“A home for misfit animals and books, and makers of herbal, apian, and natural fiber products.”
Sanctuary – Focuses primarily on small livestock and pets that are being relinquished due to zoning regulation issues, foreclosure, or eviction.
Tomestead – A different sort of “rescue” or sanctuary, one that keeps used books out of the landfills. The bulk of the books will be from donations. Patrons will have the option of in-store credit (20% off purchase) or a check for 20% of estimated resale price. Campus will consist of re-purposed sheds, RVs, trailers and/or mobile concession booths. Each upcycled building will host a different genre, or subject(s) and be themed accordingly. Additional outbuildings will host various natural fiber, herbal and apian products produced on-site and throughout the local community. topography will include a 9000 square foot heirloom herb garden where walks and talks will be hosted; a petting zoo featuring some of the rescued animals at the sanctuary, and a cafe featuring menu items that would have been popular in the 19th century. Proceeds from sales will be re-invested into the business, as well as providing for the care of the animals.
The Herbal Hare – Farm side of the campus will host various fiber-producing animals, in addition to rescues, such as sheep, goats, alpacas, and rabbits. Spinning, weaving and dyeing demonstrations, herbal workshops, and “bee” school are future offerings. Fibers will eventually expand to include basket weaving, chair caning, and straw hat making, and sericulture (silkworms). Herb store will eventually be expanded to include a couple of greenhouses for growing heat-loving spices, such as cardamom and turmeric; mushrooms; microgreens, and sprouts.
Planned fiber products – primarily yarns and some woven products to start. Straw hats, baskets, silks and linen in future.
Planned apian products – honey, beeswax, candles
Herbal products – seeds; dried and fresh herbs; young plants; skin care products; scent mixes and tea blends
All facilities will be zero-waste. Reusable bags, boxes, upcycled Mason jars will be available for patrons. We will also seek out compostable wraps, containers and utensils for our envisioned cafe. Compost will be re-purposed in the herb garden and future greenhouses.
Where is this wonderful place? For now, it’s on the drawing board awaiting either an angel investor (or two) to help with start-ups, or a great, big pot of luck!
What expertise do I bring to this endeavor? Besides being a writer, I am a certified herbalist who worked in living history, both as a volunteer and as paid staff, for many years where I learned spinning, weaving and caring for natural fibers, and straw braiding for the making of hats. I am also a Master Gardener with the University of Connecticut, and a librarian. I have been rescuing and giving sanctuary to unwanted animals for much of my adult life–over 35 years!
This is my dream. With God’s grace, it will one day be a reality.
May God bless you & keep you!
PS The link to my Go Fund Me campaign to make this a reality:
“For you have a new life. It was not passed on to you from your parents, for the life they gave you will fade away. This new one will last forever, for it comes from Christ, God’s ever-living Message to men.” (1 Peter 1:23)
I find myself unable to think of a word, or biblical phrase, to define this year. I’ve thought of “Intention”. “Trust”. “Discipline”. I need to work on all of these…and a phrase/verse from the Bible to help remind me.
Wow.
I guess I really am mired in depression. See? I need to work on that trust issue for sure!
But, as always, on New Years’, I like to take a moment to reflect on the year past and remember those loved ones who will never again grace The Herbal Hare in life.
Praise the Lord, my human family has been hale and hearty this year. =) However, we did lose the boss of the barnyard this past spring. Sgt. Feathers, my Polish crested rooster, is protecting his ladies in heaven these days. And while his sons, Radar and MIG, and grandson, Jeep, are doing their best to carry on with protecting our living flock, it seems strange not to hear his trumpeting anymore…followed closely by a little, squeaky half-pint of a crowing. Tank, the little Silkie, who, having followed so closely at Sgt. Feathers’ heels in life, followed his commander closely in death, too. I lost them within a few days of each other. With Sgt. Feathers, it had been expected; every day was a gift. He was quite old for a roo (10) and had started walking almost hunched over like the old man he was. Tank, however, is a mystery. No sign of illness or injury. But, because they like to peck the ground, parasites are always an issue…no matter how clean and careful you are with their environment.
Sgt. FeathersTank
We also lost two beloved felines this year.
Only a few days after I posted last New Year’s memorial, Mom’s cat, Rosco, left us. Rosco had an interesting life. He was found atop a house in Illinois during all the flooding in the Midwest over a decade ago. No clue who his owners were, he was brought to a local shelter. Mom and my stepfather were shopping at PetSmart one weekend. The store was hosting an adoption clinic this day. Mom saw Rosco and fell in love. But my stepfather said, “No, no more cats!”. She worked on him as they wandered the store and, as they reached the checkout, he relented.
But Rosco had already been adopted…
…by their upstairs neighbor in the apartment complex where they lived! Said neighbor did not take good care of him though. Mom watched in horror as this declawed kitty had his front paws intentionally raked over the rough bark of a tree, lost weight due to inadequate feeding, and lastly was kicked by the neighbor’s boyfriend. Mom saw them outside with him on a leash, marched over, picked Rosco up and walked away with him. When the couple protested and threatened to call the police, Mom challenged them to go right ahead so she and the other neighbors could all tell the police how cruel they had been to this little guy. Poor Rosco had to have his jaw wired from the kick. And had to be fed frequent, tiny meals for awhile until his shrunken stomach could handle more substantial amounts of food. He grew to expect the frequent feedings though. He was quite fat by the end of his days…except his tail, which stood up skinny and reminiscent of the wire used to guide the bumper cars at a fair. He rode shotgun on the dashboard of Mom’s minivan when she traveled across country from Missouri to Connecticut to move in with me back in 2014. His “hoot” will be missed (Rosco’s jaw remained misshapen due to the abuse he endured before Mom rescued him and he could not articulate a more traditional “Me-ow!”).
Rosco
Lastly, Kirby. We lost him in May 2021. Kirby came to “visit” for the first time in the spring of 2014. I heard some of the resident felines howling in protest in the kitchen, went to investigate, and saw a bright-eyed little face peeking in over the window ledge. He did this for several nights…all while I protested I did not *need* another cat. He probably belongs to a neighbor, he’s just passing through, etc. But he kept coming back. And, finally, I determined that, yes, God had planted another stray kitty in my path. I started feeding him, gaining his trust. It took a few months (!!??!) before I was able to trap him and get him indoors. And then another couple of weeks of him being isolated in a room by himself until I could get him to a vet.
He howled all the way to the vet office, ripped open his toes trying to claw his way out of the travel cage, and then shot out of the cage and placed bloody runnels down the exam room walls as soon as the doc opened the cage. He had to be sedated so she could examine him, patch up his mangled toes, neuter and give him his shots. I seriously thought this was one baby who was too feral for a forever indoor home.
He proved me wrong.
Mom had just arrived with Rosco and Max, her blue heeler we lost a couple of years’ ago, and Kirby and Rosco became bosom buddies, along with Paz, my geriatric tuxedo. Then, a few months’ later, when a pregnant Priscilla was dumped off on the farm, he minded her babies like the proud surrogate Papa he became to them. He, Ozzy, Emmylou, and Alice Cooper became inseparable, and he was a sort of ambassador to every poor feline this farm has taken in since.
However, I proved him wrong, too. I told him he would love laps someday…and I was right. Once he was reassured that he was loved and there would always be someone to care for him, he was the ultimate cuddle kitty. =)
Kirby with his adopted “sons”, Alice Cooper and Ozzy Osbourne (l to r)
Both Rosco and Kirby, Priscilla late last December, and earlier in 2020, my Pearl, all developed kidney and heart disease rather suddenly after using Seresto collars. I don’t know if there is a correlation, though I did see an article in USA Today in regard, stating that these collars are being linked to possible kidney and heart disease; I have not found the link to that article today but, I did find a more recent news article about how certain lawmakers are asking that these collars be recalled. There have been reported incidents in the thousands as regards these collars so, please, proceed with caution if you are using them for your pets. I have included the link below so you may read it for yourselves. My then-vet suggested the kidney and heart failure was simply due to their age. Granted, Pearl was 16 when she passed; Kirby and Rosco both estimated at 12-13 years’ of age. Priscilla, however, was only 7, a bit too young, in my opinion and experience, to be struck with organ failure. No sign of illness in any of them prior to these sudden downturns…and I do mean sudden. Rosco had been playing with me like a young kitten just 3 days’ earlier when all of a sudden, he just stopped eating and started shutting down. We have since found a new vet as the “old” one refused to take my concerns seriously when I voiced them to him. I may be wrong about the collars but, it seems, I am not alone in my concerns with them.
Kirby; the best ones are the ones who choose you (sigh!)
In addition to these memorials, I think it is safe to say that 2021 was even more challenging than 2020. I’ve alienated a lot of friends due to my stance as regards mandating getting jabbed with something that neither protects one from contracting an illness, nor prevents one from spreading it. I’ve been a Democrat all of my life; I am seriously considering at least becoming “unaffiliated” as I cannot abide the hate and vitriol being spewed about by others of the party. The fear-mongering by mainstream media; the attempts to force us into a police, or authoritarian state; the lack of respect for others who do not share the same views have left a bitter taste in my mouth. I actually owe President Trump an apology for being so anti-Trump during his tenure. While he will never be a favorite of mine, yeah, it really was a witch hunt…one, I am ashamed to say, I contributed to widely on social media.
I don’t know what this new year will bring. The media continues to cry for the arrest, ostracism, and abuse of those who either cannot, or will not, take their (in my opinion) poison**. Gasoline is up to $3.60 per gallon here in New England for regular unleaded; I’m sure it will rise even higher as we approach summer. Empty shelves grace the local Walmart and grocery stores, and there’s sticker shock when you do find what you’re looking for. On a more personal note, while foreclosure is still eminent here at The Herbal Hare, I find myself even more committed to homesteading, and now prepping, than ever before. I cannot help but think a collapse of some sort is eminent. I pray I am wrong, but it doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. Perhaps you’re all thinking, there goes another whacked out conspiracy theorist. But, maybe, just maybe, there’s something to those conspiracies. (No, I don’t think little green men are injecting tracking devices under our skin, but I do see changes in government, in our society, that make me think I may have to carry around special papers proclaiming myself “free” (passport anyone?), or don a special band marking me as some sort of enemy (face masks?))
However, I am committed to building a community of like-minded people, too. None of us are islands unto ourselves; we need community. Perhaps the word I’m looking for this year is “tribe”. Regardless of whether or not you agree with me on a social or political level, when all is said and done, this year I feel it is especially important to at least be kind to one another. We are all struggling during this turmoil. And our tribe, or family, is who we choose to care for.
But this is all just what I think. I invite you to share, whether you agree or not, in the comments below. I do ask that you be respectful of others, and of this blog, by refraining from profanity, name-calling, bullying or belittling; again, we are all one family, each a very special part of the body of Christ, none of us whole without the other. That being said, regardless of what you believe (or not!); how you look; who you love; socioeconomic status, or current “jab” status, all are welcome…to this blog, to this community, in my home and in my heart. We got through 2021 together, we can get through 2022 as well…and, hopefully, come out the backside of it in a much better place than we are going in.
Wishing everyone much love, much hope, peace, prosperity and, above all, a deep and abiding faith for the New Year! May God bless you & keep you!
**A note: though my opinion leans towards choice when it comes to matters of health, to everyone who has been *poked*, please know that I respect your choice to do so. It is your body and you have to do what is best for you and yours. I am not “anti” pokes; I am anti mandating personal autonomy. For everyone obsessed with forcing others to do as you do, stop for one moment, please, and think how you would feel if suddenly a mandate was issued that said you were no longer *allowed* to get poked, even though you feel in your heart it is the right thing to do for you and yours.
Again, may God bless you & keep you! Stay safe & stay free!
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be enrolled. This was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria. So all went to be enrolled, each to his own town. And Joseph too went up from Galilee from the town of Nazareth to Judea, to the city of David that is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, to be enrolled with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. While they were there, the time came for her to have her child, and she gave birth to her firstborn son. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.
Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock. The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear. The angel said to them, “Do no be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying:
“Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”
A very Merry Christmas! And may God bless you & keep you and yours throughout the New Year!
“Mocking the poor is mocking the God who made them. He will punish those who rejoice at others’ misfortunes.” (Proverbs 17:5)
I received an invite to an outing to go whale watching from a cousin recently…which was then recanted after seeing my Go Fund Me campaign link on Facebook. Of course, nothing was said initially. As the date of the outing was coming up, I messaged her to ask if we were still on. She didn’t want me to feel “bad”. I’m not sure exactly what that meant but, I want to believe her heart was in the right place, and that she was simply being sensitive to my financial difficulties. I sincerely hope she wasn’t thinking I might “mooch” off of her, or others, in order to go. The expense was minor and, despite my situation, I would have enjoyed the outing…as a day of respite, perhaps, from my situation. I confess to feeling rather hurt, even if good intentions were meant.
It seems a common theme these days.
For those of you new to this blog, I fractured my shoulder two years ago and lost a full-time position as a result from my injury. I have yet to find full-time work again and am behind many months on my mortgage. It has gone into foreclosure…and even Covid allowances aren’t doing much to stall the progression. My inability to get the vaccine is making it harder to find that full-time position, even if I trusted the “poke” enough to do so. I have new neighbors who got themselves on the Planning & Zoning Board and are challenging my right to farm, to raise livestock, despite having engaged a zoning attorney over a dozen years ago and getting the okay to do so. Now I have beloved animals at risk if I cannot find an attorney to take on this case…and, of course, pay him/her to do so. The roof leaks. There’s mold growing. Something is driving my electric bill up to $700 each month (from $100) and the electric company sends me to Community Action who sends me back to the electric company to find out what it is and try to remedy it. The yard is overgrown, as usual, because I lack the proper tools to keep it up…or the means of hiring out for what I cannot do myself. I’m getting the runaround from the DMV. And I have nowhere to go if I can’t save my property and pets that I cannot bear to lose.
All of this bearing down on me, and I’m trying hard not to succumb to “victim mode”, but I really hate how society treats those who are either inherently poor (i.e. from birth), or simply have fallen on hard times.
I may have recanted the aforementioned outing myself after taking a careful look at my finances. I do work. I do have some income coming into my home. It’s just not enough to cover all of my expenses yet. So, while I appreciate the concern, it would’ve been nice to have been asked/reminded of the outing and still be regarded as a thinking, feeling human being…
Even if I had determined FOR MYSELF that, no, I couldn’t handle this expense this month (I get paid monthly by the library where I work).
The poor, the downtrodden, the down-on-their-luck individuals are half-humans for most of society. We’re too stupid to manage our own money…even though I lived on the savings, 401K and other investments that most experts advise for two whole years after being laid off in 2009 from a corporate position.
“We brought our poverty, or difficulties, onto ourselves”…even though we work whatever menial job comes our way and carefully budget, save, practice a frugality that most of society would never be able to handle if they were in our shoes, and either we were born into poverty already and so have a tougher climb up the ladder of success, or our difficulties are the result of a recession, depression, or an injury or illness. Not sure how that equates to bringing it all on ourselves but, so be it.
“We don’t want to work”…oftentimes, the poor in this world work harder than anyone but, wages, and hours available, seldom keep pace with the cost of basic needs. Despite the media hyping a “booming” job market, most are still part-time endeavors…and now we have mandates crippling our economy even more.
The financially-challenged are not allowed to have any enjoyment. God forbid you should have pets. Or buy a pizza for dinner on a rare occasion…even if you save some of it for lunch the next couple of days and, thus, get multiple meals out of it.
Yes, I’m angry. Yes, maybe feeling a little sorry for myself. But, more, I’m feeling a sense of loneliness that has this computer screen blurring even as I type. When you’ve been struggling as long as I have, there’s a sense of apathy that settles over you. Anxiety and depression war inside in an endless cycle that can often be crippling.
Yes, I’m partly to blame for my loneliness. I don’t reach out. I don’t pick up the phone just to call and say “hello” or find out how others are doing, but rarely does anyone do likewise for me. Mom and I could die over here and it would be weeks before anyone discovered our remains. Granted, in my apathy, in the uncertainty that such financial struggles bring, I have let everything go. My home is a fright so I don’t invite anyone in. I’ve gained weight, been eating mostly unhealthy, and most of my social interaction has been work…or the doctor’s office (I have a stress test coming up). I sleep a lot more but, it’s rarely solid. The mind races at night when all is quiet. Insomnia visits from time to time…as do nightmares and chronic fatigue syndrome. In short, I’m suddenly ashamed and I don’t want friends seeing how badly things have gotten. I am overwhelmed. And pride goeth before the fall.
Of course, I know the Adversary uses all of this to whisper his lies, to drag us down further and further away from God…and humanity. I’m not worthy. I’m unloved. God has forgotten me. I’ve used up all of His grace. The litany drones on. Rather than praise, my prayer life–when I remember it–has been a pathetic begging to be taken out of this storm. Maybe my lack of attention to the blessings He’s already bestowed upon me is part of the problem…even as I acknowledge the lack of means to provide some of that upkeep. (See how the Adversary works…)
And yet, I’m mindful that He is teaching me a lesson in all of this, too. Like many others, I never really recovered from the Great Recession so, when I fractured that shoulder, there was much less to fall back on to sustain me. Since 2009 I have had to swallow my pride many times to visit food pantries, apply for heating assistance and medical coverage through the state, and a host of other things just to survive. I used to judge others…much the same way I am lamenting being judged. I looked down my nose, rejected friendships from anyone who might be too “needy”. Now the shoe is on the other foot and, yes, it pinches. Bad…
But the greatest lesson of all has been three-fold. First and foremost, I cannot do this without Him. He’s asking me to rely on Him. To trust Him…no matter what happens. To believe that He still loves me, always has, always will. That’s a tough one for a survivor of abuse, the concept of a loving Father in heaven. The Adversary’s still whispering doubt in my ear even as I type. Proof that I need to draw closer to Him in this storm, rather than reject and withdraw.
Second is to remember that picking up that phone costs nothing. Even in my own need, there are others who could also use a friend…and it’s nice to be remembered “just because”. Walmart sells boxes of generic cards for under $2 each. A remembered birthday, a sympathy card when a friend loses a loved one, a get-well-soon might be appreciated far more than a quick blurb on Facebook. And it’s always nice to be asked.
The third part is to start sharing my life again…even if it is in chaos. Rare am I going to have posts about some amazing workshop that I attended or an outing I enjoyed; it’s simply not possible. And, while I hate constantly posting about my situation, maybe those kinds of posts would be less if I wrote more consistently about other things…and not just when my anxiety is through the roof and I’m in need of an outlet.
To everything there is a season…and I still have hope that He has a plan in all of this.
“The path of the godly leads away from evil; he who follows that path is safe” (Proverbs 16:17)
I had just come back from the company cafeteria with a cup of tea when a co-worker hollered over the foam-filled cubicle wall, “Oh, my God! Did you see that?” And then a cacophony of voices asking, “What?” “Yes, OMG!” “Holy crap…my sister/mother/brother just texted me; look at this!” “What happened?” and “This can’t be real.”
And, yet, it was.
As the images scrolled across every screen in our corporate facility, I remember glancing at the plate-glass window behind me and trying to imagine what it would be like to see a large commercial airplane heading straight for me. Granted, I was on the ground floor and our facility sprawled rather than rising up to touch the skyline but, at that point, I believed anything could happen. I thought of the family and friends those people would never see again…because, in that instance, you would know there was no escape.
Glancing at the clock on the PC, I picked up my extension (I wouldn’t join the ranks of cellphone users for many years to come), and called my parents’ house in Warwick. I knew they weren’t flying anywhere but, you know, you couldn’t help but check-in with all of your loved ones at a time like this. Every other extension was lit up with the same type of phone calls. Nobody was working on September 11, 2001…outside of first responders and hospital personnel. And, as news footage rolled, janitors, cafeteria workers, assemblers, accountants, executives and technical engineers stood shoulder-to-shoulder to watch in horror.
Mom wasn’t up yet. My stepfather had just awakened, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. His two-plus-packs-a-day-early-morning-gravel declared, “It looks like something out of a Sci-Fi film”. As he could likely quote dialog from Star Trek, I agreed with this assessment. I still had that feeling of otherworldliness myself; it would not wear off for some time. For me, it was more like Freddy Kruger meets Godzilla, or something equally as fantastical and unbelievable.
My stepfather woke my mother up. It felt good just to hear their voices as I watched new footage rolling of people trapped in the upper floors of the Twin Towers jumping to their deaths.
Suddenly, my Mom mentioned a new neighbor of theirs who had sat outside with them a few nights’ earlier, showing off a new tattoo. She remembered it depicted an airplane flying into a pair of towers…
They hung up to call the local police station.
Nobody ever responded, took them seriously…even after they discovered only hours later that the couple had moved out in the middle of the night on September 10th.
Later, as the list of casualties scrolled across every news outlet feed, I learned that Mom had an old high school friend on board one of the planes. Carol was en route to her daughter’s wedding. I can’t imagine her last thoughts…or that of her daughter on what should have been a day filled with joy, not sorrow. And, as my mother’s side of the family is mostly police officers, I couldn’t help but grieve for those who lost their lives trying to save others, while also admiring the bravery that every emergency worker displayed as they rushed in, heedless of their own safety.
Of course, with the renewed sense of patriotism after these attacks, and the pretty much unanimous approval for our commander-in-chief to invade the Middle East, came a great fear in the hearts of many for anyone of Middle Eastern heritage. Or anyone just sporting a head covering of some sort. Memes spread via email hating on anyone Muslim or Middle Eastern…or both. I understood the fear behind it but, when one such meme surfaced quoting passages from the Quran, I decided to risk some censure. The quote and the book didn’t even exist in the Quran (and forgive my faulty memory for not remembering the fake quote from 20 years’ ago). Though I am Christian, I have a copy of the Quran in my home and have read it cover-to-cover. I double checked and then copied down text from the numbered passage the meme claimed as “gospel”.
Yup. I got reamed. Family, friends…was I crazy?
No. Just trying to do what I thought Jesus would do: counter the lie with the truth…and stop the persecution of innocent people. While all members of Al Qaeda and the Taliban identify as Muslim, not every Muslim is a member of Al Qaeda or the Taliban. It’s like members of the Ku Klux Klan claiming to be Christian, but not every Christian is a member of the KKK. Both are fringe extremists of their respective religions and cultures.
I was called un-American for pointing out the error in the aforementioned meme. I had a brother deployed to the Middle East right after 9/11. Of course, I was worried sick over his safety, and that of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Of course, I supported (and still support) our troops, our police officers, firefighters, EMT’s and other emergency workers.
And I always will.
As I sit here remembering 09/11/2001, my heart grieves for Every. Single. Life lost in this terrorist attack. I grieve and pray for all of the unsuspecting executives and office workers, maintenance and food preppers, blue color and white color, who went to work that morning never realizing what that day would bring…or the ultimate sacrifice they would have to make. I pray for the passengers and crew aboard each airline. I pray for the emergency workers and first responders who gave so selflessly. I pray for the lives lost over the last 20 years due to the myriad pollutants inhaled during and after the attack. I pray for all of our soldiers, many who also gave the ultimate sacrifice to defend our country, and for those who came back less than whole with limbs missing, sight and/or hearing destroyed, suffering from PTSD and, like so many of our vets from Vietnam, found themselves homeless upon their return to the U.S. (we can do better than this America…). And, yes, I also pray for those caught in a cycle of hate for their heritage and/or beliefs since this attack, whether Muslim or Sikh or any other individual mistaken and mistrusted for something they had no more control over than any other American.
Twenty years…
The children of the soldiers deployed in 2001 are now old enough to be soldiers themselves. 13 of them died as our current administration finally pulled out of Afghanistan. Yes, it was time and past for this war to end.
More criticism: I’ve been told I have no idea how hard it is to pull a whole army out of a country like that and I shouldn’t judge…even though thousands of American citizens and Afghan allies were left behind. I should focus on the, I believe the number is over 120,000, people that were rescued. Focus on the positive; this has never been done before (yeah, there’s an echo chamber here from the previous administration…). Those left behind are essentially hostages now. And, no, I really don’t know how hard it is to pull out of a country like that. But my brother could’ve been one of those 13. And I believe my critics are missing the point completely as we all mourn the loss of who I pray will finally be the last of those lost since 9/11 and the seemingly endless war that has followed in its wake.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:…A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away” (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6)
As I navigate through the foreclosure mediation process, I’m also doing a bit of “weeding”. Not in the garden, but in the house.
You see, it’s gotten a little overwhelming here. First, I have my own belongings. And, as these things go, those belongings tend to grow over time. A good “weeding” at least annually is never amiss even under every day circumstances. But we’ve grown a bit beyond the ordinary household clutter…and, being overwhelmed, I’ve gotten remiss even on that annual “weeding”.
A friend of mine lost her home to a divorce. As her ex-husband put her and their teenage son out on the streets, she asked if she could store some boxes of belongings at my place until she had a new place to live (I had offered them a room here but, she wasn’t comfortable with that, fearing it might harm the friendship down the road). That was 10 years’ ago. She has never come over to claim these items and the phone number I have for her is now out of service.
Then Mom moved in with a van full of boxes and totes of things. She loves clutter. If there’s a bare patch of table nearby, she’ll find another figurine, bowl or vase to fill it. I knew this and, when she first moved in, I told her she could put up as many knick knacks in her room as she wanted (I gave her the master bedroom). If she needed more shelves, we’d comb a few yard sales to find them, or visit the local box store. But I wanted to keep the common areas of the house to a minimum as I find too much “stuff” stifling (unless it’s a pile of books, notebooks and pens…(sigh)). I didn’t mind a few favorites in the common areas, as I wanted her to feel at home, but somehow an overwhelming array of knick knacks still found their way into the kitchen and living room, along with afghans and throws and various other dust collecting entities. To the point that it’s an all day project just to dust a few shelves. At least a couple of times a year, a new cat bed, blanket, climbing “tree” or scratching post gets delivered through Amazon. And, as another friend moved out of her home, a lot of what she was “weeding” out found its way here after Mom helped out with myriad yard sales along the way.
Then my Aunt Marjorie passed away. I have boxes and bags of her belongings here, too.
So, you see, we have four separate households crammed into one.
I’ve been collecting empty boxes for packing. I’ve also bought a package of boxes from Staples. I’ve been packing away those few trinkets that I truly love (I do have a few). If we have to move, I will be one step ahead of the game. The rest will go in my own yard sale. I was gunning for Labor Day, but I think it’ll be more like Columbus Day weekend instead as there is just too much to get ready in only a few weeks’ time.
Though this process is a little overwhelming (how did I get so much stuff???), to be honest, it’s actually a little cathartic as each little box packed frees up that much more space. There’s something to be said for minimalism. I’m not sure Mom would agree…and I really do have a fetish for books, pen and paper.
“The rich man’s wealth is his only strength. The poor man’s poverty is his only curse.” (Proverbs 10:15)
I hate platitudes, those pat little bits of advice from people who have never walked an inch in another’s shoes, nevermind a mile.
Or maybe it’s not a platitude, but one of those itchy little thorns that get under your skin because you know there’s a grain of truth to it.
I once lamented to a significant other that he didn’t take me seriously. I can’t even remember what we were arguing about at the time but, very calmly, he said I didn’t take myself seriously. My initial reaction was what the f*** is that suppose to mean? Another friend told me that I missed my opportunities. Again, same initial reaction.
Yeah, it’s the itchy little thorn scenario.
I still don’t know if I buy the first one. That sounds like a lack of confidence (or a crafty little cop-out on his part…). Yeah, maybe I do lack confidence to some extent but, in areas where it matters, no, I’m okay there.
I know my writing is good. Sure, my blog posts may have a lot of run-ons and half sentences, but it gets the point across and people read it. The books I have “in-the-works” get more of the polish and, those who have read bits and bobs of them, tend to give positive feedback and encouragement. As a homesteader, well, we may soon be without a homestead. That’s enough to destroy anyone’s confidence for a spell, but not because I lack confidence that I can grow a significant amount of food, grow herbs, spin yarn, weave cloth, or keep bees and livestock. What skills I lack, I can always learn. It’s more of an insecurity thing, a fear of putting the work in to develop the present property only to lose it.
And, yeah, maybe wondering if any business ideas that I have will come to enough of a fruition that I can continue…here, or on another property.
This last falls under the heading of “Fear of Failure”, not “Lack of Confidence”. A business using goats to clear land; a secondhand bookstore and herbery; a zero waste store; a monthly newsletter/magazine that features herbs, natural fibers, and all things homesteading, or a YouTube channel featuring all of, or part of, the above are all viable ideas that have the ability to stand on their own. I don’t lack confidence in the viability of any idea. I believe in them enough to have created business plans and/or grant proposals for all of them. But, maybe, just maybe, I’m willing to concede that I lack the confidence that I’ll ever find the necessary funds, the land, and the physical support to see them fly (there should be a support group for impoverished wannabe entrepreneurs…). And that is where I fear the failure.
As for the other itchy little thorn? It’s difficult to take advantage of a presented opportunity if you have no way to support yourself, your family, etc. while you take that advantage.
So, yeah, these offhanded remarks have itched and poked and stung over the years with all of the tenacity of a killer hornet. They were also hurtful and callous remarks by the people who uttered them. And, as I sit here typing this, I can’t help wondering how many other would-be entrepreneurs are sitting out there feeling the same angst that I do. How many jobs are “lost” before they are ever realized? And don’t get me started on big box stores and monopolizing tech companies pushing out the small business owners who are able to make their dreams a reality.
“But Lot’s wife looked back as she was following along behind him, and became a pillar of salt.” (Genesis 19:26)
I feel a bit like Lot’s wife. He’s been pointing me away from here for years now. And I keep looking back, allowing nostalgia and sentiment to sway my decisions. Now home has become unsafe and I received the foreclosure notice yesterday.
WARNING: There may be some redundancy in my blog posts as the weeks roll on. I will be sharing the link to my Go Fund Me campaign periodically in my posts. Please forgive me; these are desperate times.
Even if you cannot help, if you could share this link on your social media pages, I would be forever indebted to you! Your prayers, positive thoughts and energy are also appreciated!
“An empty stable stays clean–but there is no income from an empty stable.” (Proverbs 11:4)
First of all, I want to shout out a Happy Litha to all of my pagan and Wiccan friends. Today marks the start of Litha on the pagan calendar. We are rapidly approaching the longest day of the year, which is Sunday, Father’s Day, and the First Day of Summer for the rest of us.
And what better time to contemplate some more changes here on The Herbal Hare Homestead?
My coach is pulling me out of my comfort zone in a big way. We’re talking about creating a YouTube channel in the not-so-distant future.
Whoa.
I’m not sure I’m ready for YouTube. I always thought I’d start a YouTube channel when I finally had my homestead in Maine…or found a way to get this one off the ground better. I’ve had visions of a well-manicured garden with hundreds of different herbs growing–much like I was in charge of for 16 months at a local living history museum–and giving virtual “weed” walks each week. A seriously overgrown jungle? Definitely not on my radar…
Yep. The procrastinator seeking the perfect conditions to get started.
Paradoxically, those visions have always included a younger-looking version of me, which, as I waste time waiting for those perfect conditions, I’m only getting older like everybody else.
There’s also an awareness I am not the least bit camera-friendly…
Yep. The sin of vanity, too. And who says I have to film me? I mean, this YouTube channel will be about plants, particularly herbs, homesteading and prepping. Right?
Well, she’s certainly put the bug in my ear, lit the proverbial fire under my backside. Now if I can stop these knees from quaking, well, not too much yet. There’s also a sort of nervous anticipation here. Can I do this?
Here.
Now.
When I have such a limited space?
Or is it limiting at all?
Sky’s the limit as they say. Another good expression is I’m only as limited as my imagination. Mine’s pretty prolific so maybe this thing will fly after all. We shall see.
In the meantime, we all know what I’m going to be mulling over for the next few days. What’s on your plate this week?
“When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up–the flames will not consume you.” (Isaiah 43:2)
Praising the good Lord even in the midst of a storm…I struggle with that one, even though I know that it is correct. I know, deep down inside, that even in these little earthquakes that rattle the soul, He has my best interest at heart. He has my back.
Until the voice of the adversary creeps up and tells me I’m not worthy. I’m being punished for something I did. Or didn’t do. Or didn’t do right. All those promises from the Bible are for other people.
Then there’s another voice that whispers, “Why am I praising the struggle???”
That’s probably the worst one of all, the one that pulls me the furthest from my Lord and Savior: questioning why.
Because it shows I haven’t quite learned how to walk by faith yet.
But I will praise Him. Even if a part of me has forgotten how. How to surrender. How to let go. Did I ever really know? Have I ever really let go long enough for real trust to grow?
But praise Him I will.
I praise you Lord for the splinter still caught under my right ring finger…and for the salve I made several months’ ago containing the plantain that, hopefully, will draw it out.
I praise you for the acid reflux and asthma attacks Wednesday night that had me up at 2 a.m…and made me realize just how unsustainable such an early rising would be for the long haul.
I praise you for whatever is leaking in the basement. And for the lack of funds to have it looked at and repaired; further proof that this old fixer-upper has become a drain on my strength and soul.
I praise you for the new neighbors who are harassing us and challenging zoning regulations. I praise you for blessing them…and maybe there is just a little gremlin still sitting on my shoulder that says, “Yeah, open their eyes! Pierce their souls with contrition for the hardship they’ve added to a thousandfold! (Translation: a thinly veiled plea for revenge…lol!) I praise You for that, too; there’s still some fight left after all.
I praise you that I didn’t get the director’s job, yet another full-time position that would’ve made all the difference financially. I praise you for answering my prayer that I get that position only if You mean for Mom and I to stay here in Connecticut.
I praise you for the new kittens who are filling our home and our hearts with laughter.
I praise you for the friends, family, and spiritual community that you have blessed me with for almost 20 years. And all of the many animals that have shared this home with us.
And, Lord, if it be thy will, I praise You for showing me where to now. It’s been almost a decade since this storm first hit, Praise God! I’m growing oh-so weary…
And, yes, there is a note of cynicism and bitterness. But also, an inner canniness that understands a little of what is happening here. ..at least I hope so.
You see, I started working with a coach last month. She is a Christian and helps those of us whose faith is struggling. She is also a writing coach. If nothing else, she is helping me to simply show up. To write. To pray. To worship and create. To draw closer to Him.
And that’s not in the adversary’s plans at all. So, of course, he’s throwing as many monkey wrenches at me as he can find.
But, you know, I even praise the Lord for both the monkey wrenches and the cynicism. I may not know all of God’s plans right now, where He is leading me, where He wants me to go, or what He wants me to do, but I do know that that ol’ devil perceives the threat to his machinations. And that’s worthy of at least a dozen “Hallelujahs”. Maybe praising Him in the midst of a storm isn’t that difficult after all.
The Herbal Hare Tomestead and Animal Sanctuary 