Healing From Burnout

 

  There is a legitimate ailment that affects all people, no matter your age, experience, social status, or how careful you are. There's no bottle of pills to cure it. Doctors and herbalists can't help you with it. You're alone, for the most part. And only you can figure out how to fix it.

  This mystery disease is known as "Burnout". And it is a very, very serious thing. You never know when it will strike, or how long the healing process will be. It simply settles on your shoulders one day, like a damp, gloomy cloak; stealing the joy from the things that used to light you up, stealing the energy from your very bones, stealing the point to life. There it will stay; that ill-fitting, invisible piece of cloth that enshrouds you in mediocrity and depression.

 Don't worry though. There's a light at the end of the tunnel. There's a cure for it. It will take time, and effort, and gentleness. But you can beat it. Though it hangs on with the stubbornness of a tick, you can shake it and come out stronger. I'm positive about this. I'm positive, because even after wearing my cloak of gloom for three years, I am finally healing from it.

  When I left Oregon three years ago, I knew I was burnt-out from farming. The years of struggling so freaking hard to make the farm work, while living with family who didn't want it to work, took its toll. I thought perhaps a change of scenery would help, so I moved to Missouri. But that didn't help. The joy of working with plants and animals was gone. I felt tired and drained. There was no joy in any part of my life; not in the beautiful area that I lived in, not in being married to be best man on earth, not in welcoming our firstborn son, not in starting up a farm of our own... Life was dim. I slept a lot. I cried a lot. I began dabbling heavily in paganism and self harming. I was burnt out and knew it. I also knew that I wanted to heal. I just didn't know how.

  It took a very abrupt piece of news to start the healing process. A piece of news that took me 4 months to come to terms with, and one that ultimately changed me for the better.

  And the news was? 

  Well, it came in the form of a positive pregnancy test.

 Yes folks, I am pregnant with Kiddo #2. *insert bombshell dropping*

 This was very much a shock to Hubby and I, as we were hoping to wait a year or two before adding to the family size. Being the superman that he is though, it only took him about three days to get used to the idea and then become completely ecstatic over the news. Me? Not happy. Not. Happy. I hadn't even figured out how to be a mom for the first one! And we were just starting the farm! How on earth was I supposed to do everything while pregnant and then do it with a newborn!?

 So there was more sleeping. And more crying. And more being depressed.

 And then I'd had enough. I didn't know what I was going to do, but by George I was going to start fixing these problems. I wanted to be excited about this baby. I wanted to have tears of joy when I finally met this new little one; not have tears of dread like last time.

  It took four months, but I can now say with a smile that I'm on the firm road to recovery. It took time, and effort, and gentleness. It was baby steps of fixing my faith in God through reading just one small chapter of the Bible each day and finally stepping foot inside a church again. It was learning to love being a mother through a special book gifted by my mom and taking delight in my chubby, smiling son. It was realizing that making this house a home and being cheerful for my husband gives far greater rewards than globe trotting to Bali and Aruba ever would. It was accepting the gift of a new child. 

 And now it is learning to love farming again.

 Like all the other areas in my life that needed fixing, it's taking time and gentleness to heal from this major burnout. I'm taking tiny steps back into finding the joy of it. It started out with things like buying a couple books from Amazon ('Woman-Powered Farm', and 'Made From Scratch'), and going to the feed store to simply look at chicks and flip through magazines. Then it went to slowing barn chores down and taking the time to enjoy the veal calves that we've raised over the summer (and will be butchering in 4 weeks!). Then it was pulling the spinning wheel out and making yarn... Then it was ordering 2 dozen Sapphire chicks (Sapphires are a F1 cross between a male Cream Legbar and a female White Leghorn.). And then I felt ready for the next big step: Three Ossabaw pigs, and a working dog. 

  These tiny steps weren't rushed. I waited until I was champing at the bit to do each one. I wanted to feel the joy again! I wanted to remember how fun it was at the beginning to simply hold a fluffy chick in the palm of my hand. Or to outfox a crafty calf or pig. Or wake up in the morning feeling excited at what might happen. I'm getting there. I can feel it. I don't have my pigs or my dog yet; but they're coming in the next week or two. And I am so, so excited. Life has joy again. Life has purpose. 

 And I am happy.

  If you're feeling burnt-out, my friend, take heart. You can conquer it. I know you can. Focus on finding the joy. Do something tiny that brings a smile. And do it every day. The gloom doesn't last forever. Joy will always win.

Farm Mom Diaries: No Such Thing As A Pain Free Labor

  I'm going to come right out and bluntly state that for the most part, Hypnobirthing is hogwash. Water birthing is close to that. Prenatal yoga? Same group. Eating pineapple to take away pain? Oh that goes on the top shelf with hypnobirthing.

  Yes, my friend, I really did try all that. They all had some good points, to be sure, but there was one glaring lie that they all held: That a pain free labor can be achieved. Fellow mothers, you can laugh with me at such an idea.

 I am a wimp when it comes to pain. A total, complete wimp. I practically buy ibuprofen in bulk, and take it almost daily (yeah, I know it destroys your liver and that I'll regret it when I'm old). And while I wasn't stupid enough to believe in such a thing as a "pain free birth", I was sure as heck gonna' try everything I could to at least decrease the pain. I had nine months to research and prepare, and that's exactly what I did. Reading through the books and websites for Hypnobirthing, water birthing, prenatal yoga, and herbal remedies, I noticed the very common thread of each practice claiming that "if you followed their method perfectly, then you too could have a gorgeous, pain free, relaxing birth that you would treasure in your memories forever!" Please read that sentence in a corny, sales-pitchy voice. 

 Well shucks, I don't know about a pain free birth, but I'll sure try it out and at least hope for a more comfortable one! So for nine months I prepped... I did the prenatal yoga every single day, I took a 1.5 mile walk whenever the weather permitted, I drank that nasty raspberry leaf tea twice a day (confession: it's actually not nasty; but after you've had it twice a day, every day, for months upon months, you get really tired of it!), I told the midwife to plan for a water birth, and by golly I memorized that entire hypnobirthing book AND listened to all those CD's that came with it. I know, I know... I sound like such a typical "first time mom" doing all that. But hey, remember the whole pain intolerance thing? 

  December 10th rolled around, and my water broke at 7am that morning. I dilated from 2cm to 10cm in a span of three hours. And you know what I very quickly learned? Contractions hurt LIKE THE DICKENS! Like a good girl, I did everything that I had learned over the months. I ate the pineapple to help calm the pain, I relaxed as much as possible, I did the slow, deep breathing, I got in the nice warm tub... I did it all, but I sure didn't feel like I was even getting mild relief despite all my efforts!

  The irony of it all peaked when I was five hours into heavy labor, and my midwives (by now I had amassed four of them) began telling me to push. Push!?!? I just spent almost nine months reading material that told me that under no circumstances should a woman push if she wants a gentle, pain free labor! And here I was, being told by everyone in the room to push as hard as I could! It was in that crazy, foggy-brained moment that I declared all my learning to be a load of crap. And I began pushing for all I was worth.

 After twelve hours, little Travis was FINALLY born, and I decided that I wouldn't waste my time with that hypnobirthing book again. There is no such thing folks, as a pain free labor. Some people may be blessed to have less painful birth if they're built right and they have a small baby, but I don't think anyone can claim to have had a comfortable time. 

  Now, I will admit that each one of those methods did help a little in some way or another, and the accumulated efforts of it all was probably what saved me from having to have an emergency C-section. The raspberry tea helped strengthen those necessary muscles, and helped me heal completely by 3 weeks postpartum. The hypnobirthing helped me handle the early, less-intense contractions, the prenatal yoga allowed me to regain my original weight and waistline by two weeks postpartum, and the water birth... Actually, the water birthing didn't do a thing for me and turned out to be more detrimental to my situation. Oh, and the pineapple sure didn't help the pain in any form or fashion!

 Moral of the story: save yourself some time and trouble; instead of memorizing the hypnobirthing book, go take a nap. You'll gain more from the nap. 

Kulning + Why The Name "To Sing With Goats"

  When people hear my blog name, their first reaction is always, "Well that's an interesting name. Where'd that come from??" I always struggle to explain it a little bit, since it's rather a complex reason. Or more correctly, there are multiple complex reasons. But this is today's post; a history lesson, and why I chose the online alias of "Goat Song"!

  It started out pretty innocently. I had Nubian goats. Those of you who have also owned this breed will most likely smile and nod in understanding. Those of you who haven't... Well, allow me to let you in on a not-so-secret fact: Nubians are LOUD! Very loud. They're talkative drama queens who never miss an opportunity to vocalize their opinion on a matter, no matter how big or small. This trait can either be endearing, or a nightmare, depending on your level of tolerance. For the most part, I found it endearing; my family however, considered it the latter choice and made many a complaint over the years about the noise. I couldn't do anything to make the goats be quieter, so I would usually end up simply winking and saying that the goats weren't being noisy; they were singing! I had myself a whole herd of talented, singing goats! Granted, this quirky explanation never soothed the family members' annoyance, but it started the path of a herd name...

  Along with being loud, Nubians are also dramatic. I had a first freshening, two year old named 'Ivy' who absolutely refused to settle down on the milking stand. She screamed, bucked, rolled her eyes like a wild mustang, held her milk back, kicked, and whatever else she could think of to let me know that she was most unhappy with the situation! At my wits end, I tried singing to her one day. Ivy had no idea what to do about this strange happening, and froze. Five minutes later, I finished milking her; she hadn't moved a muscle in that time, and I was hooked. Singing in the dairy parlor would now be mandatory! Ivy never did misbehave ever again after that day, as long as I sang the exact same song every time it was her turn.

  As time went on, each goat got her own song; they picked it, not me; I'd just go through the list of ones I knew until eventually I figured out which one made them let their milk down the fastest. Ivy's favorite was "Skellig", Capri liked "The Ballad of the Highwayman", Heidi refused to be sung to and had to be quoted Dr. Seuss' "Green Eggs and Ham" (she always was strange..). On and on it went. Every goat had a different song. After awhile, I referred to them as my "goat songs".

  My goat singing went up a notch upon finding an old, barely-read book at my local library. It was called, 'Sing The Cows Home; the remarkable herdswomen of Sweden'. Boom. Total game changer right there. The entire book was a historical account of the amazing Swedish women called "Valkulla" (plural form is "Valkullor"), who, every summer would take their goats and cows high up into the mountains to graze. No men were allowed to come up (except young men on Saturdays, to court the single ladies), and the women and animals stayed up there until the frost drove them back down to the villages. It was the sole job of the women to care for the dairy animals, collect enough summer grass, fall leaves, and pine boughs to sustain the animals over the winter, plus make enough cheese and butter to keep her family from starving during the cold months.

  These women were the bees knees, let me tell ya'. Every morning, after milking, they would simply let their animals loose to roam the vast hundreds and hundreds of acres of pasture and black forest. No shepherd or milk maid accompanied the animals, as the women had work to do. Come night fall, every woman would stand at the edge of her cottage and call her animals home via a high pitched song called "Kulning". A difficult talent to acquire, girls would begin training their vocal chords for this once they turned thirteen years old. By the time they were eighteen (old enough to begin caring for animals of their own), they could sing at a pitch that was 3 octaves above Middle C, and could be heard up to 6 miles away! Each woman had a different song, so that the right animals would go back to the right home. Tales are told by the men of the haunting sound of so many different songs ringing down from the mountains... Alas, the story isn't always romantic; at the time of the Valkulla, the black forest was still a dangerous threat and filled with wolves and other terrors. If a goat or cow didn't return at the sound of the valkulla's song, then she had to go into the dark forest, at night, by herself, and find her animal/s. Many a woman was either killed and eaten by wolves, or died from accidentally stepping into a quicksand swamp.

  The story of these brave women intrigued me, and I began learning to kuln. I never got very good at it, but could eventually get my voice to carry a good 1/4 to 1/2 mile, and my goats learned to come running when they heard the song. My goat song.

  If you've never heard what kulning sounds like, then here's a great starter clip! (this gal also has three other amazing sound clips on Youtube). There are never any words; just the rising and falling of the voice. Some think it strange, but I find it quite beautiful.

  The singing with my goats continued over the years. They sang to me from the pasture, I sang them home for morning and evening chores, and then sang to them again during milking. In the online world, I became known as "the girl who sings with goats", or "that goat song girl", and the names stuck. I was Goat Song. And I named my blog 'To Sing With Goats' in honor of the ancient tradition of mixing melody with milking. 

  When I sold off the goat herd and moved to Missouri, I often thought about changing the blog name. Maybe instead calling it something that didn't seem so exclusively "goat"... I considered many an idea for two solid years, but finally came to a decision: This place will always remain 'To Sing With Goats'. Not just because of a single girl who fanatically sang to her herd of caprines. But because of the broader scope of what it stood for. The blog name is in honor of the Valkullor; some of history's most determined women who farmed. And that is a key interest for me today: Women who farm.

  If they can do it, we can do it. 

  We sing our cows home. We sing our goats home.

  We carry on the legacy. May the songs never die...

Any Day Now

  Today is my "guesstimate due date" for this wee little babe. And the exact date that I came to Missouri on for a dairying internship, two years ago. I'm finding this fact amusing and rather ironic.

 Two years ago today, I landed in a state completely unfamiliar to me, 1,900+ miles away from home and family. My worldly possessions consisted of two small suitcases of clothes, a laptop, and my trusty dog. I intended to stay in this state for 6 - 12 months, learning the fine details of running a farm business (and how to garden, make cheese, and keep bees) before moving on to another state. That was the plan, anyway.

 On December eighth, 2013, just four days after getting settled on the snowy farm, HE showed up. The young brother of my internship host. Three and a half years younger than me, and with the looks and personality that made pretty much every girl in the county swoon, this young buck decided that of AAAAALLLLL the girls he could possibly go for, he wanted me; the odd, secretive farm girl who hailed from Oregon. 

  I wasn't interested. At. All. But that didn't phase him in the least. He just tried harder.

  And yes, y'all know how THAT ended. He got his prize, we got married 11 months after meeting each other, my "6-12 month internship" turned into becoming family, and now here we are: In the midst of living our "Happily Ever After", we've landed on the 2nd anniversary of my coming to Missouri, and I find myself quite heavily pregnant! Life is strange, my friend... Life is so strange. You never quite know what will happen, and where it'll take you.

  I am 41 weeks pregnant, today. And I feel every bit of it. The last 24 hours have been nothing but solid contractions, which have been bearable but leaving me with the feeling of having been hit by a bus. Not cool. Until my water breaks though, I'm to stay put here at home; more specifically, I'm supposed to stay put on the couch. Which, all things considered, isn't such a bad gig. Until I look at the dishes that need to be washed... Oh well. They'll get washed eventually. Today I am dutifully following orders and staying on this couch with my chocolate chip cookies, raspberry leaf tea, and all the online articles I can find on keeping water buffalo (raise your hand if you start mentally singing Veggie Tale's silly song at the mention of these critters). No, I don't know what's up with the water buffalo idea either. It just came to me this morning and I decided I needed to research them. And -- email a dairy in CA to ask how much their bottle heifers are. *Cough, cough* Did I just say that out loud? Pretend you didn't hear/see that! 

  But seriously... WATER BUFFALO. 

  AAAAAAAANNNND back to the original subject. Ahem. Sorry guys; "pregnant brain" makes me rabbit trail something fierce! Hopefully it'll go away soon, seeing as this small person is running out of room in his current living quarters and needs to come OUT! But then, I guess it might just get worse. And if that's the case, then hang on to your hats, folks. Blog posts might start to get reeeeaaally interesting.

  I'll keep y'all posted on what's happening, and when the little man *finally* makes an appearance! He's due any day now. Any... Day...

  For now though, I think I shall go back to my research on the imposing water buffalo.

  Just smile and nod, my friend. Smile and nod.

A Logical Dog Lover

 The past couple of days have been a bit heavy for me as I've gotten back into the writing world and have been given the jolting reminder of what people can be like through social media. The same people who might politely hold their tongue when talking to you face to face, may be fire-and-brimstone hurlers when hiding behind a computer screen.

  Over the last month and a half, I've had an idea brewing that I wanted to try. I wanted to work with a English Shepherd breeder, and together we would raffle off a pup here on the blog. The perks to this idea were that the breeder would have a pup sold, get some free publicity, and maybe get a waiting list down for future litters. The English Shepherd breed would have gotten some much needed limelight, which was my main focus; I love this breed, and wish more people knew about them! I know of no other breed that is as intelligent, useful, or unique. The only perk I hoped for myself was maybe a few new readers. I wasn't in it for the money at all. I just wanted to make someone happy, when they found themselves the new owner of a working farm dog to help them with barn chores.

  Now, I am not stupid. I could easily see that there could be some bad outcomes of this idea. The pup might go to a bad owner, or a pet flipper, or what-have-you. But I figured with some very careful rules and guidelines, we could pretty well avoid the kind of people we didn't want.

  I got all the details written out; hours of evening work, scribbling away with pen and paper. My goal was to start the raffle at the beginning of December, and pick the raffle winner on January 1st. It took me days upon days to find the courage to put my little brainchild of an idea up on the English Shepherd Breeders Facebook page... I don't believe one knows true vulnerability until they've tried handing over their writing to the public. The public tends to have very sharp fangs. But I did it anyway. My plan was sound, the idea was fun, and someone would be blessed with a young farmhand to start their new year with.

  Three hours after posting my idea on Facebook, I deleted it. In frustrated, emotional, hurt tears, I took it down.

  The public has very sharp fangs.

  "Dog people" are an interesting breed of human. And I had forgotten just what they're like. The breeders, whom I had gotten to know over a year of being a member, were mortified and disgusted that I would even think of doing such a thing. They accused me of exploiting the breed and wanting to turn it into something as common as a Labrador. They claimed I was unfit to own an English Shepherd, if I thought we could simply give a puppy away without doing a home check first. And went on and on about how "their" breed was much too precious to share with the public. They call these dogs "the farmer's best kept secret", and couldn't understand why I would want to expose the breed to publicity.

  Trying to maintain my politeness at their harsh condemnations, I replied with an apology at bringing the idea up, and that I would wait until I had pups of my own to hold such a raffle.

 That comment only fanned the flames instead of diffusing them. Breeders who I had been working with to reserve a spring pup banned me from their wait lists. The comments became more abusive. The core message from them all was that I am not fit to own a dog because I am willing to give one away to a person who needs one.

 I love dogs. Always have, always will. All animals are special to me, but there is something that feels particularly right about having a good dog at your side. BUT, they are also "just dogs" to me. I retain a level of logic towards them. They are dogs; not furry children to have their picture taken with Santa or wear costumes. They are not creatures to be idolized above humans. They are not family members that need a cemetery stone, or an ash urn.  And they are certainly not too precious to withhold from decent homes, which is what most animal shelters believe. Shucks, I spent my entire summer trying to adopt an amazing female Akita that desperately needed a home; but the shelter wouldn't let me adopt her because she would have been in a one-income family, and they preferred a two-income family.

They would have preferred that she stayed locked up in a kennel all day, and gotten a quick 15-minute walk in the evenings, instead of being loved and exercised all day!

 America has gone to pot in a lot of aspects, but most notably where dogs are concerned. They have become our idols. Something to violently stand up and fight for on social media. I still remember all the flack I got when I rehomed Gyp. He was an amazing dog, but my life was changing and he couldn't cope with it. I was getting married, my husband was joining the military, and we were looking at living in town, where we most likely wouldn't have had a backyard. Gyp was high energy and needed to run a minimum of 5 miles a day, and be able to work livestock on a daily basis. Anything less than that made him hyper, explosive, and unpredictable. Knowing this, I did the kindest thing I could: I gave him to a gentleman who lived nearby on a farm, and wanted a running partner. It's been a year and a half since doing that, and I still get emotional when I think about him. But I don't regret putting him in a better situation. The "dog people" were horrified that I did it. To a dog person, you're supposed to keep a dog until it dies; no matter what. This sounds quite noble, really. The loyalty and perseverance of it all is not lost on me. But their passion is skewed; and so many of them own unpredictable, unhappy dogs that would be better off with a different owner who could give them what they need. Keeping a Border Collie as an apartment pet because you refuse to rehome him to a local shepherd is not kindness. America thinks it is, but the harsh, cold truth is that it's cruelty. There is nothing noble, loyal, or honorable about keeping an animal in the wrong situation. There is nothing kind and loving about forcing a Border Collie (or any other high energy, working breed) to live in an environment that turns him into a menace due to lack of exercise and mental stimulation. It's far kinder to sell the dog (and there is no shame in getting money for an animal!) to the RIGHT owner, and look for another one that better suits your needs.

  Buying a pup is often times harder than adopting a child these days. And that saddens me. Having to fill out page upon page of forms for the breeder to look over, give at least five references, get a signed paper from your vet, AND have a home inspection before you might get a "yes" from a breeder is insane. But that's what America is now.

 I am a dog lover. But a logical one. Yes, I do hope to have litters of English Shepherds and Scotch Collies in the future, but I refuse to stoop to the disgusting level of all too many breeders these days. There will be no forms for you to fill out, stating how much money you make in a year, how many kids you have, and if you smoke or not. There will be no home inspections done. And there will be no references required. Because I TRUST YOU. And it's really none of my business. If you're willing to pay $500 for a pup, and an extra $350 to ship it, then you're obviously committed to some level in caring for this creature. It's time we put dogs back in perspective of importance. A child should not be easier to adopt than a dog. We cannot expect this nation to make any progress while we sit around and dust off the pedestals that we've placed our pooches on. In fact, I really don't think there's much hope of change until we start making humans more important again, and dogs go back to what they should be: Fun pets that have a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

  And so, I deleted the Facebook post. Getting a spring pup will most likely be quite difficult now, since most of the breeders have my name. But I still think it was a great idea. The English Shepherd is too good a breed to keep a secret. And too good a dog to not share with one of you readers who would really benefit from having a working partner around your place.

 Oh, and for the record, Gyp is doing great.

Balancing my Yin and Yang

  This morning I found myself washing dishes while pondering the eight limbs of yoga, and dancing to Dierks Bentley's epic song, 'Drunk On A Plane' (which happens to be the current favorite country song of my husband and I). Soap suds splashed on the floor as the just-washed whisk became an extension of my arm and got waved in the air with unabashed enthusiasm, and this little baby inside me jumped and wiggled along with me as we did an awkward but joyful dance that only a 39-week pregnant woman can pull off.  It was a moment that has taken me months to find peace about. A celebration of finally balancing my yin and yang. Balancing two sides of me that I've felt were incompatible.

  In the months that I was absent from writing here, I found myself really struggling with what sort of person I was. I didn't seem to fit in anywhere, and there seemed to be two starkly different sides of me that were constantly competing to become the "whole Caity". I called this dilemma my "yin and yang" and day after day during those dark months I could be found draped across the couch in a depressed heap, wondering why life had to be so confusing.

  One side of me I knew well; it was the "country girl" side that loved hunting, mudding, farming, big trucks, guns, Chase Rice, and everything else that comes with being a person who loves her eyeliner and rifle equally. This side of me was familiar, fun, and I couldn't help but love the sexy feeling that comes with wearing tight jeans, gorgeous boots, a fitted top, and my beloved Mossy Oak ball cap (I can't pull off the "cowgirl hat" look; ball caps for me!!). 

 Then there was "The other side"... Bum, bum, bum, BUUUUUUM!! (that's supposed to be epic music) This "other side" had been lurking quietly for years upon years, and finally decided to rear its head and make something of itself. It was more of the "natural/spiritual girl" kind of thing. I couldn't deny it; there was a part of me that adored yoga, desired to become a more spiritual/wise person, and was very seriously considering getting a degree in working with healing crystals (yes, it's a thing). This person ate chia seeds in her yogurt every day (after drinking her lemon water, of course), meditated on her yoga mat for at least 30 minutes every morning, could list all the yoga sutras, and knew that congo citrine could help balance your solar chakra (if you understand any of that last line, then I am impressed and would love to shake your hand). 

  These two sides did NOT get along. Or so I thought. I was too "crunchy" to be in the country girl circle, but too redneck to completely get along with all the others at yoga class. Which side was really me?? How do I choose!? I felt so horribly alone and awkward in my desire to have a definable label for myself. The thought of blogging here was unappealing, since it's all about farming and I occasionally wanted to share my learnings from the yoga world. But starting a new blog that focused on "the other side" never felt very right either, since I would inevitably find something exciting going on in the agricultural world and wanted to share it online... But it didn't fit on those new blogs. 

  There had to be a decision, surely. I can't be both of these sides; it sounded absurd and I had certainly never heard of anyone else doing both! 

  A couple weeks ago I had the breakthrough... There's a private Facebook page for all the people doing the business/marketing course that I'm taking and about 98% of the people there are all on the very "spiritual" side of things. Many of them are crystal healers, tarot card readers, reiki instructors, etc. Great women, for sure, but I did feel rather out of place among them. Then one day, a woman posted something that really shook me. She explained herself as being a retired Army sergeant who loved hunting, and was now a yoga teacher. She said she felt out of place; like she was struggling with two worlds and didn't know how to combine them. Fifty comments followed that post; every single one of them from other women who were in the exact same boat.

 "Wait a minute! You mean I'm not alone!? There are others who do Vinyasa flows to Blake Shelton music??" Turns out there were. A discussion ensued, and what I learned was this:

  These two worlds ARE compatible. It's completely fine to have steak and Jack Daniel's after evening yoga class. You can still practice meditation and then go to a Luke Bryan concert. And you can sure as heck ponder the eight limbs of yoga while dancing in the kitchen to Dierks Bentley!! 

 For so long I've fought these two sides, when I should have embraced them and let them meld to create the whimsical, unique person that I am. I'm no longer ashamed of who I am, nor am I conflicted about who I should be. It sounds crazy and impossible, but I am melding two very different worlds. I'm a country girl who wears a mala. I'm a yoga girl who loves hunting. I've given up some things over the last few weeks (Hubby and I decided that dropping the "healing crystal" thing would be a wise move, and I did make some changes in my meditation habits...), but that hasn't been a bad thing. It's made life a lot easier and simpler, for which I'm grateful. 

  It's taken me months, but I've finally learned to balance my yin and yang. And you know what? It's a beautiful thing. 

One Sticking Point

  Okay so I really am working on maturing and getting rid of pride issues in my life, but I have to admit that I do have one sticking point that I don't think I will ever come to terms with: Tractor color.

 Yes, it does matter.

 The green tractors are the best.

 Not the blue. Not the red. Not the Orange. 

 Fellow country folk will agree with me that this is most definitely an issue not to be taken lightly in life. The color of your tractor is a very serious subject. Right up there with what kind of truck you drive.

 It's gotta' be a Deere, folks... Go with the green tractors.

(P.S. This post is written 75% tongue-in-cheek. I'm mostly just being ornery. But I do love the green tractors!)

I Am Humbled

  Oh phooey. I just found out that I'm out of milk. My jar in the fridge is empty as empty can be! Guess I'll have to pasteurize some more this afternoon, or tomorrow morning...

  Yes you read that right. I really did say "pasteurize". I've been in the raw milk business for roughly six years, I've shied away from pasteurized milk for pretty much that whole span of time, and if you ever wanted to get into a fist fight with me then just say something negative about raw milk. Seriously. I was also incredibly good at debating my case on why raw milk was superior, and why pasteurized milk was trash not worth even feeding to an animal. I may be horrible at arguing, but I could have floored a politician on this one subject. 

  Looking back now, I hate what I used to be... In my "passion" for what I did, I became such a judgmental wretch. No, more than that; I became elitist and proud. I won't deny the fact at all that I looked down on people who didn't drink raw milk. Shucks, at the time, this was a big deal to me! I was in a challenging business where I was not only dealing with high maintenance dairy animals that required precision in their care, but a business that was and is hated by the government. I had the hotline number for the FTCLDF (farm to consumer legal defense fund) in my coat pocket at all times, just in case a government federal official stopped by one day and told me to cease and desist... I could tell you exactly what the bacteria count multiplies to in a 20 minute span when milk is above 30 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew exactly what year pasteurization started and why. I knew the chemical changes in milk once you heated it past 120F. 

  In a nutshell, you couldn't have paid me to drink pasteurized milk.

 Excuse me a moment while I hide my face in my hands in shame and embarrassment over who I was. Gosh... Passionate? More like hard headed.

  A few weeks after I bought my first milk cow, back in 2012, I began to realize something rather ironic: I seemed to be intolerant of raw cow milk. I wrote a post about it, which you can find HERE. So what did I do? Oh the logical thing of course, and started pasteurizing the milk. NOT. That whole sentence is dripping with sarcasm. Nope, if I couldn't drink it raw then I'd just go without dairy altogether. After all, I wouldn't want to contaminate myself with that awful, ruined, chalk water, now would I!?!?! *Gasp of horror* I might -- DIE or something! Or -- get some awful disease! Or, or -- um... Hold on, I'll think of something... Um, I might -- be tempted to eat Lucky Charms cereal for breakfast since I'd have milk to pour over it!!! Gaah!!! Nooooooo! You'll never take me alive!! Man the cannons, boys! It's my way or the highway! And if we can't drink it raw, then we ain't drinkin' it at all!! Goodbye Lucky Charms! You never had enough marshmallows anyway!! 

 Sorry.

 I'll try to come back down to a level of normalcy now. Ahem. 

  With the almost-laughable realization that I couldn't drink the milk from my own cows, I made the seemingly simple decision to just go dairy free. So I did just that. For almost two years. 

  I really craved Lucky Charms cereal... And Honeycombs. Heck, I missed cold cereal in general! And I missed having a glass of milk to go with snacks. Life just isn't the same when you have to drink water with your chocolate chip cookie. Your life feels like a lie. My sister might not agree with me on that, as she is the quirky individual who dips her graham crackers in water before eating them, but I'd like to think that I'm on a slightly higher plane of "normal" than she. Even if I do eat ice cream with a fork, and never a spoon... Your life is still a lie though, trying to consume water and chocolate chip cookies in tandem!! Stick with me folks, stick with me!

  Then I landed in Missouri. Where I hand milk two Jersey cows almost every day (weekends off). When I first came, I tried drinking the milk, in hopes that maybe my system had changed over the years and I could tolerate the lovely dairyness again. Oh just think of the bliss! Milk, whenever I want! But nope. No luck. I. Felt. Horrible. This was borderline ridiculous now. Who ever heard of someone being intolerant to RAW milk!?!? Sheesh. I praised this raw milk stuff to the skies (farther than that, actually) for years. It was supposed to be this magic liquid that came just shy of making you immortal. This was just wrong that I couldn't drink it. 

  A couple weeks ago, my host family offered to flash pasteurize a quart of milk to see if I could handle that. Partly because they felt bad that I was having to be anti-dairy on a dairy farm (oh the irony! It's killing me!), and partly because they were curious if I was truly intolerant to the raw milk, or if it was an intolerance to milk in general. After a couple days to think about it, I caved and agreed to be a guinea pig. One would have thought I had just signed my life away or something... The next day, I tried a small glassful and waited for the usual feelings of being ripped apart on the inside because I had just consumed milk. 

 Nothin'.

 I felt great. All day.

  And the level of irony has just gone through the roof. I'm intolerant to raw milk, but can have pasteurized milk just fine. 

  You might say I did a bit of maturing that day. This whole "raw vs. pasteurized" debate suddenly seemed pointless and ridiculous. Milk is milk, folks! And the large dairies work killingly hard to make sure that their product that goes on the store shelf is the highest quality that they are capable of producing. I was done being judgmental. Here's how it goes folks: You drink your milk how you like it, and I'll drink it how I like it. No more bashing. No more saying one is better than the other. 

 I am humbled. This has long been a pride issue in my life, and it feels good to finally have come to my senses in this aspect. And now I need to make a note to pasteurize another quart of milk soon... It's been great having dairy back in my life. :)

 And can we please agree that Lucky Charms cereal needs to have less "cereal" and more marshmallows?

Ain't Done Yet

  I was born in Virginia. I hail from Oregon. I love Mississippi. Can't stand New Mexico. Right now I'm looking out a window and seeing Missouri countryside. I've changed locations many times in my life. And just like a person can change locations, your life can change, personality can change, opinions can change... Be ready for it folks; you can't stop it, and neither can I. The only thing we can really do is be willing to accept the change in ourselves, and in those around us.

  I've changed since December. Missouri has changed me. Shucks, I'm still changing, and that without remedy. For the most part the change has been good. I'm a different person than who I was back in Oregon, and frankly... I don't want to go back to being who I was. This girl in Missouri... She looks the same, but she's not. She's more confident. More open. More willing to be around people. She feels safer somehow. Her guard is down here; and as she's shed the layers of aloofness, fear, and insecurity, she's turned into a different person. She laughs more. She's happier. 

Some point fingers and say I've become immature; that I've backslid into becoming a worse person than I was before I left... I can see how they would think and say this. Back in Oregon I was so reserved and introverted that people just plain couldn't see what I was really like. I wouldn't let them. Why? I don't really know. Maybe I was too scared... I was scared that they wouldn't like me if they found out what I was like on the inside. Maybe it was the false sense of propriety that I had in my head. There was a set of standards in this noggin' of mine, and I certainly knew that I didn't meet my own standards. Maybe it was peer pressure; thinking I "had" to be like everyone else around me. 

  Coming to Missouri was a breath of fresh air. No one here knew me. No one here said I had to be a certain way. I could let my hidden self out and the folks here could either accept me or reject me. I'm done hiding. The introvert in me still wanted to take the changing slowly, and it's taken the help of some to pull me out of this shell... But by golly am I coming! I can see how people would think and say that I've "backslid". The Caity back in Oregon was dreadfully quiet and serious. When you saw her, anyway... More often than not she was outside, away from people. Or on the computer, ignoring people. She listened to pretty generic music, didn't really have a sense of style, was a picky eater, and to be dead honest -- she was pretty self absorbed. She had one goal in mind and that was to have a successful farm. Saying it was tunnel vision would be putting it lightly. 

  The Caity here in Missouri still has flaws, to be sure. Oh heavens do I still have flaws and problems... But I've at least finally taken that awful mask off and have stopped hiding and trying to be someone I'm not. I am unabashedly myself; take me or leave me. Yes, I've finally learned to love coffee. And I'm becoming such a hardcore fan of Dr. Who and Sherlock that it's almost scary. I'm learning that people are truly enjoyable to  be around. I actually seek out company these days!! And yes, I've rediscovered those chip things called "Doritos". *grin* And Dr. Pepper. I play airsoft with a bunch of guys. My music tastes have changed and grown to where you'll now find an insane amount of Lecrae on my Grooveshark playlist, right along with Toby Mac, Chase Rice, and other contemporary artists. And I will not apologize for those tastes either. The biggest change? The sense of joy I have. I have never had this feeling of contentment and joy in my life. My spiritual life is better than it's ever been, my relationships with people are better than ever... I'm just -- happy! In the end, I think that's it: Some point fingers and say I've become immature, but really what they're seeing is a happiness that they've never seen in me before. I can see how people would think and say that... But there's a difference between immaturity and happiness. In the end, there is. I don't think my maturity level has changed any, but the happiness level is startlingly different. Shucks, I even sing in the car now (this statement will only make sense if you've ever gone anywhere in a vehicle with my family. Multiple people have commented that our silence in the car is creepy/unnerving). 

  I don't want to go back to being who I was in Oregon. Won't go back. I can only hope that y'all can accept my changing self. 'Cause I ain't done yet... 

 And for the record, Lecrae's song, 'Background' is awesome. If you're into that sort of stuff anyway... 

Unplanned Sabbatical

  I'm not dead. You probably thought I was though, huh? Maybe I got the plague here in Missouri and passed away? Or maybe the cows turned rabid (come to think of it, can cows turn rabid? All I can think of is Old Yeller in bovine form... It ain't workin'.) and ate me? Or, or - what if a tornado blew through and swirled me off to Oz!?!? Gadzooks! Anything could happen to a girl on her own!!

 Okay, whatever... No I'm not dead. Or fighting off rabid cows. Or following the yellow brick road to Oz because my sparkly shoes broke down and can't spirit me back to Kansas Missouri (the Tardis was broken too). 

  I've been gone from the blog for over a month. That's the longest time in my 6 years of writing that I've ever left. And at least during the other times I at least gave notice of my leave. During this period of time, I've gotten comments from y'all, wondering what happened, I've gotten emails from y'all, imploring me to get back to work, I've gotten Facebook messages, phone calls... I'm sorry guys. I just -- needed a break. It was an unplanned, spur-of-the-moment sabbatical. After 6 years of writing - and each year growing in intensity with the writing load - I had a burn out. Big time. The very thought of looking at my blog was unappealing. In the month that I was gone, I never once even logged in to the blog in an attempt to write. I'm sorry. I blew it big time. I think part of the problem has been that I haven't had a great place to write, and I don't have a camera; I have a hard time writing if I don't have a good spot to type, and don't have pictures to share! But, as of yesterday morning, I've found a good area in my host family's art studio (which is upstairs) to hide and write, and I think I get to buy a camera of my own in a couple weeks! And over this past week, I've begun to miss writing. For the first time in weeks, I really, really missed talking to you guys, and tapping away at this keyboard of mine. So here I am at last. I can make no promises as to how often I'll write over the next couple of weeks, but I don't think I'll be disappearing again at least. 

 So let's see... If there haven't been any plagues, rabid cows, or trips to see the great and powerful wizard of Oz, then what in the world have I been up to!? Folks, it would take too long to tell you all the stories. ;) In a nutshell though? Snow, snow, snow, snow, and more snow. That sums it up. 

Fine. There was more than that. *huff* There's been cheese making, soap making, dealing with frostbite on one of the dairy cows (I'm hoping to do a post about that), cutting and stacking 2 acres worth of wood (SO stinkin' glad we got that finished!!), late nights watching Dr. Who, a quick trip to Oregon and back (left last Saturday, got home late Wednesday night) to see the family, driving these good people crazy, and basically just starting to fall in love with the state of Missouri. Yeah. Alright fine, that's a bit more than just "snow". 

  I apologize again for disappearing off the face of the earth! I really needed that break though. And in the end that's really not bad... A month-long sabbatical every six years? Huh. Somehow I think I'm still getting the short end of the stick here. ;) Alright, toodle-pip and cheerio everyone. I need to finish up making a Parmesan cheese which is half-done and sitting in a pot on the wood stove, and then with luck I'll be outside by afternoon doing some target practice with a rifle. :) 

Guinevere

Hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving, yesterday! We celebrated ours a day late this year, so today was my day of eating waaaaay too much food (oh glorious food!). Now I'm feeling sleepy, and wondering why on earth eating so much food is so tiring. Hehe. Eh, I'll ponder the answer to that in my sleep.

 I've got nothing hugely new to share since Monday (gadzooks! Was it really Monday that I last blogged???); save for the fact that I got my very own laptop as an early Christmas present from my family (eek!), and I've been busy all week doing that last-minute stuff before flying out next week. Yeah, I leave next week! Wow. My days have been full of saying goodbye to friends here in Oregon, enjoying having a driver's license (freeeeedooooom!), getting Gyp ready (he aced his health inspection at the vet!), and now I'm realizing that I do eventually have to pack. Grumble, grumble, grumble... If there's one thing I don't enjoy doing, it's packing. Too tedious.

 So in some random attempt to post SOMETHING new on here, I'm caving and posting a Youtube of a band that I've got a new crush on (okay, not the usual crush... But, you know, I'm like downloading aaaaaall their songs now. It's crazy.). They're called the 'Eli Young Band' and I'm loving the country/pop twist that they're putting in their music. This particular song, 'Guinevere' is probably my favorite so far (I call it my theme song), but hey if you're ever bored and you're looking for music, you could always try their other tracks like 'Crazy Girl' (second favorite!), 'Even If It Breaks Your Heart' (third favorite!), or perhaps 'Always The Love Songs'.

Or -- you could be a normal/sensible person and not listen to them at all and just smile at my eccentricities when it comes to taste in music. I really can't decide if my taste in music is awesome or horrible... Hm.

Anyway, talk at ya' later, guys. I'm off to go find something useful to do, while avoiding the kitchen and the tantalizing smells coming from there.

I'll Never Be The Same

I found this quote on Pinterest (ahem), and thought it fitting for this moment in life. I leave Oregon in 12 days. Something tells me I will not be the same person when I come back... And I wonder if that's a good thing or not. Only time will tell how a year in the Midwest shapes me. This quote also made me think of a movie line from The Hobbit. Bilbo asks Gandalf, "Can you promise me that I'll come back?"

And Gandalf replies, "No. And if you do, you will not be the same as when you left..."

Who Cares?

  I've been told by so many "wise" people, who are much older than me, that nobody in this world really cares about you. About me. About anyone but themselves. That things like Blogging and Facebook are superfluous and a waste of time because nobody really cares about what's going on in your life. They don't care about what you're doing, what good things have happened, what painful things you've experienced. "Why write?" People ask... Why write when no one in this world cares. No one wants to hear it.

  This breaks my heart.

  Speaking as an individual who is forever hesitant to say what I'm thinking or feeling (oh the joys of being an INFJ... *note sarcasm*), I learned early that writing was a good outlet for me to express myself. It's slower, it allows me to think about my words before sharing them publicly, as well as creating a barrier from a lot of inevitable pressure that comes with talking directly with a person. Mind you, I still enjoy talking face-to-face with folks, but there's a difference between "talking" to someone, and actually "opening up". Guys, it can take me twenty minutes or longer just to work up the nerve to say something to my own mom. That is how introverted I am.

  So when people tell me that no one cares about my musings, my personal FB updates, or my random thoughts that I write, this comes across as a heavy handed slap in the face. It's like being told that in every possible sense, I am unwanted.

  But you know something? I don't wholly believe the words of these "wise" people. I think there are still people in this world who care. Perhaps it's just the wild hope of a naive introvert, but I still cling to the thought that people care. Maybe not all, but some do. I get emails occasionally from people who say they enjoy this blog, or I meet people who say they read all this, or readers tell me about their 3 year old who draws pictures of my darling cow Mattie, or someone tells me how they read these stories aloud to their family during breakfast... Maybe it's just me, but all this sounds like there is still a percentage of this world's population who cares about more than just themselves.

  For the last few months I've been revamping this blog; making it more professional looking, tweaking this and that, bringing in more traffic, more readers. I was reading book after book, blog after blog on all these tips and tricks to bring in more readers. It's the coveted "readership status" that every blogger secretly harbors. I'll even bluntly state my secret desiring: My goal was/is a minimum of 30,000 readers each month. That's what I've been building for. It slowly became my everything and all for this blog. MORE READERS!! MUST HAVE MORE READERS!! I unwittingly unearthed a dragon in me.

  Then I found a completely different book that basically hit me over the head, sent me to my room, and told me to think about what I've done. It was just a small e-book. I paid $2.99 for it. It was called something like "The Small Army Strategy". The author wrote simply, but powerfully; asking which is better: a large readership (hmm, like 30k each month?) that doesn't care a lick if you suddenly disappear one day, or a small readership of people who sincerely care. This was a knock over the head because up until this point I had more or less believed the lie that "no one cares". Shucks, if no one in this world cares that I exist then I might as well shoot for the goal of a large audience, right? But reading through that small e-book reopened a small, hidden desire. I do want to know that people care... I don't say that in a selfish way, like "oh pay attention to meeeeeee, everyone!". But rather, it's more like wanting a community of like minded folks. It's knowing that here in this small corner of cyber space there are people who won't tear me down for my beliefs, mistakes, and desires, but instead can share their own beliefs, mistakes, and desires. It's a quiet longing for a tribe of my own that usually isn't heard over the static noise of others saying that it's a pipe dream. No one cares.

  Last night was a bad night. I was all alone at home, and I was lonely. Normally I love being alone, but being lonely is a whole 'nother thing. It was just me and the dogs in a large and silent house. Every noise had me jumping, and all I wanted was a voice. Just another voice of a human. I didn't find said voice; didn't know who to turn to. But it was during those few hours of crushing loneliness that this post was born in my mind. Do people really care??? My blogs stats show that this blog is averaging a little over 11,000 visitors each month. All I could think about was, "why are these readers here?" To be entertained? To learn? Is that all I am? Just a teacher and 3-ringed circus rolled into one person?  Does anybody even really care!?!?!? Normally I'm fine with being in the shadows; unnoticed, unheard, left to my own devices. But last night, for some reason I was craving an authentic voice. I just wanted to know that I'm not the unwanted shadow that I think I am.

 It was there and then that I decided I was done with making that 30k my goal for this blog. I don't want a large group of silent readers who will simply up and leave when this blog no longer interests them. I want my goal to be a group of folks who care. This may be a small group, seeing as some folks are under the impression that no one really wants to hear details. But you know what? FINE! Let it be a small group! I care about other people; I've been told I care too much about other people (again, problems of being an INFJ...). And I will write as though people care in return. Maybe we won't always agree (I love a good discussion, so varying opinions are welcomed), but hey, I'm willing to keep putting myself out here and writing authentically.

  Having said all this, I think it's time for introductions. I'd like to meet y'all if you don't mind.

  Hi. My name is Caitlyn. I'm 21 and I farm. :)

  Your turn.

If I Was A Guy, I'd Do It.

  I think I'm coming down with cabin fever. Actually, I think it's been setting in since September, but today I'm really feeling the symptoms. Folks, I haven't done a full, hard day's work since August. And I'm feelin' it. Sure, I stay busy, I find various projects to keep me somewhat engaged... But today I'm downright pining to move livestock to new pasture, milk a cow, and slaughter something (animal, that is). It's a cloudy, grumpy day outside and the walls of the house are beginning to feel like they're closing in. I worked outside during the morning; adding new plastic to the greenhouse, cleaning out the barn some more... But it's not enough. My body wants to ache from physical activity spent working with another living creature, and my brain is going ballistic from weeks and weeks without a really good project to puzzle over. I'm not exactly "bored", but I'll certainly say that I'm not accustomed to this slow pace of life. I miss outwitting pigs, teaching the heifer to lead, cleaning my milking equipment, and slaughtering. I've said that twice now. I admit, I really do have a hankering to get a knife in my hand today and slaughter something. Not exactly sure what's with that, but it is what it is. Earlier I was trying to read a book, but found that I kept having to read that same page over, and over, and over. Nothing was sinking in because my mind kept wandering to my old job that I used to have at the slaughter house. And I got to thinking about how much I missed the work. I don't regret my reasons for leaving that job, but I do miss the work. It was good, solid work that folks really appreciate, and I enjoy. Thinking about my old job led my wandering mind down the rabbit trailing thoughts of how fun it would be to own a mobile slaughtering unit (hey, there's always this gorgeous ride to consider, right? LOL. I'm 75% teasing on this one.), which led to finding and buying this cool looking book about a mobile poultry slaughter house (It's almost creepy how excited I am for this to come. I also have Joel Salatin's newest book coming, Jenna Woginrich's newest one on it's way, and one more book due soon... Yet I want this one more than any of them!!!), which then led that rambling mind to thinking about the Portable Plucker folks near me and what an awesome, lucrative gig that is for them, and then finally to the brand spankin' new slaughter house that opened down south in Brownsville (I still swoon over that pretty building, and how well they've set it up.). Yeah, my mind goes everywhere. You should try living with it for a day. *note much sarcasm*

  I believe the end result of all this mental wandering is that 1. I really miss slaughtering. And 2. this really seems like a good opportunity for anyone with the skill and stomach for it. Seriously! There is such a need for more processors; good ones. Especially mobile ones. Or at least folks who will rent out equipment, like what the Portable Plucker folks do.

 At the risk of ruffling some feathers, I'm going to make a statement that I normally keep to myself: If I was a guy, I would totally put myself in training to do this work. I'd be running after this idea so hard and fast that I'd put the Warner Bros. Roadrunner to shame (meep, meep!). But since I'm a girl, I've decided to stand back and try and keep a lid on this desire. Now, before y'all start huffing at me for sounding legalistic, or saying that there's no shame in a woman having her own career, or encouraging me to go for it anyway, allow me to explain. First off, this is merely MY conviction. I have no qualms with other women who have long term careers and whatnot; it's just not my personal cup of tea. It takes all kinds to make a world, and we need all these different people with their different tastes to make everything work. So this is mine. :) Okay, disclaimer is now over... I'm not actively pursuing a long term career because quite frankly, it gets lonely all by yourself. Farming alone is hard and I don't find it enjoyable (why do you think I bought a dog!?), running a slaughtering unit long term sounds just as lonely. Let's imagine for a moment that this crazy farm girl someday bumps into an equally crazy farm boy (remember? I'm a klutz; therefore, "bumping" into someone is perfectly legit in my case. And he'd have to be crazy too to put up with me and the fact that I like cows, bow hunting and know how to use a knife.). That'd be a dream come true if Mr. Right had a farm of his own, or at least liked the idea of going for it. Wahoo, I get to live on a farm! But my job wouldn't be to run the farm. I'd be backup, primarily doing the role of Farm Wife. And I'm okay with that. THAT is my long term goal. Call me old fashioned, but House Wife or rather, Farm Wife is long term goal. This farming gig which I've come to love so much is to keep me busy during these single years. Everything I've learned during these years will be handy in the future. I can milk cows, fix a vacuum pump, drive a manual truck, slaughter any animal, hunt, can, raise broilers, deal with customers, haggle with grain suppliers, and buy good quality hay (the gardening part is still a work in progress... *cough, cough*). If it came to where a second income was needed, then hey, I'm ready! I know what to do! But aiming for a long term career such as a mobile butcher (or a vet, or anything else) seems pointless to me, in my case (please notice emphasis; go back to disclaimer if necessary) when I would be giving it all up after the honeymoon. In the end, I get to be the brains, and he gets to be the brawn around the place (I kid. I wanna' drive the tractors too. Okaaay, I'm teasing again. He'd probably be both and I'd be the one wreaking havoc, bringing home new cows all the time, and annoying the stew out of him); meaning I'm in the background cooking up evil ideas that probably have some hole in them, but he'd be the one actually bringing home the bacon. There's no shame to keeping a house standing and raising a family, folks. That's my job. I've never been hugely keen on "stay-at-home dads" and "career moms". But again, just my tiny two cents with which you can do whatever you like with (meaning chuck it, or agree with it). But you know what, if Mr. Right needed a working partner for whatever reason, I'd be right there doing it (hey he could drive the semi and I'll use the sharp, pointy knives! Grand idea!). So if that means I'm an "employee" who does evening milking for 300 cows, or drives the tractor/combine all day long until harvest season is over, then fine. I'm good with that (as long as the tractor is green. I might have qualms if it's red or blue). The difference here is who's boss. Somehow I don't think the marriage would be as strong if I was the one running the 300 cow dairy and I told Mr. Right that his job around the place is to do what I tell him... ;)

  Now, where in the world was I going with all this? You see, my mind totally rabbit trailed and the above rant was originally not planned. Slaughtering. Yes, I was talking about slaughtering. If I was a guy, I'd consider it as a career. But since I'm not, I get the fun job of puzzling over how I can weave this interest into my life for a short term. I like a good mental puzzle, and this one has been fun to chew on during these rainy, quiet days before I leave. Who knows, maybe in the end I'll just do like the Portable Plucker folks and merely rent out equipment for other folks. I think even that would be enough...

  In the mean time though, I think I'm beginning to suffer from a serious case of cabin fever. And I've still got twenty seven days before I leave. Think I'll survive? ;)

What Is It You Want?

I found this Youtube last night and LOVED the pep talk on it. Yes, the video itself is about horses, but the message is for everything. Do you want something in life? GO AFTER IT. Now. Start small, start with research, and let it blossom. Life is so short, so precious... How will we spend this span that we're each allotted?

 I have a lot of things in life that I want to do, and this 4 minute video really helped me get out of my "oh someday" funk and back into the swing of WORKING towards a goal. Even if it's just reading up on them, that still puts me one step closer today than I was yesterday.

Watch the vid. It's a good one. :)

P.S. I have a growing collection of these awesome, inspirational horse videos on my Pinterest board, so if you want more of this stuff (and I have to say that some of them are even better than this!), you can do so by clicking HERE!

Thirty Days

 Today it hit me: I leave for Missouri in exactly thirty days.

That's only four more weeks. Thirty days. On December 4th my dog and I will be boarding a horrible plane (I hate flying; especially in the winter time!) and we'll be travelling 2,047 miles (yes I had to Google that) to a state that I've only been to once in my life, to a farm that I've never been to before, to stay long term with people who I've never met, and learn a whole new set of farming techniques and most likely learn a whole new lifestyle. 

 Folks, I'm scared.

 Scared, excited, nervous, eager, anxious, impatient to go, reluctant to leave, regretting my decision, wondering why I haven't done this sooner... You get the idea. As I described it to someone yesterday, I spend about ten minutes feeling like this will be the best adventure *ever*, and then the following ten minutes are spent feeling a horrified dread that I'm about to do this. If you've ever seen Disney's movie 'Tangled' then you might have a good idea on what I look like (and for the record, I adore that movie. Seriously.). The scene when Rapunzel first leaves the tower and is running around everywhere and alternating between shouting, "I did it!! I am never going back!!" and "I can't believe I did this. Mother will be furious!" pretty accurately describes me right now. You'd think that I would eventually find some calm middle ground... Like, be content with my decision, be able to patiently wait for my departure date, and then calmly accept the fact that I'm going to be gone anywhere from half to a WHOLE YEAR before coming back to Oregon. But it seems I don't have the staid sort of personality for that. 

 I'm counting the days until December 4th, but sometimes I wonder if I want to be counting them. I'm starting to feel the crunch... Time is fleeting and I still have a LOT I need to do. I'd say my biggest stress right now is - surprise, surprise - money. Yeah, we've all been there, I'm sure. Who doesn't stress about money? Some nights I lay awake, calculating in my tired brain how much money I think I'll need each month, and then how much money I'll have before I leave. I usually don't come up with satisfactory answers seeing as I'm half asleep and my mental math ends up looking something like, "$1,500 / 4 months = I-forgot-to-feed-the-dog"

My math during the day isn't much better. Anyway, this is one of those moments where I'm pretty darned sure I'll be fine, but I still want to be prepared. This is an unpaid internship, so I'll be on no income whatsoever unless I'm independently bringing in some cash (which I'm working on accomplishing). This isn't a *huge* issue seeing as I don't have to pay for food or board (both are provided) and those are the biggest expenses in life. 

  To come completely clean, the stressing part comes in when I think about the fact that I want to try and get a camera and a laptop before I leave. Ouch. Funds drain astoundingly fast when you start looking at buying those two little things. To make matters worse, I'm something of a quality snob when it comes to gadgets, so I've been eyeing getting my own Canon T2i camera (okay, a T4i would be a dream come true, but I'd be content with a sturdy little T2i). Laptop wise... Well, I'm really hoping I won't have to cave and buy an Acer; my apologies if you like that brand. It's just not my cup of tea. Yep, call me a snob. But I'm slightly easier to please on the laptop score; I mean, it's not like I'm bent on buying a $1,500 Ultrabook (you could buy me one if you wanted to though. I grant thee permission!). Just a decent $300 or $400 laptop will suffice. Right now, I figure I could probably squeak by with buying only a camera (hang on, don't panic just yet!), and then asking to commandeer my host's computer for blogging purposes. I still have to ask them if I could do such a thing, but if I can't buy both of my blogging necessities (you guys are expensive. I'm realizing this now... I have to buy a camera and a laptop to keep my readers happy!?!? I tease... I'm a teaser. I like you guys.) then I'll buy the more important thing first and get the second one later. 

 I really, truly am excited for this internship. Thrilled in fact! But I'm also the type of person who gets knots and butterflies in her stomach just thinking about going to a social event by myself for a couple of hours. Let alone going to a completely different state for months and months. I feel kinda' like Piglet; mentally stuttering "Oh d-d-d dearie dear!" when I think about leaving. But it passes in time, and then I'm back to my more confident self who thinks "Heck yeah! Bring it on!" Sigh. I wish I could find that happy medium of contentedness.

 Only thirty more days folks. Let's see if I survive...

Graceful Me (Not)

 I wasn't planning on publicly sharing this story (because it's embarrassing!), but a friend convinced me, in between her peals of laughter, to share it nevertheless.

  Just know that I am not a very graceful person. 'Nor am I very bright most of the time. In short, I'm a klutz who is quite good at making a fool of herself.

 My afternoon was going swimmingly (that's such a fun word. I adore it.). It was a bright fall day, I had just finished a good morning's work in the barn, and I was ready for lunch. Everything was grand. I was sporting an unusual mishmash of clothes, but didn't really care then and there since I was just doing barn work and no one was around. On my head was a soft pink colored cap that said "John Deere" across the front, on my feet were bright purple Bogs boots that I got last week (Bogs sent them to me for free since my old pair was cracking!! Woohoo!), and I was of course sporting my absolute favorite sweater that I own: the ugliest lime green, fleece pullover that you ever done did see. It used to be a shocking neon color, but I've had it for so many years that it's finally faded to an awful lime. I love this sweater way too much to ever give it up. Even if it is an eyesore.

 So yeah, I looked like quite the oddball as I walked back up to the house for lunch. But hey, there was no one around right? Knock on wood, my dears. Knock on wood. I'd only gotten halfway to the house when I heard a familiar rumbling sound that always makes me smile: A tractor was coming my way. And it was big. I twisted around and saw to my delight that it was the neighbor down the road, driving his John Deere 9630 (remember this baby? I've got such a horrible crush on it...). Oh this was my lucky day!! The 9630 was driving right past me. I forgot all about my pink hat, purple boots, green sweater, and the fact that I looked like a wreck. All that mattered at this moment was that a beautiful hunk of metal was going by, and it was like being at my very own private parade. I'm pretty sure I heard angels singing, too.

 The tractor was going at the same pace that I was walking, so I was all too happy to just let my feet walk in the direction of the house while I gazed longingly at the tractor. And yes, I will admit that I had a dorky smile plastered on my face as I looked up and down at the giant wheels and green paint.

 Then things got bad.

 There I am, walking along, looking like an idiot in every sense, and trying to not squeal out loud at this tractor, when I glance at the cab. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no!!! Folks, it wasn't the elderly neighbor who's in his 90's driving that machine. It was his grandson who's MY age. We're talking early twenties, blond crew cut, muscle to spare. You know, the type that catches the eye of most girls? Yeah, that kind. We were far enough from each other that you most likely couldn't tell exactly where a person's eyes were looking, so to him it probably looked like I was staring at him, and smiling like someone who should be in an asylum. Okay, I swear I was not checking him out. Let me just state this here. Cross my heart and hope to die. I check out tractors and trucks; not guys. He just had to be in there, didn't he!?!? Of all people, why did it have to be the neighbor's grandson in that cab!? He had the strangest expression on his face when I looked at him. Like he was trying to figure out why this girl dressed in clownish colors was staring, smiling, and walking in a crooked line towards her house. Apparently I wasn't the only one staring.

 I wanted to die. To be swallowed up by the earth and never be seen again. This was embarrassing. No, this was humiliating. I'll never be able to go on a walk up the road again for fear that I'll see him. Oh it was bad...

 At this horrifying realization of who the driver was, I did the most logical thing there was to do: Panic. Yeah, I'm great at being logical. I should get a degree for my logic; or a medal or something... 'Cause I'm obviously top dog in this circle. Okay, whatever.

 I had just reached the front porch by the time it completely sank in that it was raining on my parade, so to say, so without further ado I whipped myself around and decided to bolt towards the front door. I probably would have made it too, had the support beam to the porch roof not been in my way.

 Yes, dear reader, yours truly smacked herself into a beam. And the grandson saw me do it. It was like something from a cartoon; right when I thought I couldn't embarrass myself any further, I go and walk into a big wooden beam.

 There was no way to play this cool. I had just destroyed every shred of dignity I owned because of a tractor. I was officially mortified. Why couldn't he have looked the other way!? Why couldn't a cougar have suddenly darted into the road?? Or a herd of flying blue monkeys have gone past his windshield?? Anything to have made him glance away and not see me walk into a post. But no. He saw it. All of it. And I wanted to die. My one comfort is that I'm leaving the state in thirty six days and then I won't have to worry about bumping into him again for awhile. And maybe he'll have forgotten the whole thing by the time I come back. We live in hope, anyway.

So there you have it folks. I'm ruined. It's a gorgeous tractor though, I will still cling to that. But if I have a "most embarrassing moment", this surely is it.

 It just had to be the grandson in there, didn't it??

Heifers For South Dakota!!!

 I just found this organization about an hour ago and I'm positively THRILLED to see it! This is a group of folks actively taking donations and buying heifers to help the ranchers in SD get back on their feet. Things like this are a great reminder to me that there's still hope for this nation... There's always hope. There are still good people here who will help a total stranger build their herd of cattle back up.

 The blizzard 'Atlas' may have ravaged that state, but Americans know how to fight back.

 Wanna' join ranks and help? Click HERE and you'll go right to the Heifers for South Dakota website. :)

I Sound Like A Toad

  Today I am incredibly grateful for a dog who responds to whistles as well as voice commands.

 An unexpected cold has sprung itself on me, and now I've lost my voice (the tiny bit that's left sounds like something belonging to a toad). 

 Thank heavens I had the brains to train that dog to a whistle... 

 But I still really want my voice back.

Memorial for a Farmer. I Almost Cried.

 Illinois farmers know how to pay a tribute. My goodness do they know how... The Modern Farmer posted an article about a most unique tribute to a fallen farmer; the man was only 31 when he died of cancer. He left a wife, two kids, and a farm behind. After his death, the entire farming community rallied together to create a memorial that is not easily forgotten.

 Here's the article if you should so desire to read it. The photography is to die for, and the story compelling. I think the part that got me tearing up was -- well, you should read it first. I don't want to spoil anything. ;)

  There is hope for humanity yet, I tell ya'.