Category: Farm Stories From the Blog

I had never heard of Clearwater before so it was likely a surprise to many that I abruptly upped and left one summer. I had been working as a corporate Sales Manager for a Vancouver hotel and was tired of wearing high heels. I felt I needed some adventures before I became an official grown up.

It all started with a boy (doesn’t it always???). We met in a bar in Whistler. He was from Toronto and had just had a skiing accident. Literally, he had just had a ski accident and had come from the emergency room to the bar. I thought he was wonderful. He was, as long as he stayed on oxycodone. Long story short, the oxycodone wore off and I realized we really weren’t compatible. He represented a house in the suburbs with a two car garage and a minivan; also because he was so boring, there was a good chance we would be in bed by 8pm. Best to bail on the boyfriend before it was too late.

And so it began. I disliked my job, really disliked my boyfriend and then I read an ad in the Vancouver Sun newspaper. A remote lodge was looking for summer workers. A lodge sounded fun. I wasn’t really sure where this lodge was but surely people had adventures while working at a lodge. I packed my bags and headed out.

I was slightly muddled. I thought I had read the lodge was in “Clearbrook” which is one hour from Vancouver. The fine print actually said “Clearwater” which is six hours from Vancouver. The lodge was another 40 minutes from Clearwater. This put things in a different light.

I got to Clearwater and the owner of the lodge picked me up and said that he needed to pick up some things at the mall. Thank God. A mall. I understood malls. Malls were where civilized people went to spend their free time. I liked that. What I didn’t understand is that not all malls are created equal.

The “mall” in Clearwater is typical of small towns. A small town mall has a bank, a grocery store, a drug store and the mandatory liquor store. This was not a “mall” in my mind, this was an outpost.

The adventure continued. On the way up to the lodge, the owner felt I might be interested in seeing some of the iconic waterfalls that were a feature of Wells Gray Park. I looked at the water falling over rocks. I was still shell shocked about the outpost and wasn’t ready to wrap my head around the fact that the big feature of the area was a large running tap that didn’t turn off. No Granville Island, ocean views or stunning urban skyline. Water coming out of a cliff was the highlight. Shadows of second thoughts started to creep in.

Growing up, my family’s concept of “roughing it” was slow room service so being shown to my staff accommodation was a shocker. I was going to spend the summer in a small trailer. A small “tired” trailer that hadn’t been cleaned since the previous summer. My idea of adventure included more duvets and less dust and dirt. Also, the trailer was in the woods. I was convinced I heard the sounds of axe murderers. I know. Melodramatic but true.

The noises were not from axe murderers, it was black bears foraging for food. Great. Killed by an axe or eaten by a bear. This was looking like a short adventure with a messy ending.

My trailer was “modest” which is a nice way of saying that it had a crappy bed and a small closet and not much more and definitely no running water. Running water was in the shower house which was across the field. I would take my flashlight and run like a mad woman to get to the shower house so that I wouldn’t get eaten by the bears. I did end up showering with toads which was gross but not deadly.

I don’t think I spoke for the first three days. I was living in the woods, in a trailer and although I had been hired as a “manager” that was just a fancy term for being the waitress and the dishwasher. My black patent pumps broke on the first day I tried to walk up the gravel driveway to the “lodge”. Also, there was no electricity in my trailer so the iron I had packed was useless.

No one thought I would last the week. I didn’t think I would last the week but I kept at it. I was determined to live the adventure and decided to take up hiking. Hiking seemed liked a good adventure word . And, I had been to Stanley Park in downtown Vancouver. That park had trees, Wells Gray Park had trees so I felt ready. Also, I had bought hiking boots and wool socks so I totally “looked” like a hiker. Looking the part is half the battle. Too bad it was the wrong part of the battle.

In Stanley Park, the trails are cement pathways with signs. Lot’s of signs. Wells Gray Park could learn from Stanley Park. I got lost. I didn’t understand a “people” trail vs a trail that the animals made to cut through to other grazing habitat. They both looked the same. At the point that I was starting to panic and hear more noises in the woods, I turned the corner to find two very scary looking men holding chain saws. I might have screamed and then I ran.

I ran and I ran until I almost ran into a black bear sitting in the middle of the trail eating berries. I kid you not. This is day four and I have already met potential axe murders and a bear! Suddenly the boring guy and the two car garage seemed super appealing. I waited for almost an hour for the bear to move away. I sang, I clapped my hands and I yelled. These were all the things I had learned in the bear pamphlet. Nothing worked. Finally, I decided to detour through the bushes and make my way around the bear. My heart was pumping, sweat was pouring down my back. I was breathing hard and I have never been so scared in my whole life. I collapsed with relief when I got back to the main road and returned to the lodge. I had been gone almost 5 hours and was two hours late for my shift and NO ONE NOTICED. I apologized for being late and explained that I had been trapped by a bear. They laughed and said “that happens”. That happens???? I could have died out there. I thought about calling the ex-boyfriend to come and get me.

The staff called me Goldilocks. Over the course of the summer, I ran into over 40 black bears. The men with chainsaws turned out to be Park Rangers and I turned out to be the summer joke. No one expected me to return to Clearwater including me. That was 27 years ago. Never say never…..

That summer, I learned how to canoe, bike, hike, raft, horseback ride, shoot a gun and hitchhike 40 km to the nearest bar. I learned how to sleep under the stars and I made it my mission to hike every trail in the park. I learned how to live a life and have an incredible amount of fun.

That summer led to another summer which led to me meeting my future husband. Yes, he was a park ranger (go figure!). We met, we married and definitely didn’t end up with a two car garage. We ended up with 3 kids, 2 dogs, 1 cat, meat birds, laying hens and of course……the four pigs and now we have a bear.

Bears are just a part of life where we live. Several years ago, we had a bear take over Owen’s playhouse. He liked sleeping in the sand. When he started to move towards the porch, we had to call the Conservation Officer.

Last year, the bear ate our chickens. One doesn’t think of a bear as agile or limber but gosh darn it, they can climb fences. He just popped by and took a chicken to go. Wayne spent hours waiting for him.

It’s one year later and the bear is back. He’s a lovely bear. Beautiful black, shiny fur and healthy. Must be all those chickens. He is sniffing around the pigs. I think he likes bacon.

We keep the dogs out at night. Yesterday morning, they woke us up at 5am. They were barking fiercely. 5am is early. I don’t really like that time of day. I kind of hoped that the dogs were barking at the horses across the way. Just to be sure, I got up and peeked out the window. It was not a horse. It was a bear trying to navigate the electric fence that protected the pigs.

We leaped into action. Wayne ran out the back door, I ran out the front door. Wayne grabbed the gun, I grabbed my phone. I know. Don’t judge me. I was thinking of the blog.

Since I had the phone, I walked up behind the bear to try and take a photo. My timing sucked. I clicked just as Wayne directed the dogs to take a run at it.

Sanity replaced stupidity and when the bear looped back through the woods to the pig pen, I ran. Wayne ran too. He ran with his gun. I felt he should have put on pants. Men with guns should wear pants, not just Lulu Lemon underwear. I think the same thing crossed his mind too. He went back inside to put on pants.

After Wayne put on pants, he got in the truck and waited to see if the bear would come back. While he waited, I followed the bear tracks. I know….this is crazy. It didn’t take long. He has been sleeping in our neighbors yard, less than 100 yards from the pig and where Owen builds his jumps. We’re going on a bear hunt and I think I am afraid!

This bear is smart. We didn’t catch him last year and we haven’t caught him yet. We have doubled the electric fence and fortified the chicken coop. The bear needs to understand that a vegan diet is better for his long term health.

So there you have it. It’s been a long journey with me and bears. Since I first arrived in Clearwater, I have had many encounters with bears. I won’t bore you with tales of living in a homestead cabin on 300 acres and having a bear peek into my bedroom window. I know how to use a gun, I know it hurts like hell with the kick back and I know that the end result isn’t always pretty. Big scary things do lurk in the woods. They also haunt my imagination. I keep reminding myself that “we can do hard things” and that means facing up to the things that make me afraid. I won’t always have the full courage I need but I will remember that if I have to fight my fears, I will wear pants.

Here’s to courage and facing the things that scare us in the woods…..

With love,

Shelley

Sometimes there is something to be said for doing a bit more research on a proposed project. When I was researching pigs, there were many images of well behaved pigs obediently following their “people”. Had I dug a little deeper, I would have realized that the pigs I had been looking at were show pigs not the main course. Show pigs are scrubbed clean and paraded around a ring and judged for money; like getting ready for a job interview. Sort of.

We don’t judge our pigs. We see them each for what they offer, namely bacon, sausage and pork chops. I think they must have a sense that we don’t have long term commitment and that is why they put up a fuss when we had to move them to a new pen. It’s either that or maybe they are more like kids than I thought. Sometimes you have to push and prod to get them to where you want them to be and in both cases, that gets mucky.

I am truly aghast that I ordered pigs without any meaningful research. I just looked at the pictures and thought “how hard can this be?”. Ignorance is not bliss, it is stupidity. How stupid to think that just because I had a bucket of food, the pigs would follow.

To successfully move pigs, you need patience. You also can’t yell at them. They don’t like yelling. They like to be gently nudged. They like to quietly move at their own pace when they feel it is safe and convenient. Kind of like my husband.

Of course, we didn’t know this when we started. We started with a more assertive approach. Actually, it was Wayne that started it. His idea was to crouch down like a sumo wrestler and spread his arms out wide. I think he thought by spreading his arms out, the pigs would feel the urge to be herded and as they herded, he could reach down and grab one. That’s not what happened. Pigs are faster than you think. I will also share that pig manure does not wash easily out of clothes.

A new approach was needed. We needed the full family for a five on four full court press. In case you were wondering, we were the five; the pigs were the four. Although we had the advantage of height and numbers, they had us on weight and unwillingness.

The first hour was a bust and no matter what we tried, we mainly just ended up yelling and blaming each other. The end game was to get them to move a mere 300 feet. The reward would be that they would have new grass to graze, trees to chomp and even a pool. OK, it was a pond but whatever. We were offering an upgrade but they were still keen to stay in the studio apartment with the bad plumbing and no view.

It was fear. I get that. Change is courage in action and that even applies for pigs. Sometimes, in order to make change, you need a team to get behind you to push and guide you. Lucky me, I got to get behind the pigs with a large piece of plywood. My role was to gently “push”. I also had to speak quietly and nice to them. I told them about their new home and the new pool. As I talked, I gently moved them forward. This was second nature to me; 23 years of being a mom finally paid off. I am now a “pig whisperer”. I am not sure if this is worthy of celebration or a shot of whiskey.

Everyone had to be still. One sudden move would cause chaos. Megan and Owen held hockey sticks to create an illusion of fence lines or borders. Aiden held out food as the overarching incentive and Wayne held the gate open to the promised land. It was all going great until it wasn’t.

Wilbur was the leader. As soon as we “pushed” too much, he sensed it and led the revolt and bolted! Pigs went wild, running through the electric fence, crashing through the garden and charging out onto the driveway. Four pigs on the run. One step forward, two steps back and how the hell do you capture pigs on the run?

While the rest of the family was back to yelling, I was ok by the chaos. After all, this was just an extension of the dance of motherhood. You talk nicely, you gently push and just when you think you are making progress, there is a revolt and you have to start again. What’s interesting about the pigs is that they didn’t want “freedom”, they wanted security. How’s that for a great life metaphor? I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get them back to their beginning. They gravitated to what they knew and was comfortable. I get you Bacon. I like comfortable too. It’s that stretching to the promised land that freaks me out. What if the brochure is a lie and the “pool” is really a “pond”?

It took three hours but they finally passed through the gates and found their new home. It was exhausting. Also, being charged by four pigs is something I never even thought to imagine. Did I mention it’s hard to wash out pig manure?

The pigs found their happy place. They have dug their own mud puddles and then waddle into the pool (ok, pond) to cool off. I know their destiny is the freezer and I kind of feel bad. I wouldn’t have thought that pigs are cute but they are. They like having their ears rubbed. They like nuzzling their nose into the palm of my hand. They like to run and then flop. Each of them have such distinct characteristics. I see why it is bad to name them. There is going to come a day when we have to slit their throats. I feel that Shakespeare would have a field day with our duplicity. “Here pigs….come swim in the swimming pool; bathe in the mud, indulge in the green, green grass, come sit by me while I hold up a knife…..”. Talk about a dystopian tale of epic proportion.

And so it is. Much like life. Taking chances on moving forward. It’s easier to take chances when people stand behind us. So many life experiences are kept in silos. How many challenges do we face alone for fear of asking for help? Does anyone else have dark thoughts that they are afraid to reveal because they don’t want to “burden” anyone? There is a need for courage to take the next step to get the house with the pool but also to ask for help and see if someone will stand behind us to help push us forward.

Brene Brown says “we can’t be brave in the big world without at least one small safe space to work through our fears and falls“. We need safe spaces. I saw that with the pigs and I see it in myself. My safe space needs to be the people that care about me and SEE me. It is super hard being vulnerable and saying “I fucked up“, “I don’t know the next step“, “I don’t know if I can” and likely the biggest one which is “what if I can’t?” Moving and changing is paralyzing. This is where the demons can get you unless you are willing to reach out for a way up. But we have to speak out when we need the lift up. Yes, another call for courage.

Our pigs hold space in our lives. It is so easy to spend time with them and enjoy them for who they are. Who wants to “fix” a pig and make them “better”? They are perfect the way they are. I can’t believe that I am saying this but it is so easy to spend countless moments just watching them BE pigs. I’ve likely lost my mind but maybe gained perspective.

I wonder what it might be like to let go of the armor and all the everything that holds us back from making change. It’s time to find the place with a pool (not a pond) and stretch through the unknowingness.

With love for all who take the next steps, even if it means getting a bit muddy.

Shelley

Good news!!! My underwear fits again and I can finally breathe. Bad news…..the neighbors called and complained about the smell of our pigs. I’m not talking the next door neighbor, I am talking the neighbor that lives across the hayfields and then some. I hadn’t factored in the aroma when I started Project Pigs. Let’s be honest, I hadn’t factored anything in because I was completely ignorant about pigs. It just seemed like a good idea.

I blame COVID. I blame COVID for most things but in this case, it’s true. When the world is calling for the sky to fall and you start feeling guilty for buying the toilet paper you actually need, it was a call for rethinking life and food supplies. I should have stopped at “let’s make the garden bigger“. Actually, I should have stopped at that first glass of wine because it was the second glass of wine that caused me to text “YES. I’LL ORDER 4 PIGS“.

“What did I do?” was reserved for my twenties and late night parties not something in my 50’s. I knew nothing about pigs and had just ordered four. My husband was ecstatic; I looked for a therapist because clearly I was NUTS!

My rationale for pigs went something like this…… If the world thinks that we are going to run out of toilet paper, chances are we might run out of options at the grocery store. What happens if the border closes and the food chain is interrupted? We live six hours away from Vancouver and the grocery store gets their deliveries twice a week. What you see on the shelves is what you get. In the winter, if the highway is closed due to weather, the selection is skinny. If the selection is skinny due to snow, I wondered what a world wide pandemic might do?

Food security has always been something I have believed in but as long as I could still buy red peppers whenever I wanted (and toilet paper), I kept food security issues in a file marked “to think about later“. My fall back position was “it’s good to support Farmer’s Markets” which masked my inherent laziness when it came to working a garden. COVID brought chaos and I joined thousands of others in planting the makings for salads and more.

We’ve always had a garden. Sometimes I even watered it and pulled out weeds; mostly I just liked growing tomatoes. Our garden had some flaws namely the soil wasn’t terrific. Pigs were the perfect solution. They are natural rototillers and they leave behind great fertilizer as they “go” and when their work is done, they can rest comfortably in the freezer. This sounded like the perfect plan.

My knowledge of pigs was limited to what I learned from reading Charlotte’s Web. Wilbur was cute and compliant. Nothing like using a non-fictional character as the basis for raising pigs. I am the reason people call the SPCA.

Our pigs arrived big and squealing hard and loud. They also arrived a little sick from the transport truck. “Houston, we have a problem“.

Since I am not a vet or have any experience, this was a good time to learn something about pigs other than what I had read in story that starred a spider that could spell. Our pigs had a really bad barking cough. Dr. Google advised that our pigs likely had arrived with bordetella bronchiseptica. In english, this meant that they had swine flu which was likely brought on by the stress of traveling in the transport truck and without proper treatment, could die. Great. My career as a pig farmer clearly wasn’t going to make it onto my resume.

While I I spent hours looking on how to cure the pigs. Wayne looked for bullets. He’s more practical than I am.

I was determined to figure this out and leaned into the challenge. I also called a farmer friend who came over to administer antibiotics. This sounded simple. Antibiotics are good and they are…..if you can catch the pigs.

Wayne and I had never done pig wrestling as a couple but now we have. It’s not a bonding experience. It involves tons of yelling and shouting. It also meant Wayne had to jump on the pig and I had to jump on Wayne while holding the needle in one hand. It was a miracle I hit the pig with the needle and not Wayne.

Thanks to the antibiotics, three pigs improved but Cauliflower got worse. We named her Cauliflower because one of her ears looked like a cauliflower. Likely, her ear had been trampled in the transport which caused the deformity and the more severe cough. Her cough got so bad that she ended up with a prolapsed rectum. This definitely didn’t happen to Wilbur.

**ALERT**GRAPHIC IMAGE**

We had never wrestled pigs and we had certainly never had to push a rectum back into a pig. A rectum is not something you can just “leave out” and hope it gets better. To make it worse, if we didn’t deal with it, there was a good chance the other pigs would eat it off. This wasn’t Charlotte’s Web, this was Lord of the Flies.

More wrestling ensued and Wayne pushed the prolapse back in and we taped it things together. Fingers crossed.

The next day, Wayne went to work, he also left the bullet out just in case. As if. When I went to check on Cauliflower, the prolapse wasn’t better. It was worse. Time to call the vet. Another round of pig wrestling was launched and because my fingers were smaller, I had to do the first push of the prolapse. Sticking a needle in a pig seemed like a walk in the park compared with sticking my fingers down long dark alleys. The bullet called out to me…..

We persevered and the vet was able to sedate the pig and then massaged all the bits back in place and sewed it up. Now I had to nurse Cauliflower back to health. We separated her from the other pigs. I made her porridge and spoon fed her. I also asked the vet to leave pill form antibiotics as I was done with needles.

After a few days of specialty feeding, it seemed obvious that she was lonely. She needed her friends. The stitches had held and we moved her back with the rest of the crew. Pigs are social creatures and it was quite something to watch how quickly she recovered once she was back with the others. She also realized that the days of room service were over and she had to get to the trough which kept her moving.

Those first two weeks were illuminating. Unlike lettuce that you just plant and water, pigs are complex but despite the challenges, they have been amazing. In those first few weeks, they rototilled the heck out of the land making it possible for us to expand the garden.

We’ve now got space for a green house, peas, carrots, lettuce and yes, I went a big crazy with 72 tomato plants and more but it’s happening. I still hate weeding but thanks to a friend who suggested we place hay over the crops, I might not have to. The hay keeps the weeds down but the plants can thrive. If only I could put hay on all the parts of my life I don’t like to deal with.

I had no idea what we were getting into and yes, we now have to have socialize in the backyard to escape that special pig aroma but we’re learning. Will we do pigs again? I’m not sure. Wayne has all sorts of ideas for the butchering. This makes me nervous. I had visions of a professional butcher and that wasn’t me in an apron with knife but you never know. What I do know is that Wilbur had a long and happy life, we will have bacon and an abundance of ham along with a nice green salad and plenty of squash with a side dish of salsa.

COVID19 has made us all think differently and in many ways, that’s been good for everyone. Who we were before COVID is likely different than who we are now. Thinking about our world and our opportunities has become gratifying in the simplicity. It seems to me that many of us take pleasure in doing things that we used to take for granted. That includes food supplies and our relationships. Both of these have been enriched.

I wasn’t expecting was to find joy in these new beginnings but overcoming the challenge of being more self-sustainable has been rewarding. Life has served so many of us curve balls and we have had to adapt. That’s scary but it shouldn’t stop us from making the leaps into the unknown. Maybe who wer “thought” we were was just foreshadowing to what we can become.

Now…..if only the 40 meat birds that we ordered can behave themselves. But that is another story…..

Here’s to learning new skills and trying new things even if it means wearing rubber gloves and pushing things back together. Life if messy but we can do it. Stay tuned for more adventures.

With love to all and the hopes for a stronger and more sustainable world.

Shelley

I feel a need to note that when I was growing up, my dream was to move to Toronto. I would be in business, my husband would be a lawyer and we would live in a lovely condo that came with a delightful cleaning lady. There were no children but several pairs of shoes. The kitchen would be fantastic but never used because we would only eat out.

I am unclear where I took a wrong turn because I live in a town of less than 2200. There are no stop lights, no sidewalks, no five star restaurants and if one wants to go shopping, there is a Fields where nothing is more than $20. Grocery shopping for even three items takes an hour. You have to visit with everyone. Even during a pandemic. In a small town, everyone knows your name. Chances are, you will be called out on some scandal. Likely it won’t be true but in a small town, reality TV is played out in the supermarket. I’m hoping that someone might think I am having an affair! The chances are slim to none but in small town gossip, to think that someone might be sweet on me at age 52, I will take that call to fame!

However, I am not having an affair. I am also not in Toronto in my condo with my lawyer husband and my cleaning lady. I am in BFN (bum f@ck nowhere) with Grizzly Adams as my husband, our three children, two dogs, one cat and an abundance of unfinished projects. Also, I seem to have taken on the role of the cleaning lady.

In a condo, I would have had double closets. In rural BC, I have chickens.

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We named them, we talked to them and they would join us on the deck for cocktails.

A bear arrived. The chicken coop was nature’s version of “KFC” and take out. It is a myth that black bears are vegetarian. They aren’t.

Since we had become attached to the “ladies”, it was sad to just find their feathers. We could imagine them talking. “Has anyone seen Beatrice?” “She was just here”

My husband was particularly indignant. We raised these chickens from the moment they arrived in a box on the bus. We brought them home and for their first weeks, we raised them in Tupperware inside the house. They were kind of like pets. I know, that is just so weird but true and when they were under attack, my husband pulled out the big guns. Literally.

Wayne spent hours waiting for the bear. He was going to protect the “girls” but that bear was tricky. It was almost as though he knew when the “hunter” needed to “rehydrate” and leave his post.

Farming means losses. We have watched bears use our coop as “take out”, cougars hunt for fun and much to our chagrin, our new puppy thinking the chickens were playthings. Imagine feather pillows…..

But back to what I thought my life was going to look like and what it actually is. It’s a pandemic, the world is upside down, I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed and I have embraced food security.

Since I have a new found abundance of time, a growing sense of panic for the future coupled with a potential addiction to a cocktail hour that starts at noon, I really felt I needed to revise my focus.

Many might take this opportunity to indulge in yoga or some sort of peaceful practice that would invoke inner harmony. I likely had one too many glasses of wine and ordered pigs. I also ordered 40 more chickens (meat birds….yes, they will eventually be housed in the freezer), 24 laying hens, 72 tomato plants, a redneck version of a greenhouse plus new gumboots. Clearly, I should ease up on the wine.

I can cope with chickens, tomatoes, a greenhouse and new gumboots but pigs??? What was I thinking?

They have arrived at 30 pounds and it is anticipated that we will butcher at 300 pounds. Did you catch that? I easily said “butcher at 300 pounds”. Here’s the problem. I don’t know how to butcher a pig and I have real concerns that Wayne’s version will be messy!

Where the hell is the cleaning lady and my condo and how did I end up learning how to disembowel a chicken? I think it’s also appropriate to mention that I don’t even like pork!

So where does this leave me? Well, I vowed at the beginning of the year to be brave. I promised myself that I would challenge myself to take on new projects and learn new things. Likely I was thinking more along the lines of poetry and trying new cocktails but too late now.

My true confession is that I actually believe in food security and I worry about borders and food quality and international relations. Likely it is far fetched but This pandemic is generating feelings of paranoia but it is also the catalyst to wanting a new sense of community feeling self sufficient. Overnight it felt like a darkness came and stole our lives and robbed us of our means. This pandemic has taken various forms of prisoners and left no one uninjured. Self sufficiency on even the smallest scale feels like regaining a sense of control while the world is still spinning madly.

Everything is changing and large food production plants are closing down due to health concerns. The government has confirmed bridging aid but there is a small murmur that suggests we give up our fetish for shoes and trade them for gumboots. A backyard garden is a powerful source of sustenance. There might even be some newfound satisfaction in providing not only for ourselves but also for each other.

It seems impossible that we live through a pandemic that crushes the global economy and not emerge with new thoughts and new skills and perhaps a new outlook. What if we found new ways to look after each other and it was granular and basic and was delivered as baskets of freshly picked lettuce or maybe homemade bread or jam? What if our healing took place in the earth? Where our hands connected with dirt and we watched it sift through our fingers and we took satisfaction in planting and caring and growing? I think I need this healing. These quiet moments when the tending of gardens and animals immerse me in something greater than dreams of a condo and a closet of shoes.

I can’t say I’m expert because I’m not. I am used to being busy and being “productive” but lately I have been drifting and feeling a tad lost. I am hoping that by learning how to create from seed, will give me a renewed sense of soul.

It intrigues me that as the weeks of “self-isolation” pass, new life lessons emerge. It echoes what I “thought” I would be versus who I am “becoming”. My connection to the earth and food source is actually quite freeing. I used to depend on the “economy” but that clearly didn’t work out. I am wondering if I have to learn how to rely on myself? Frick. That’s a game changer for sure. I wasn’t always sure of myself and was often found looking for “Easy Street” and now I have pigs. I think of the iconic movie “Sliding Doors” and wonder what my moments will be. Fate or said destiny? Maybe it is just the deeper yearning that is starting to take hold?

So. The pandemic saw me clean my house, fight off waves of panic, embrace day drinking and now I feed pigs. It’s week 6. I am nervous as to what week 12 might bring. However, if I was totally honest, I would also admit that being “still” and doing “nothing” is hard but calming. I feel drawn to the silence and feel its ok to enter the abyss of the “the wondering” of what’s next.

BC (Before Covid19) I always rushed. I pedaled fast and the scenery of my life was nothing but a blur. I just went along for the ride. I lost that part of me that believed in my dreams. After all, aren’t I “too old” to change, to reroute and restructure a life that seems “fine”?

And then it all stopped. The pandemic arrived and now there is no rush and what was a blur is clearly in focus. The stopping has allowed me to hear that whisper that calls for new growth. I wonder if I shifted too far when I took my life turn. I look in wonder at a new grounding that is taking place all around. I see deeper relationships with family, friends even with oneself. I feel a tilting towards balance and a sigh of relief.

I vowed to be brave this year. I am scared to be unemployed and to lose my badge that comes with a title on a business card but as I work through my fear, I find new courage to meet myself on new levels. I wonder if I actually might like myself more?

I dreamed of Toronto and I find myself with pigs. Life is funny that way. Maybe Forest Gump really had it right when he said “life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get”.

I never thought I would get chickens or pigs or even kids and yet, I do and they are all an adventure.

I am still scared. I wish they would tell me what happens at the end of a pandemic. If this were a book, I would totally skip to the end. I wish I knew when “normal” would return and I sure wish I could hug those I deeply care about. I feel adrift because I crave connection but I console myself with the fact that maybe my best new connection is now with myself.

I wish you peace amongst the chaos and love with yourself and with others. I’m going to believe that it’s going to be ok. May we each grow something new and try something with courage.

With care and love,

Shelley