to see, I had eye surgery last week. The goal was to relieve the pressure caused by glaucoma and prevent me from losing vision. I had a little pity party for myself when I found out I had to have this procedure done. I let the party go on for a while, then I reminded myself how lucky I am to live in a time where medical assistance is available for problems like mine and how grateful I am to have insurance to cover the exorbitant expense. My attitude change firmly in place, I embarked on the experience.   

I don't know about you, but medical procedures involving the eyes makes me feel squeamish. I didn't want to know too much about what the operation entailed; I just trusted the specialist to do his thing and do it well. I have had two previous, less invasive surgeries by this same doctor, which helped some but not enough. So, I sort of knew what to expect, except this time the anesthesia didn't work quite as well as normal, "In a small percentage of patients, this nerve block is not fully effective," the nurse aesthesis quipped as I indicated, over and over, that I could feel what the doctor was doing. And it didn't feel pleasant.  As he placed the last suture, he said, "Man, are you sensitive. I've given you 10 times the amount of medication I give patients, and you can still feel it." This was not a contest I wanted to be involved in.  

But I have a TEAM.  Chris took two days off so he could drive me to and from Portland (2 hours each way) for the surgery and the post-op check-up the next day. And, because I think good ice cream is the antidote to all bad things, he researched and found that Fielders Choice, one of my favorite ice cream stands, was newly open for the season Thursday-Sunday, not far from where we needed to pass to drive home.  A coffee Health bar cone tasted awfully good after my harrowing time. He also has been cheerfully doing all the animal chores for me since I am on light duty, not able to bend over or lift more than 10 pounds for a few weeks while I heal. 

Sister Deb put her own plans on hold and drove to Maine to help Rachel with the Owlet. In between reading baby books, playing with toys, cuddling, laughing, and chasing the little one, she cooked, did dishes, let dogs in and out a thousand times, and waited on me hand and foot. 

Rachel took over all the grooming work and washed and groomed my own two dogs so I would have pleasant cuddle companions as I rested. I made a bold effort to help her groom on Saturday, putting on my work clothes and showing up. I lasted two hours before I hit the sofa and took a nap. 

Friends have offered to help, too, and neighbors have checked in. I feel grateful and supported by the people in my life who make tough times easier. The world is filled with wonderful things, and amazing people, and I am thankful. 

Dove colored dawn...

 The sun rose, heavily filtered through snow-laden clouds. The view was shades of grey from my pillow, inside and out.

 I made the bed, started laundry, and lit a fire. Fed the cats. Carried feed and water to the chickens, grain, and hay to the goats. 

Bravo retrieved a lost glove. Gleefully. 

The snow was light and easy to shovel, clinging to every branch and wire. 

Only one customer braved the snow. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" she asked.  Indeed. 

I filled the bird feeders more than once. The deedling voices of the chickadees and the sweet call of the goldfinches rose over the whirring of their wings. 

From inside, I watched the flakes fall, listened to the fire hiss, and the logs sighed and shifted.  Chris worked from home. I could hear the timbre of his voice as he answered phone questions, patiently untangling problems. The wheels on his office chair rumble through the ceiling, reminding me I am not alone. After a romp in the snow, the dogs settle close to me, dreaming. 

There is a hush and sensation of slowing on a snowy day. It calls for rest, and I answer. 

Lazy...

 It was a lazy day. We had a quiet morning and a peaceful afternoon. The furnace was turned up higher than usual, but I felt chilled. I knew the goat cozy needed cleaning but was having trouble motivating myself to go out in the cold and take care of business. Around 3:00 PM, Chris chided me that we needed to get out and take care of it. I was cozy. I didn't want to go out. But as always, he was right, and I knew it. 

I put on my thick barn coat, my insulated boots, and my heavy gloves.  Bravo was excited, ready to go. I checked on the chickens, freshened their water, and gave them some treats from the kitchen. I took some grain to the goats to keep them busy while I worked and got to shoveling. Chris joined me and hauled each wheelbarrow full of soiled shavings out to the manure pile. 

Just as we began to work, some sort of frozen stuff began to fall from the sky. It hissed loudly on the metal roof. I found I was no longer cold. It felt good to be outside. 

After the floor was swept clean, I emptied a full bale of sweet-smelling pine shavings. I filled the hay feeder, topped off the mineral feeder, and gave the girls a bucket of water. Knee-deep in clean bedding, they looked pleased. The freezing stuff continued to come down, and I locked everyone up early.

Bravo danced about, and I tossed his toy for him. 

The frozen stuff still fell loudly from the sky. 

It clung to Bravo's coat. He didn't care. He ran and played. 

To my surprise, I  was happy to be outside. Frozen precipitation hit my face and bounced loudly off my coat.  I wandered from the goat house to the chicken coops, checking on all the critters. Everyone was fine and snug in their houses. It was time for me to go back to mine.

Inside I made us a simple supper. As it baked, we sat by the fire and read quietly. I sneaked a peek at my handsome husband in his chair beside me. This day, just the two of us, taking a rest from our work, it was a gift. As is every day that we are lucky enough to share. Especially the lazy ones. 

Persistence...

 A sweet customer gave us a wee potted cyclamen three years ago for Christmas. It brightly bloomed over and over in its tiny pot. Then, it began to look a little sad, so I transplanted it. It grew dramatically, sending out new leaves and flowers at a shocking rate. Last spring, I transplanted it again. Shortly after that, it began to look sad. I watered more. It became yellow and sad. I watered less. It began to drop its leaves. Then it became inexplicably sticky. It appeared to be infested with aphids. I have no idea how that happened; I've never had that problem before. I bought a special spray. The aphids laughed. My poor, previously vigorous plant looked pathetic. As much as I like houseplants when they begin to look crummy, out they go. I sadly tossed the plant out into my flower garden. 

My kindhearted friend Sunday sometimes comes and helps me with yard work. It was late summer when I noticed she had taken pity on the poor, abandoned plant and tucked it into one of the flower beds. It was bravely putting a few new leaves up. I watched it for weeks, and more leaves appeared. I was impressed and glad that my merry little plant had a new lease on life. 

As summer came to a close and frost threatened, I dug it up and popped it in a pot. Though it had several leaves, they looked kind of rough, with tattered brown edges. I didn't know if being transplanted would be the death knell for my small friend, but I gave it a spin. 

Now it is January, and here is the cyclamen. The sweet pink blossoms have made me smile countless times in the last three years. Especially so now that it has been granted a new lease on life. My husband quips, "Life is persistent." This little houseplant certainly is, joyfully so. 

Adieu '22...

 I took the week off after Christmas, and I had BIG PLANS. I was going to reorganize the pantry, pull all my clothes out of my bureau and closet, and get rid of things I don't wear. I was going to do some writing and spend a few hours just thinking and doing nothing. It was going to be great. But the universe laughed, and none of those things got done. I crossed not one item off of my tidy list. I did get all of our inside Christmas decorations taken down and piled in a heap on the dining room table. And I got a head start on the outside décor. 

A customer waited in her car one day while we groomed her dog. Later she said, "I had the best time watching your little goats eat that wreath." She was so happy.  It was like we had offered unique entertainment for her while we worked. And the gate-breaking goats were undoubtedly pleased. I imagine they had sweet, fresh breath, too.  I was not so thrilled because I had made that wreath with great joy and thought it looked pretty hanging on my vintage sled. 

Aimee came to visit the Owlet. And us. But mostly the Owlet. She made her a little family of knitted hedgehogs, a mama, a papa, and a wee baby. And she tucked them into a precious vintage child's cart. She made a pull for the cart with a pretty satin ribbon and added a soft pom she'd made at the end, just the right size for a wee hand to grasp while a little girl takes her hedgehog family for a stroll. 

For me, she brought a stunning vase and a joyful bunch of tulips. Tulips in December are a special treat. She gifted my sister's identical vases, so now we three each have one. She also gave me a small green vintage tin with a crow on it that once held a typewriter ribbon. It rattled loudly when I picked it up. Inside was a perfect aquamarine marble, a sea-glass marble she found on a beach walk. And then gave to ME!  Aimee is a fantastic gifter. 

In return, I made her corn pancakes. When I was a little kid, my mother sometimes set the table for 7 and made the whole family corn pancakes for supper. It was a special treat. One time when Chris and I were dating, my mother gave him some. He took a bite, looked at me, aghast, and asked, "Why are there vegetables in the pancakes?"  I rarely make them anymore because I'm the only one that likes them. But Aimee does. We shared them, steaming and covered with butter and real maple syrup, and were happy. 

I baked a fairly yummy chicken pie for New Year's Eve supper. We had two guests, our neighbor friend, and the Owlet. Both seemed to like the meal. The Owlet stayed for a spend-the-night. We did not stay awake to see the old year out. But the Owlet and I woke to watch the sunrise, and she patted me, kissed me, and told me many things I could not understand. Then she snuggled in with her head on my shoulder and slept another hour. I rubbed my lips against her peach fuzz hair, inhaled her baby scent, and listened to her breathe. The rising sun illuminated the curve of her cheek and the smudge of her lashes. I thought that was a fine way to start the New Year. 

When I got up, the very first thing I did was take a scoop of food out for the wild birds. Then, I looked up to where the crows often wait for me and saw an immature bald eagle perched there. It spread its wings and soared off across the meadow. An auspicious beginning, indeed. Adieu, '22.