Summer has never been my favorite season. I love spring and fall, with their sense of change and movement in the air. Migration season has started—a new wave of birds appears, passing through as they leave their northern breeding grounds, and I’m back on Hawk Hill every-other Saturday, counting raptors. The sky has new energy, the weather changes rapidly. This morning, I walked out of the yurt at 4am, greeted by moonlit clouds and a new wind that those hawks will be riding today. Tell me again, how do I get so lucky to live on such a beautiful earth? To see this sky, this moon; to feel this wind on my face, at this moment?

The coyote pups must be growing up; their packs howl in the moonlight, with more voices than I’ve ever heard here before. Whales have been feeding off Bodega Head; I go to watch them, reminding myself that I first have to believe the whales are there before their spouts will become visible to me.

Even my friends seem restless. All around me is change and more change. Some is obvious, some just a wispy prescience.

I’m tense with seemingly opposing impulses. Fix up the yurt for winter or not. Plant out the west side of my garden area or let it continue to be fallow. Express myself fully or stay silent for now. Sleep or wake. Eat or not. Walk the path or sit down in life. Find myself or lose my self? Among it all is a sense of waiting, of listening. I have thrashed for so long to find a purpose, to find a life’s work, to find something to give myself to. Am I getting any closer?

In particular, things are changing on the ranch. It’s not clear yet how it will all sort out.

We’ll be shutting down the milk line at the end of September, a month early. That’s partly due to the departure of our evening milker, and partly due to an increase in USDA fees. Did you know that the USDA charges dairies for inspection of the milk and the cheese plant? I was shocked to learn this; I thought it would be paid by our tax dollars. But essentially, the inspectors are employed by the farmers and ranchers they inspect. Those fees are going up, and they’re going up by the same amount regardless if you are a 16-goat operation or a 1600-goat operation. It becomes more and more clear how the economics of this business just don’t add up.

I can’t say what this means for me. It might mean the end of work I can do against my rent for a few months. But it might also mean the beginning of other permaculture work I can do on the ranch…we’re still sorting this out. There is a bigger question of how operations here will continue into the next year. And in this uncertainty, there is opportunity that depends on my own initiative. What do I want to do here?

Having coffee with a friend, I told her that lately I wonder if I should just give in and try to find a straight job with a steady paycheck and benefits (if such a thing even exists for me anymore). She gasped. “I think I’d just hang myself!” We laughed; she’s right, but in my indecision about my life, I’m the hanged man either way.

I’ve been searching for a purpose for so long. I spent most of my life thinking that the way to do that was to look at what seemed feasible, set a goal, and then plunge forth with it. Once I decided what that story was, I stuck with it, regardless of how my feelings changed, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. And every time I set out to “find” myself, I got hopelessly lost.

Life is moving in interesting ways around me. For now, I’m trying to sit with the uncertainty, trying to see the possibilities rather than the fears. To see the opportunities to work in service to something other than myself. And to listen. This attitude of surrendering to what happens is new for me. It takes practice.

Perhaps, like the whales, I have to relax into believing it will come. To sit down in my life and put one foot in front of the other. To wait, suspended for a while, and listen for what life wants of me, and to have faith that I will hear.

Working with the goats has settled into a routine. Milking in the morning usually takes less than two hours. Lately, I’ve been able to learn another skill: trimming hooves.

The hooves of goats grow just like our own toenails. In the wild, the goats would be scampering around rocks, the abrasive surfaces wearing their hooves down naturally. On this ranch, we’re lacking rocks, so we need to trim hooves regularly. The need becomes most apparent if you watch a goat with overgrown hooves try to come up a slippery wet ramp into the barn. The hard smooth outside of the hoof, or “horn”, folds over the bottom of the foot as it grows, leaving the goat with almost no traction on such surfaces.

In this photo, you can see an overgrown hoof, packed with dirt and mud. This one actually isn’t too bad compared to many I’ve seen, but you can see how the horn has started to fold over the bottom of the foot as it grows:

The horn material is pretty tough; our trimmers are something like a cross between pruners and tin snips. The trick is to clean out the dirt, then get some purchase underneath the flap of horn as you trim it away. Here’s a photo of P. trimming…you can see how she gets a nice clean line of white…that’s what you want:

When I started trying this myself, I despaired of ever being able to do it right. My brain knew what to do, but my hands needed time, experience, and practice to learn. But I stuck with it, sometimes only doing one hoof per morning. The ladies are usually patient with me. It fascinates me, this process of teaching the hands how to do something new. They have their own learning, separate from the head.

Now I can almost always get all four hooves done within a few minutes. Here, I’m working on gentle Oak (my nephew’s favorite goat):

The bottles there contain a medicine for hoof rot and styptic powder in case any bleeding occurs. I usually err on the side of not trimming enough. I hate to see blood!

I love feeling that I can do something to make the ladies more comfortable and healthy. Every goat on the line has had her hooves trimmed at least once, and now I watch them regularly to maintain a healthy trim. It seems to me that the white Saanen goats and goats with long hair need their pedicures more often.

Learning how to trim hooves has been really satisfying for me. It didn’t come easy and it took practice—two hurdles that I have to consciously work to overcome.

Though the goats sometimes get impatient with this disheveled woman in dirty dungarees futzing with their feet, I can’t help but think they might also be grateful for the trim. Let’s face it, every ranch girl knows that a nice pedicure under the muck boots can sometimes feel like the last bastion of femininity in the barn.

I was happy to get a kayak back in the water on Monday, checking out Estero Americano for the first time, after over a year of no paddling at all. It took a silly amount of will for me to get over my fear and reluctance to make the effort, even knowing it would all be worth it. And it was.

I’m reading The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World by David Abram. It’s been a long hard slog through this book, but I’m in a good section now, and am struck by this passage:

For the Navajo, then, the Air—particularly in its capacity to provide awareness, thought, and speech—has properties that European, alphabetic civilization has traditionally ascribed to an interior, individual human “mind” or “psyche.” Yet by attributing these powers to the Air, and by insisting that the “Winds within us” are thoroughly continuous with the Wind at large—with the invisible medium in which we are immersed—the Navajo elders suggest that that which we call the “mind” is not ours, is not a human possession. Rather, mind as Wind is a property of the encompassing world, in which humans—like all other beings—participate. One’s individual awareness, the sense of a relatively personal self or psyche, is simply that part of the enveloping Air that circulates within, through and around one’s particular body; hence, one’s own intelligences is assumed, from the start, to be entirely participant with the swirling psyche of the land.

On the water, I try to feel that. Can I break through the wall of my own thoughts, into the air around me? I have had those feelings of oneness with nature; usually, animals are involved, perhaps with a hawk with a broken wing or with an elk who shakes his antlers at me. But the feeling is fleeting. I can’t summon it up at will.

I’ve been hearing people talk about how their god or their higher power loves them. And as I paddle along, I think about this. Do I feel loved by my higher power? I dig deep for the feeling, but I find that it’s not there for me, at least not now. I’m not terribly bothered by this, but I do wonder what they are experiencing. I have a kernel of worry that maybe it’s something I need to be able feel so I don’t keep trying to make gods out of men and then seek their love.

My father spends our conversation on father’s day bemoaning my lapsed Catholism; I finally reveal to him that it’s worse than he thought…that I’m not only a non-church goer, but I’m a Buddhist, too. I finally, finally understand that he will never accept who I am. But I am quicker to understand that it is easier for me to feel compassion for a mere mortal than it is for me to have compassion for a god. He asks me to say an “Our Father”, and I don’t have the heart to tell him how often I find myself holding hands in a circle saying that already…or how that “father” part of that grates on me when I do.

The wind picks up, pushes me and the ‘yak forward, and I remember the Navajo concept of a mind as wind. I imagine that I am in my place here on the estero, breathing in and breathing out, breath mingling with the breaths of the doe with two spotted fawns under the tree, or the cries of the raven chasing the eagle who rolls to threaten the raven with its feathered talons. The air envelops me as I move through it and it also moves through me as I breathe; it accepts me and I it. Is this being loved? More questions. Always with the questions.

I put the paddle down, drag my fingers in the water as it passes through the estero and out to the ocean. I breath in and out, and I dangle my fingers, and I really am connected, via air and water, to everything else breathing this air and touching this water. What would it feel like to be loved back by it all? What am I expecting? Is it already here?

My stubborn head always gets in the way. Cut it off and set it down beside me in the water; I should have brought a rope to tow it with, let the fish nibble at it along the way. And turn my mind over to the lovely wind.

Goats	Bar Patrons
When trying to move a goat, use inertia…go any direction with the goat, then plant your feet and pivot to your desired direction.	When trying to move a drunk, use inertia…go any direction with the drunk, then plant your feet and pivot to your desired direction.
Pushing can work better than pulling. The goat seems to have some delusion of control if you’re less visible in their direction of motion.	Pushing can work better than pulling. The drunk seems to have some delusion of control if you’re less visible in their direction of motion.
Frequently make messes that you have to clean up.	Frequently make messes that you have to clean up. (But I prefer the goat manure.)
Have their favorite spots at the feed trough in the milk line.	Have their favorite spots at the bar.
There will be disputes and feuds that you won’t understand. It’s usually best to stay out of it.	There will be disputes and feuds that you won’t understand. It’s usually best to stay out of it.
They don’t like to go out in the rain; during inclement weather, it can be difficult to get them to leave the barn.	They don’t like to go out in the rain; during inclement weather, it can be difficult to get them to leave the bar.
There are eccentrics. Birch turns around every time she goes through a doorway or gate. Orchid bucks and kicks for no apparent reason.	There are eccentrics. Lucille washes her hands every ten minutes and throws paper towels on the floor. Randy sits in the back booth and argues with god.
They are sensitive to changes in their environment. “Ack! Stop, wait! What’s that new yellow box in the barn?!!”	They are sensitive to changes in their environment. “Hey, new coasters. I like the old ones better. What happened to those?”
If you are running late in opening the door, they will be waiting outside impatiently.	If you are running late in opening the door, they will be waiting outside impatiently.
Sometimes they don’t want to leave. Food can be a motivator. “Look girls, time to leave. Here, follow me, here’s the grain bucket!”	Sometimes they don’t want to leave. Food can be a motivator. “Sorry, our kitchen is closed. Have you tried that new Chinese place down the street?”
Every once in a while, you lose one. It hurts, even though you knew better than to get attached.	Every once in a while, you lose one. It hurts, even though you knew better than to get attached.
Eventually, you have to shut the place down and clean. If you’re not insistent, they will wander around the place, getting in your way, making more messes, and generally trying to keep the party going.	Eventually, you have to shut the place down and clean. If you’re not insistent, they will wander around the place, getting in your way, making more messes, and generally trying to keep the party going.
You will have your favorites. Rozena gets an extra scoop of grain once in a while.	You will have your favorites. John F. gets the employee discount.
To clean the milk lines: connect everything up in a big loop, then pump soapy water through the lines. Follow with a rinse cycle.	To clean the beer tap lines: connect everything up in a big loop, then pump soapy water through the lines. Follow with a rinse cycle.

My mornings are usually too hectic to write much anymore. For a while, I was trying to get up at 4am to have time to write; now I try for 4:30, and and then there’s the snooze alarm for a few times while I try in vain to remember dreams and contemplate how cold it it’s going to be to walk to the outhouse (even when it’s not cold at all). There’s time to sit zazen, do a few other things for spiritual practice…habits I’m trying, with some success, to start my day with. Then I make coffee, look at email (rarely answering any of it anymore…sorry), and another alarm goes off. That’s the 5:45am alarm that gives me 15 minutes to wake and feed Laika, throw on the Carhartt double-fronts and muck boots, pour coffee into the travel mug and get down to the barn and milk goats.

Really, it’s a pretty good morning.

I’ve been thinking a lot about cravings, and my constant need for more, more. There are times when I am crazy with craving and have no idea what the craving is for. When I do know what the craving is for, I know that the object of my craving won’t fill the void, and yet it’s always been so much easier to give in; to check out, to succumb to the numb, with food, with alcohol, with material possessions, with accomplishments, with love or anything that remotely approximates love.

Every practice that feels right to me…permaculture, zen, Jungian psychology…tells me that I am not separate or apart from anything. That we are all profoundly connected and that it’s those interconnections that are the important thing. And when I have moments of actually feeling that, instead of trying to intellectually conceptualize it, I certainly don’t feel cravings.

The cravings require a hole, and a hole requires a boundary, a demarcation in space of some sort. “Form itself is emptiness, emptiness itself form.” It makes me wonder if my task is not so much to avoid the impulse to fill the emptiness, but rather to dissolve the sides of the hole. To ignore the red herring of the suffering known as craving, and to instead seek to experience the interconnection.

My understanding of these things is very naive. The other day, I woke up to the fact that I really am like a 14-or16-year old driving around this self-abused 46-year old body…that parts of me must have split off at some point and just quit maturing, and now my task is to grow them up. And really understanding this, I realize how much in danger I am of making stupid mistakes. I always want to think that the rules don’t apply to me. Will I ever learn to shut up and listen to the wisdom that’s right in front of me? I’m trying, but sometimes I think I’m just going to burst into flames. I become a wad of discontent.

One of the things I’ve wanted in my life is to live closer to nature, to really feel those interconnections. Slowly, my life is being steeped in this more and more. Most days, you could ask me what phase the moon is in, and I’ll know…not because I have an app for that, but because I’m outside a lot, and waking up to the sky, the wind, the birds, the earth. The other morning, I looked forward to scanning the sky as I walked to the bathroom…I knew it was the full moon. I could even see the glow from inside the dark yurt.

But when I walked outside and turned to look at my friend the moon, something was wrong. A big lopsided bite had been taken out of her. And I remembered hearing about an eclipse.

I sat zazen with the eclipse that morning, outside with the borage, nasturtiums, and numberless beautiful weeds. The moon drifted above the fog, until slowly it was dragged down into it, as if being eaten by a giant cosmic snake.

I almost didn’t get it. I almost forgot to be grateful, to wake up to this indescribable beauty, to how incredibly fortunate I am and how easy and luxurious my life really is. The life of waking up to nature was right here and now; everything I wanted was already mine. And I almost just ran past it in my life, almost just went ahead with the next obsessive thought about some idea of something new to need.

My ranch job is to be the morning goat milker, so every morning at 6am, I head down to the barn and greet the ladies. If it’s been a rainy night, they’re usually hanging out in the barn.

Then I head into the middle room of the barn, where the milk is stored. My first task is to put a filter sleeve onto a holder; the milk gets passed through this filter before it goes into the storage tank.

Then that piece gets inserted into the big stainless steel cylinder, and attached via a big ring clamp. Getting this clamp on is the hardest part of the whole job, especially for someone with klutzy fingers. You have to hold the whole thing up against the tube while futzing the clamp into place. Fortunately, I’m getting pretty good at it!

When that’s done, I add more tubing with clamps to feed the milk into the storage tank.

Then I’m done in this room. Time to head into the milking part of the barn! First, I make sure everything is clamped and stoppered at the the receiving tank, which has been draining after the last cleaning. During milking, the milk goes here before it’s sent to the storage tank.

As you can see, so far it’s a lot of equipment manipulation and very little goat contact!

The next step is to disconnect the cleaning cups and close all the valves, getting the milking cups ready for the big event.

Finally, I make a trip out to the grain silo and get a couple buckets of rolled barley. This gets placed in the trough; the girls stick their heads through the stanchions for their morning treat.

Finally…time to get the goats! My favorite part of the morning is greeting my good buddy, Rozena Quail.

Rozena Quail is a big half-Nubian elder, often ill-tempered with other goats, and never seems to get enough to eat to satisfy her. She gave us the only set of triplets this year and gives bountiful milk. Despite the fact that I gave her triple the rations of any other goat in the pens, she was constantly hungry. But she seems to remember that I was good for an extra scoop of grain. Every morning, she comes right up to sniff me over thoroughly and get a hug. We are souls sisters for sure.

The goats go into a holding pen. Those that aren’t on the first string wait here until their turn. We can milk up to eleven goats in a string; there are two strings on our milk line at the moment (21 milking goats).

If the girls are feeling cooperative, they run into the barn and stick their head into the stanchions and begin eating, and we lock the stanchions closed so they are held in place during breakfast.

But there are a couple more steps before the actual milking begins. Here’s the tools we use during the milking procedures:

Before we start milking, we have to strip, dip, and wipe. After the milking machine gets most of the milk, we finish each goat by hand…this helps prevent stress on the teats which can lead to mastitis.

The blue container with the brown strainer is used to "strip"…we get a squirt from each teat by hand and inspect it to make sure everything looks right. Then we use the blue cup to "dip" each teat in an iodine solution. Then we wipe off the excess iodine from each teat.

The orange bucket is used to milk out each goat by hand at the end. We dump the milk into the metal strainer, which has a paper filter to remove any dirt or hair. Then we do a final dip using the green cup, with another iodine solution.

Here’s a photo during the first dip, after the strip and before the wipe:

Finally, we’re ready to milk! There are five stations, so we milk in pairs, attaching the machine to one goat, and then moving it over to the other goat when she’s finished. (At between the last two stations, we have an extra goat, so we use whichever one is available first for her. Don’t ask me why there are eleven stanchions and five stations.)

The milking machine is quite loud! Here’s a little video of it.

During and after the machine milking, we might do herd care like hoof trimming or applying salve to chapped udders. We also finish milking each goat by hand; milking them to the very end can put extra strain on the teats and contribute to mastitis. So you have to keep a close eye on the tubes and udders during milking, to watch for when the milk flow begins to slow down, and move the cups from one goat to another until they are all milked.

After finishing by hand, the teats get one more dip in a sanitzing solution. Then the ladies are released to go back outside. Rozena, of course, sometimes wanders around the barn looking for more to eat until I lead her out. She even seems to have a knack for releasing herself out of the stanchion when she is done. I haven’t figured out how she does it, and she’s done it from mulitple stanchions. Smart goat.

I put more grain down for the second string, and the whole process is repeated until they, too, are sent out and down the ramp, back to the pasture.

I always gassho to the goats after the final string exits, grateful for their gift of milk and and the opportunity to work with them.

Then it’s time for cleaning. The big paper filters sleeve is removed and the tubing setup is reconfigured to direct the flow to and from the sink, instead of from the goat udders to the storage tank.

We put a powdered cleaner into the sink and fill it with hot water. This gets run through the entire system for five minutes.

Then it’s all drained out, and a second rinse cycle is done with “Acid Du”, an acid and deposits remover to keep the lines absolutely clean. Then everything is disassembled and left in the sink, ready for the evening milker.

The whole process, with two strings, takes about two hours.

You can also view this as a Flickr photo set. There’s a few more photos there.

I’ve been collecting materials for a memorial of sorts, and realized that today might be a good day to put it together.

Moving into a yurt did nothing to dispel my interest in traditional Mongolian culture, which started when I first heard of the Mongolian eagle hunters. One of the things that fascinates me the most about the Mongolian nomads is the place that animals have in their lives. Certainly they use animals for food, clothing, and other goods, but animals seem to be very important in the spiritual realm as well.

I found some photos of Mongolian monuments to horses….there’s one here (scroll down), and a great one here.

My version is a bit more stylized. You might notice that there isn’t a goat skull here…I have a nice one that I’ll be adding above the sheep ram head. J brought me a nasty gooey goat head about a month ago, and with a few more weeks in the compost pile and it should be ready to hang. (J shakes his head and laughs about making my wish come true with such a loathsome object…J is a good guy. He also gave me the sheep skull.) The bottom skull is of a cow, and I’ve had it for years.

It’s memorial to the animals of the ranch, past and present; a way to remember the ones that we’ve eaten or buried, and to the wind that enlivens us with their spirit.

Update: the goat skull has been added — click here for an updated photo.

Last week, we got the milk line rolling, finally. It’s been interesting to see how this milking process works.

First we cleared the pasture of non-pregnant goats. Then we picked the ten goats who kidded first, plus Dahlia, and moved them to the main pasture without their kids. (Dahlia had a stillborn kid, so we’ve been hand-milking her to keep her milk in so she can be on the line.) Boy babies were sent to one pasture, and girl babies were put into pens in pairs. The girls are bottle-fed, not because they still need milk, but because we want to imprint them and get them as tame as possible. They’ll be on the milk line themselves in two years. I’m told that many goat dairies separate kids from their moms just a couple days after they’re born. These get the “luxury” of being with mom for a few weeks.

The milking barn is full of dairy equipment to automate the process of milking, and I dreaded the first day. Since they didn’t milk last year, the equipment has been unused for almost two years. We cleaned it up, but I had little faith that it would work. I did not feel better when it turned out that we were missing parts and could not use the machinery. Our first day of milking, Sunday morning, was all done by hand. Already dealing with carpal tunnel issues, I was nearly in tears when we finished. It wasn’t even so much the strain, but knowing that we’d have to repeat the process Sunday night and then Monday morning before the dairy machinery guys could make it out to our site.

The whole process had also been a group project, with four or five of us trying to piece together machinery and figure out (or remember) how it all works. It was really painful for me. I get grumpy and irritated, fast, especially when I’m tired and haven’t had the chance to take care of myself. I was (and still am) in dire need of some quiet nature time, some time to take care of my introvert. Being aware of it helps.

Somehow, parts were found on Sunday afternoon, and we miraculously finagled the equipment to work and were able to milk by machine on Sunday evening.

P. tells stories about days past, when all milking was done by hand. How they’d almost drowse, face against in the warm side of a goat, listening to classical music. She suggested that maybe we could get a radio. I’ve had fantasies of having the quiet barn to myself and the goats in the mornings, listening to the birds outside. I’d already decided to leave the radio off. It will be so peaceful…

It turns out that milking equipment is REALLY LOUD. It’s all air compressor and engine and pumps…well, I really don’t know what all it’s made of, but there is a fierce din. I can’t imagine trying to play a radio over it! However, I can certainly sing my lungs out to the goats if I want, because no one will be able to hear me.

The week wore on; more hours, both in the morning and evening, and more equipment failures add up to a general feeling of exhaustion, but thankfully I’m in a pretty good place with that. I take naps when I can. My days now start with the alarm going off at 4am…if I want to keep some of my morning time for myself (and I do…it’s my most creative time by far), I have to get up early enough to be at the barn and ready to milk at 6am.

One equipment failure was caused by a goat who became tangled in the hoses and tore off part of the air compression system, which meant another round of hand-milking. So often I am reminded of Temple Grandin’s book, Animals in Translation. We’ve changed procedures, and let the goats out of their stanchions one-by-one now, guiding them gently around the hoses. I really enjoy working with the goats in this way and tending to their care while we’re milking them. I picked more calendula this weekend to make more salve for their udders, and it’s very satisfying how we’ve been able to heal the ones who showed irritation from their babies nursing them mercilessly. I think the machine may actually be more gentle…those babies can bite hard!

Last night, we separated another set of babies and mamas, and will be adding a second string of goats to the line this morning. The second string includes some of the two-year olds…these are goats who have never been on the milk line, and some (Madrone, in particular) are quite wild. I’m pretty apprehensive, but am sure I will enjoy the challenge. Later in the week, we’ll add another group, and then hopefully we’ll be able to ease into a regular schedule where I”ll have evenings off.

Life is hectic, busy, and tiring. But I’m reminded regularly of so many things I am grateful for, not the least of which is for this very experience of being so busy. There are not many places for a woman in her 40’s to get such a hands-on education in work like this, and I am grateful every day that P. took a chance on me.

“Tangible paradise depends on beginner’s mind, on a broken heart, and on the living earth on which we stand.”

It was a clear November day on Hawk Hill…just enough wind to keep the hawks moving through as we identified and counted them. We were being treated to gorgeous views of lots of adult Red-tailed Hawks in beautiful light. I was standing on the north platform, the best vantage for catching the birds as they materialized in front of us, circling and gaining height on the thermals before heading south over the Golden Gate. It was a good day; not many visitors to the hill, so it was quiet, and I could listen in on the conversation between the guru hawk watchers who practically live on the north platform during the fall migration season.

We’d spotted a set of three hawks riding the thermals and getting closer; two red-taileds and something strange (which always gets hearts racing on hawk hill). The strange shape turned out to be another Red-tailed Hawk after all, but it had a broken wing. I don’t know how it could still fly, but it did, flapping more frequently than the other hawks to keep itself aloft and on track.

All three birds approached, close in to the hill. My memory is of watching the hawk with the broken wing for a long time in my binoculars, and that the usual expert chatter on the north platform died away. I remember feeling very reverent about something very big that felt very tangible. All over the planet, numberless animals were moving south on the great energy of migration. And this hawk with a broken wing moved with it, too; it was perfectly at place in the world. Its struggle did not seem like a struggle at all; it was life.

It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

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Wendy Johnson spoke at Stone Creek a few weeks ago; I brought her book to have her sign, and I thought about what I might ask her if I had the chance. In a section of the book called “Beauty Counts”, she lovingly relates a story of a woman consumed by grief, and that quote about “tangible paradise” appears at the end of that story. I didn’t know what my question was, but I wanted to ask something about that quote. I think I wanted to resist…”But WHY? Why does tangible paradise have to require a broken heart?” Because I don’t want to have a broken heart any more. I’m tired of feeling broken altogether. I’m tired of feeling like mush inside, mush surrounding a giant gaping hole of pain and want. I’m weary of every good mood being followed by a broken-winged crash.

It turns out that her talk (available as an MP3 here) included that very story of the woman in grief. I still don’t know why we need to be broken, but I realize that it is a deep truth. Lately I feel that my biggest problem is simply surrendering to what is. I am not in control. Migration season does not stop for a broken wing. Nor are we any less a part of life for our brokeness.

Wendy closed her talk by telling us, “Leave the wind to the wind and the flowers to the flowers. And be yourself. Be a fully alive, awake, ready, broken human being.”

What else can we be?