Category: Gratitude

Appreciation, Faith, Gratitude, Homesteading, Minimalism

Tricycle, Tricycle

Lisa Burbank

Saturday saw me trudging up Prince Hill a wee bit overloaded with groceries from the local Walmart. I should’ve known better but we were out of nearly everything and the local feed store charges a fortune for birdseed. Even though I selected the smaller, 10 lb. bag of birdseed, it was dead weight…and in 90+ degrees, I really should have know better. Needless to say, I had scarcely cleared the Walmart parking lot before I was huffing and puffing…and feeling an oh-so-familiar twinge in my right leg, wishing I had something to pedal home instead of lugging everything by hand.

I won a bicycle many years ago when I was taking belly dance lessons. Proceeds from the raffle were for Relay for Life so it was a good cause. And, to be honest, I fell in love with the bike. It is an old, vintage-style Schwinn, similar to the one Margaret Hamilton rode in the Wizard of Oz (I’ll get you my pretty…and your little dog, too). Three raffle tickets were enough for the win. I proudly brought it home.

And it sat for a few years. It became one of those “someday” events. You know the ones. Those tasks, or events, we tell ourselves we’ll get to “someday” and seldom ever do. Others may call it their bucket list.

Finally, I decided to give the someday bicycle a try…and discovered it pulled way too hard to the left. I brought it back home, told the then-boyfriend, and he adjusted the screw at the base of the handlebars. It should be okay now. But, after having nearly veered off into the middle of heavy traffic along Interstate 6 too many times, I confess to being a little intimidated by it. Traffic slows for no man…or woman…on Route 6. The someday bicycle went back into storage.

Two weekends’ ago, I decided to pull it back out again. My dream bicycle is actually an adult-sized tricycle with a big basket sitting between the two back wheels for hauling groceries and such. But, not having the $250+ to purchase one right now, I decided to give the ol’ vintage bike a second try. To overcome the apprehension about familiarizing myself with it on a major interstate, I walked it across the street one Sunday afternoon to the empty parking lot there. Well, it still rides a little to the left; worse, it doesn’t want to turn left…unless I gently tap the brakes to slow it down. It’s also way too tall for me–and I’m 5’8″ tall. I could only teeter-totter back and forth from one toe to the other; I could not put both feet down at once. That destroyed whatever confidence I have left in it. I’m thinking it may work as one of those stationary bikes…either for winter fitness or, for another “someday” something, a future bicycle-powered generator when I’m finally able to transition to more off-grid living. But as an eco-friendly form of transportation? Nope. Not happening.

So, while I dreamed of my dream trike, I continued huffing and puffing, and every few feet, stopping to set the groceries down a moment until the circulation could return to my fingertips from the weight of those bags.

That’s when Mr. Eye Candy pulled into the parking lot of Danielson Glass in front of me, stepped out of his car and came towards me, hands out as if to grab my heavy bags from me. He offered me a ride home. Well, though he looked quite a bit like Val Kilmer when he played in the movie “Willow” (long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue/green eyes, nice build), and while the biggest part of me wants to believe he was just trying to help when he saw me struggling, I grew up in a family of police officers. Every alarm bell went off in my head. Again, he could’ve been harmless. I mean, someone that handsome probably wouldn’t need to lure a woman into his vehicle and do away with her remains later on; he was definitely someone who didn’t strike me as having trouble attracting someone. However, that little warning bell in my head reminded me that serial killer, Ted Bundy, was also considered attractive and that was how he lulled unsuspecting females into his car; with that pretty face, and that false image we have of bad guys being the least attractive by societal standards, those unsuspecting females let their guards down. So, despite my struggles, I thanked him politely but assured him I was almost home. He looked perplexed. When I kept walking, he actually followed me a short way, asking if I was sure. Yup. I am…and picked up my steps a little more. He didn’t pursue further. But he sat at the parking lot entrance for a few minutes and watched me walk up Prince Hill…probably growing more and more perplexed at my refusal. Trust me, had we “met” in a bookstore or a cafe somewhere, I would’ve been more than happy to sit and chat with him awhile…just not alone in his car.

It took another 20 minutes to make it home. I had two more offers for a ride home, women both times but also strangers; I just decided to keep going. They didn’t worry me as far as safety is concerned; I was just tired and, at that point, didn’t want to trouble anyone. I thanked them both and continued on.

And crashed when I got home, heat exhaustion overtaking me. Yesterday, my leg aching and muscles spasms making me very uncomfortable but not quite as incapacitated as before.

Time to beef up the savings for that tricycle…maybe, if I apply some creative visualization of myself actually riding said tricycle, the Universe will finally send it my way. In the meantime, I will have to remember smaller loads, more frequent trips…and thanking God for those little warning bells. Mr. Eye Candy may have been harmless…and my apologies to him, if his intentions were pure. But you never know. And those warning bells may have just saved my life.

May God bless you & keep you!

Appreciation, compost, Faith, Frugality, gardening, Gratitude, Homesteading, Lasagna Gardening, No-dig Gardening

Little by Little

Lisa Burbank

“Then God looked over all that He had made, and it was excellent in every way. This ended the sixth day. Now at last the heavens and the earth were successfully completed, with all that they contained. So, on the seventh day, having finished His task, God ceased from this work He had been doing, and God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy, because it was the day when he ceased this work of creation.” (Genesis, 1:31, 2:1-3)

I’m starting to notice a difference. I tackled a too-big landscaping project last summer; it has carried into this summer. And I’m still not finished, still not caught up. But I’m learning not to cringe at the over-grown state of affairs, and to notice the subtle changes along the way. As time and resources allow, I build another raised bed, add more compost, cover more walkways with pseudo-garden cloth (recycled/re-purposed feed bags). In the meantime, I’ve been harvesting blackberries in season, clipping back invasive bittersweet as it threatens to choke out everything else under the sun, and weeding the one little 4′ x 8′ garden bed presently under cultivation. The green beans are thriving. The cheap Walmart squash seeds are dead in the water, so to speak, so that half of the bed will soon be planted in beetroot and leafy greens. I also have some heirloom beans that will have enough time to grow before winter’s freeze, maybe some broccoli and cauliflower as we head into August.

Something unusual is happening here. I’m not worried about being Super Girl anymore. I’m learning to let go of what other people might think. Who cares? I think it has finally sunken in that I’m not Samantha Stevens; twitching my nose won’t make everything perfect…I can’t even twitch my nose like that. And this acceptance is sweet. I have 1/4 of an acre in the middle of a Do It Yourself construction zone. I also work off-site and am in the middle of a degree program. The 2-3 hours I give to this DIY project each morning from dawn until feeding time may not seem like much to some but, for me, while I still cringe from time to time, those 2-3 hours help to break it all down into manageable bites. And, little by little, I’m seeing results. It is taking shape. And I’m even resting on that seventh day.

That’s the truly unusual thing. I usually push myself until “burn-out” sets in and then I waste more time trying to recuperate. Instead, though I don’t consider myself a couch potato type, I’ve been spending part of my days off from the dealership in front of the boob-tube watching You Tube videos about gardening and landscaping…and learning a lot, getting ideas and, yes, on Monday morning when I’m back in the garden at dawn, implementing some of them. Now that I’m not stressing and worrying so much about making everything perfect, I can actually enjoy the journey better. And I actually get more done. Who knew?

And that’s a lesson worth learning.

May God bless you & keep you!

Animals, Appreciation, Faith, Friendship, gardening, Gratitude, Herbs, Homesteading, Lasagna Gardening, No-dig Gardening, Prayer, Writing, Yoga & Fitness

A Pipe Dream

Lisa Burbank

“For I can do everything God asks me to with the help of Christ who gives me strength and power.” (Philippians 4:13)

This morning I arose early, unable to get back into a deep sleep again after Paz’s not-so-rude awakening. I mean, how can you resist when your butterball of a tuxedo cat wants cuddles? At 17 years old, Paz is my geriatric buddy so, while he’s hale and hearty, and I’m definitely not writing him off, everyday we have together is precious. Though “Mommy” laments a bit of lost sleep, I was happy to scratch him under the chin and cuddle him close. When he’d had enough, he took my hand between his paws–much like a child would a stuffed toy–and went to sleep…typical Pazzy-style. I dozed but it wasn’t long before the knees started aching and I noticed a faint line of pink gracing the horizon. As soon as the first birds started twittering, Paz leaped down in search of some dry kibble.

It was a productive morning. Yesterday Mom and I were graced with a visit from an old friend from my corporate days. She had seen my plea for more cardboard on Facebook and, also being a resident of northeastern Connecticut, she offered to bring some by. Christmas came early in the form of an SUV loaded to the gills with huge cardboard boxes. I am so grateful! I managed to build the largest of the beds I will use to plant my herbs into just as the sun was coming up. Now I just need to make some more compost to fill it. Again, I am grateful.

And still on a quest for more so I can landscape the rest of the garden…(hint, hint) (chuckle).

All of this was before 7:15 a.m. I did some yoga and then headed back downstairs to start feeding time here on the farm. And, for the more traditional farmers reading this, yes, 8 a.m. is a little later than most for feeding time but, as I work until 7:30 p.m. off site, it’s a good 12 hour balance between feedings this way. Anyway, I fed and watered ducks, chickens, goats and cats; dosed the goats with some B-12 as some anemia had set in with the recent worm issues. The worms have been eradicated but, Domino, in particular, took it hard; I am happy to say that he seems well on the mend, with his appetite returned (thank God!). I spent the rest of the morning in the rabbit room, giving them some playtime outside of their cages, feeding and grooming them. Of course, I also spent some of the time in prayer (rabbits are restful creatures) and reading one of the chapters due for this week’s homework assignment.

Now it is 1:30 p.m. and I’ve already spent some time writing my book, now this blog and will soon begin the trek to the dealership.

I love what I do at the dealership. More importantly, I love the people I work with; it’s like a great big extended family. But, as much as it’s needed, there’s a part of me lamenting that, once the midday heat passes over, how much I would love to be back out in the garden, working this farm, working to make it into a working herbal, apian and fiber farm.

That is my dream.

Other people do it. But I am definitely not in a place financially where this is even remotely viable. So, for now, this is my little pipe dream: to earn a living, both as a writer and a homesteader, and not have to rely on the insecurity of working elsewhere.

And, yes, everyone read that correctly: insecurity. There is no such thing as job “security” anymore. In fact, there never really has been. The economy, sales–or lack thereof–affect every single industry in some capacity or another…at some time or another. That’s why achieving a measure of self-sufficiency is so appealing. No, not self-sufficiency away from God; He’s at the heart of every endeavor, whether it’s planting some seeds and watching them grow, trimming a goat hoof, or greeting someone on the phone at a local car dealership, I can do nothing without Him. This is the self-sufficiency that doesn’t rely on the traditional 9-to-5 (or, in my present part-time scenario, 3:30 – 7:30), or the energy grid, or the fossil fuel industry but a self-sufficiency that relies on faith in God, and on the wit and capable hands He blessed me with. To know where my food comes from, to make it all from scratch, to spin my own yarn, weave my own cloth and sew my own fashions…that is the dream.

And, as I bask in this feeling of satisfaction from such a productive morning and early afternoon, I hold onto this feeling, memorize it and allow it to motivate me into making it more than just a pipe dream. A reality, where all of the goodness of the Earth gets purposed to God and abundance is shared with a smile.

May God bless you & keep you!

Appreciation, Environment, Faith, Friendship, Gratitude, Healing, Self-improvement

Independence Day

Lisa Burbank

“Now here is what I am trying to say: All of you together are the one body of Christ and each one of you is a separate and necessary part of it.” (1 Corinthians 12:27)

I always consider myself an independent person. In fact, I have always taken pride in my ability to take care of myself and to persevere in doing so. “Pride” would be the key word of that statement. Funny how He molds and shapes us for His work, His will.

Over the last few weeks, I haven’t been so independent. The pain and swelling in my right knee, ankle and toes has meant I’ve had to actually ASK for help. That’s usually the equivalent of pulling teeth with me. I feel weak. I feel ashamed. And I cringe, worrying that I’m being a burden to those near me. The flip side of it all is that I don’t want to become a burden, I don’t want the help that has been given to become “old” for anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel taken advantage of so I ask only for what I absolutely need and have done my best to express the appreciation for the help that I’ve received. And, amazingly, it has come from some pretty unexpected quarters…and in unexpected ways. I am grateful. Beyond what any words might express…despite my facile abilities.

We’re not meant to be islands unto ourselves. That is the message that He keeps telling me over and again…as long as I don’t let my own long-headedness get in the way of listening to Him. When I take charge. When I try to do everything myself. When I don’t allow others to help me. I am actually being a bit selfish. I offer an insult to that offer of help. No, this isn’t justification for suddenly becoming that burden I fear becoming. It’s a means of defining that fine line between being the sponge, the mooch, the burden, and accepting help when there is a real need. It’s about becoming a community. As I may be receiving help now, in time, I may be the one to give it when a friend is in need–not that I wish a time of need on anyone, but what I’m trying to say is that a true community, true friendship, is where there is an endless flow of give and take so that each feels blessed and less alone than they would be if they were that island unto themselves. I have always tried to be there for everyone, friend or family member; all are welcome. There is no one unworthy or less than. Maybe there’s a bit of pride ringing in that statement. It goads me to no end that I can’t still be that helping hand to others, that I must be reduced to being the one who has to ask for help instead. And maybe, by this forced convalescence, He is teaching me another valuable lesson with pride: no matter how much I might wish it, I can’t always be there…no matter what…and no matter how much that hurts. I am human. And, as it says in Ecclesiastes 3:1: “There is a right time for everything”. And one of those is “a time to heal”.

I am healing right now. In more ways than one. I am learning that while my independent living may bring a sense of confidence because of the skills and knowledge acquired along the way, it is not a utopia without faith in Jesus Christ, and the fellowship–and helping hands–of those near and dear to my heart.

Happy Independence Day, America…and May God bless you & keep you!

PS For those who may be wondering, I visited the doc on Friday. It seems I have developed bursitis in my right hip, knee and, possibly, ankle. In short, I can expect this sort of thing to happen again from time to time…it’s tough being 50 years young. (heavy sigh)

Appreciation, compost, Environment, Faith, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Lasagna Gardening, Nature, No-dig Gardening, Organic, Prayer, Religion, Spirituality

Dates with Monty Don and Charles Dowding

Lisa Burbank

“Rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him to act. Don’t be envious of evil men who prosper.” Psalm 37:7

Forgive the redundancy but I really am a bad patient. As this leg continues to throb and ripple with muscle spasms, and my toes turn all tingly through the lack of circulation and swell and give me all manner of discomfort, I have been forced to spend most of my time on my duff, feet propped up to take the pressure off the leg. I could’ve taken out stock in the amount of Ben Gay I’ve slathered on knees, shins, ankles, feet and toes. Ditto for the aspirin. I look at the fine weather we’ve had the last couple of days and I growl at this forced convalescence, thinking of all the gardening I could be doing and various other farm chores. Since Thursday, it has been the bare essentials only.

And, yes, I know…Ben Gay? Aspirin? I am an herbalist, after all. But, while I almost always choose herbs over what’s become conventional medicine, as deeply as I believe that herbs are a better, healthier choice, sometimes they don’t work as fast. I needed more immediate relief just to walk up that hill Thursday night after work. Last night it was a warm bath to ease sore muscles (still no clue exactly what I did to the leg…); tonight there’s a jar of oil in which Plantain, Comfrey, St. John’s wort, Calendula and Cayenne Pepper have been slowly brewed. The first four ingredients are good for the skin. When combined like this you have the perfect combination of emollient, drawing power, anti-scarring agent, natural sunblock, and rash relief. I don’t have any of these but, whenever I make something to put on my skin, I add these four. Our skin is the largest organ of our body; we often neglect it. The cayenne is for improved circulation and for relieving sore muscles.

In the meantime, I’ve actually become a bit of a couch potato–well, armchair is more like it. I’ve been relaxing (there’s a novel concept), feet up, in front of the TV and trying, albeit a little in vain, not to feel guilty for it…even as my leg throbs with a life of its own after another round of feeding and watering the farm. No, we don’t have cable/digital/satellite (i.e. so no reception) but Mom received Roku for Mother’s Day from my brother. Roku allows you to access shows via the Internet and broadcast them onto the TV screen. While there are some stations that charge a small fee, many of them are free. One of those is, of course, You Tube. To be honest, I haven’t really paid much attention to the Roku since helping Mom set it up when it first came here. She’s been enjoying episodes of her favorite HGTV shows and country music videos. Over the weekend, she handed me the remote to the Roku unit after watching me trying to watch music videos on my cellphone via the You Tube app I downloaded. (Eh, it was keeping me off my feet…)

First of all, Mom got a little bit of culture shock as my answer to not being able to walk to church yesterday saw me tuning in to Christian music videos by today’s contemporary artists as a way to still connect and worship Him. I listen to a lot of these artists on Pandora during the week and it always soothes me…despite the hard-rocking sound many of them produce: Casting Crowns, Lauren Daigle, Francesca Battistelli, Barlow Girl (which was much heavier than she expected), Meredith Andrews, Big Daddy Weave and Kari Jobe. I even got a little rap in there with Brandon Heath. After a while though, I got tired of constantly surfing You Tube for the next video and decided something a little lengthier would be better.

I have a thing for British television. If I lived in the UK, I would likely be a couch potato a little more often simply because I love their sense of humor and style…and, especially, their gardens. Charles Dowding caught my eye first. I believe it was an article in Treehugger, advocating the No Dig Gardening method, that turned me on to his You Tube channel; I’ve been a subscriber ever since. This was not my first initiation into the No Dig method, but I love the practical advice Mr. Dowding offers just for gardening overall but, more specifically, for the No Dig method. He gets beautiful fruits, vegetables and herbs. His gardens are so lush that I am frequently jealous at the yields. He makes a lot of compost and that’s helping me in that area of homesteading. And, I’ll admit it, for an older gentleman, he looks pretty darn good in a pair of jeans. He reminds me greatly of Kevin Cronin of REO Speedwagon. I had Kevin Cronin wallpaper as a girl, both in my bedroom and in my locker in school. Enough said (chuckle).

Anyway, it was through Mr. Dowding’s You Tube channel that I learned of the BBC’s “Gardener’s World” program, which is in its 50th year of airing (pretty remarkable, actually). Mr. Dowding’s homestead was featured on “Gardener’s World” one Friday evening and I fell instantly in love with the show. Now I watch an episode each week on You Tube. Host Monty Don, like Charles Dowding, is a wealth of information about gardening. Being forced to stay off my feet these last few days, I have been doing a marathon of back episodes I missed earlier in the year…and introducing Mom to the show, too. She’s been enjoying it. And we’re both learning a lot of cool gardening tips. I’m especially enchanted with Nigel and Nell, the two golden retrievers who follow Monty around his, roughly, two-acres of gardens…usually with a tennis ball, or one his trowels in mouth. It’s a bittersweet enchantment as I miss the big dogs that blessed my life over the years and hope, God willing, that things will get back on a more even keel in my life–soon–so that I might provide a forever home for another pair of dogs. All in all, despite this enforced convalescence, I don’t feel that the time has been completely wasted. Again, I’m watching, learning, and gaining more confidence through the pseudo-mentoring of these two gentlemen (we switched off at one point to watch some of Charles’ videos, too).

And, believe it or not, yesterday’s rock and roll religion did feed my soul, touch my heart. I’ve actually felt myself drawing closer to Him, taking deep breaths…because letting go and letting God is the hardest lesson of all for me, to give up any kind of control…and just surrendering my will to Him. I may not like the enforced convalescence but He is using it to mold and change me, to grow my faith in Him…something I’ve been yearning for. And praying for.

It was an interview I read with Lauren Daigle in “Young Salvationist” where she talks about how she surrendered her dream of music to Him that really touched my heart. When she finally surrendered her will to Him, doors started opening for her. Maybe I’m feeling “stuck” in my life because I haven’t truly surrendered my will to Him. That’s what I felt when I read this article over the weekend, that He was trying to tell me to just let go; He’s got my back. And it was the lyrics to Kari Jobe’s “Steady my Heart” that, well, steadied my heart:

Even when it hurts
Even when it’s hard
Even when it all just falls apart
I will run to You
‘Cause I know that You are
Lover of my soul, Healer of my scars,
You steady my heart, You steady my heart

That’s worth a few muscle spasms and tingly toes.

May God bless you & keep you!

References

Jobe, K. (2012). “Steady My Heart.” worshiptogether.com Songs, Ariose Music.

Maynor, C. P. (2015). “Interview: Lauren Daigle.” Young Salvationist. Retrieved June 26, 2017 from:
http://www.youngsalvationist.org/2015/02/04/interview-lauren-daigle/

Abuse, Addiction, Alcoholism, Animals, compost, Creativity, Environment, Faith, Frugality, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Homesteading, Lasagna Gardening, Nature, No-dig Gardening, OCD, Organic, Self-esteem, Self-improvement, Spirituality

Who’s Really in Charge Here Anyway?

Lisa Burbank

“We ought not to insist on everyone following in our footsteps, nor to take upon ourselves to give instructions in spirituality when, perhaps, we do not even know what it is.” St. Teresa of Avila

I’ll admit it. “Charles in Charge” has nothing on me. I’m in control, or so I tell myself, and then hear the echo of what can only be God laughing as I tighten the reins…and chaos erupts.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I think I remember reading somewhere that 98% of us have at least a touch of it. Some of us have a bit more than a touch, unfortunately. Oh, it comes in handy at times. The alphabetized CD, DVD, VHS and book collections make finding whatever I’m looking for a snap. Because, really, who wants to waste time looking for something that may be right in front of your nose? I have bigger fish to fry, as they say. And, maybe it’s a bit extreme but my closet is color coded with all the yellow garments together, all the red, all the green, etc. Again, it makes finding that outfit easier. And I’m all about economizing my time. However, these little impulses and neuroses also tie me in knots and can make me a rather difficult person to live with.

Poor Mom.

This feeble attempt at perfectionism often manifests as criticism. I hear myself and cringe. Criticism was definitely NOT the intent but that’s what surely came across if I put myself in her shoes. And really, how important is it if the buttery popcorn bowl wasn’t rinsed first before it went into the sink? Or if the spoon rest is backwards on the stove? This latter “pet peeve” doesn’t get spoken; I simply turn it around again but then I think, as I’m doing it, does it MATTER???

And here is where the knots get tied because, as one voice is asking about the importance of such an act, another voice knows how much of a mental distraction it will be if I leave the spoon rest backwards…or the toilet paper feeding from under, rather than over.

Of course, I’ve never really sat down with Mom and tried to explain exactly what it’s like to live with OCD. Sadly, such a conversation tends to veer off into why mine is so intense in the first place: it’s a response to the molestation I grew up with. And that is a subject Mom would rather forget about altogether. As a child, I couldn’t control what was happening to me so I acted out by adopting these little “habits”. It gave me a false sense of security. And I was desperate to feel secure. Not only the abuse but also the alcoholism, the drunken accusations that told us all that we were “stupid” and couldn’t do anything “right” and to “look a little harder than you have to”. Like many children who grow up with some sort of substance abuse…as well as the abuse of their bodies, minds, and spirits, I turned all this negativity onto myself and shouldered all the blame. If I was a better student, he wouldn’t be so angry. If I kept my room neater, maybe he’d leave me alone. If I did all the chores around the house, all this chaos would stop.

Who was I kidding?

I’ve been tied up in knots since I was a very little girl. Is it any wonder that I’m still tying myself in knots? Unhealthy though it may be, it’s also a comfortable numb. It’s familiar. And, if I don’t grasp, and clutch, and sterilize my whole life, I start to relax…and then chastise myself for being “lazy”.

The paradox of all of this is that my property from the roadside looks like tobacco road. This is another coping mechanism from dealing with alcoholism. It keeps people away. But such a desire never cropped up until a few years ago when I had a live-in boyfriend…who was also an alcoholic. He seemed a nice enough guy when we met. And there was an instant rapport. This last one should have been a red flag…heck, it should have been flashing in neon red. Because that kind of comfort level so early on, well, they say a girl looks for her father when she dates…or, in this case, father figure. I was embarrassed. The sometimes-arrogant self, who would never allow herself to be caught in such a situation, got caught in it. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? And, worse, it took me forever to finally get out of it. The same mind control that I grew up with, manifested again in this romantic partner. The same self-doubt and shame crept in. And I felt sorry for him. He, too, had grown up with abuse in the home. I knew what that was like. And, while I had had a network of family and friends behind me as I sought therapy and tried to claw my way into some sort of normalcy of life, he was still wallowing in the beaten-down misery he grew up with. He even threatened to beat me physically…and I still let him stay. It wasn’t until, in a drunken stupor, he cut down a beloved shade tree in the yard that I snapped and gave him the boot.

Tobacco road’s been growing ever since…because I’m mortified that I allowed myself to be caught up in this unhealthy situation. I fell down on my principles. Every stitch of therapy went out the windows. Though I have no actual proof, I even suspect he was abusive to one of my cats as Trooper’s behavior while he was here was almost unbearable. And it stopped almost immediately once this man was finally gone for good.

A little bit at a time. That’s what friends tell me as I tackle this overgrowth. It’s a little bit like that “One Day at a Time” motto advocated by both Alcoholics’ Anonymous and Al-Anon. A little bit at a time, one day at a time.

This homestead is healing me as well as it is healing the land. My OCD says I should be able to perfectly landscape the 3/4 of an acre I’ve set aside for fruits, vegetables and herbs in a weekend’s work; it’s not good enough otherwise. Reality says, as I am implementing Charles Dowding’s “No Dig Gardening” method to bring as low an impact to the earth as I can, that such an enormous undertaking simply cannot be done in one weekend…not to the scale I envision. And not by one single person…especially one on a part-time income.

No, the “No-Dig” method isn’t expensive. Quite the contrary. It uses flattened cardboard boxes laid out on the ground (something easily had for free from many of the local businesses who don’t mind not having to pay out to cart the cardboard away instead) and then composted waste, from both the kitchen, and the animals, layered on top of the cardboard to create a raised bed. I’ve been dismantling a broken section of stone wall that runs along the front of my property to outline the beds once they’re made and using old feed bags that I’ve cut open and laid flat for the walkways in between. As funds permit, I buy a bag or two of red mulch and lay it atop the bags. This is where the part-time income comes into the picture as I cannot purchase enough at one time to cover all of the walkways at once. And, as I am on a major interstate, as well as in the commercial district, it has to be “pretty”.

So, a little bit at a time, one day at a time.

And, when the OCD starts kicking up again and stresses perfection, I need only look outside to see the rhubarb growing tall and strong in the three-tiered pyramid I built for it and the strawberries; I need only look at the green beans poking their kidney-shaped heads out of the ground in one raised bed and the beautiful purple flower heads of the chives, and the lush expanse of marjoram in another to tell me that, yes, one day at a time is good enough. It doesn’t matter that it’s not “perfect”. Obviously, these plants don’t care a fig if it’s perfect or not; they’re still growing in imperfection.

As for the grass?

Mankind has ever strived to tame and “control” Nature. I refuse to use anything gas-powered, or any chemicals, to kill it off. Even with the raised beds, the weed and grass barriers being laid down, there’s still the occasional blade that pokes up even amongst those sections already landscaped. This is a reminder that, despite my valiant efforts to control and manipulate this landscape, much like the landscape of my life, there is Someone greater than I who is really in charge. Someone who takes those knots I’ve tied myself into, lays them out flat…and helps me to grow.

May God bless you & keep you!

Appreciation, Faith, Friendship, Gratitude, Healing, Prayer

A Big “Thank You!” to my Guardian Angel

Lisa Burbank

It must be that. At the very least I am reminded all over again of His blessings…and at a time when I tend to be at an all-time low, feeling trapped and stifled in a situation I didn’t create.

However, today is not to be spent dwelling upon the negative. Today is a day when faith, hope and joy have come together and blessed me with abundance. And I praise Him for the gift.

Less than an hour ago, a flatbed truck pulled up at the end of my driveway. The young man driving it got out of the cab and started unloading bales of hay. When I told him that I hadn’t ordered any hay, he told me that was okay; someone else did. And he was under orders not to tell who. The person who bought and paid for the hay, and paid for the delivery, wished to remain anonymous. All he could tell me was he had come from Plainfield Agway and that the order was for eight bales of hay.

Now I’m sitting here wondering which friend decided to bless me with such a gift. And I’m blogging about it because I’ve blogged recently about the local feed store not having any hay and how, with not having a car to drive to another feed store (like Agway), I’ve been worried about running out. This is so unexpected. Words cannot describe what I am feeling right now. And, because this “angel” wishes to be anonymous, I don’t even know who to thank. So I hope, whoever you are, you will accept this blog post as my “thank you”, which doesn’t seem adequate even as it is heart-felt. I hope that I can someday repay your kindness, though you obviously haven’t asked for payment, or, barring that, I hope that someday I can pay it forward by blessing another in such a beautiful way.

I don’t know who you are. But God does. God knows your heart. And, today, so do I. So I ask His many blessings on you and yours, that your life might be all the richer for the abundance you have graced me with this day. And I praise God for your light in my life.

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Animals, aquaponics, Creativity, Environment, Faith, gardening, Gratitude, Healing, Herbs, Homesteading, Organic, Prayer, Religion, Self-esteem, Self-improvement, Spirituality

A Bigger Life

Lisa Burbank

“Ask, and you will be given what you ask for. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened. For everyone who asks, receives. Anyone who seeks, finds. If only you knock, the door will open. If a child asks his father for a loaf of bread, will he be given a stone instead? If he asks for fish, will he be given a poisonous snake? Of course not! And if you hardhearted, sinful men know how to give good gifts to your children, won’t your Father in heaven even more certainly give good gifts to those who ask him for them?” (Matthew 7:7-11)

Believe it or not, I often struggle with this biblical passage. Struggle because there is too much doubt in my heart that what I wish for, what I hope will come to be, I am not worthy to have. This passage says nothing about worthiness. It asks only that we, well, ASK. No other hidden clauses.

Of course, when/if I discuss this passage with others, I invariably get that old standby of predestination. If it’s meant to be, it will be. Yes, that’s probably true. Does not the Bible also tell us that even the hairs on our heads are numbered by God? And that He knows when every sparrow falls so, therefore, He also knows our struggles…even the desires of our hearts? And yet, I hear that old adage and, no sooner have I gone to God in prayer for what I need, or even want, and I’m already deciding that what I’m asking for is probably not a part of His will and, therefore, why am I asking? I defeat myself as soon as the prayer is out of my mouth…or head.

What kind of lukewarm faith is this? Is there nothing too great for God? Did He not make me along with everyone else?

Then we get into the whole thought process of accepting that maybe He is instead trying to mold and shape me for something better, something that is in line with His plans. And my anxiety ramps up because maybe it will require too much of a sacrifice…like the loss of someone I love (did not The Twelve leave even their closest family members to follow Jesus?) in order to have that dream. Because, whatever dream He put on my heart, I’ve already convinced myself I’m not worthy of. So I try to guess His plans. What does He want me to do? Show me the way. And then I start chastising myself for being so ungrateful for what I already have. And I shouldn’t want or ask for more. Who cares if I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul and find that Peter’s flat broke? I’ve reached the cap on God’s mercy, or gifts, or grace. Such thinking, I consider, must surely anger God. For where in the Bible does it say He has a cap? Nowhere. His love is unconditional. Passage after passage tells us that He wants only the best for His children. Yet still I doubt. If You’re going to show me the way, I need neon signs and strobe lights highlighting that way. And even then I’d probably doubt if it was “meant” for me.

You see, people who grow up in abusive homes, especially if the abuser was their father, or a father figure, have difficulty believing in a loving and compassionate Father in heaven; it’s an alien concept. We get the angry and vengeful God who punished the Israelites for worshiping other gods and erecting idols, for being stubborn, etc. But the God who loves us, who will give His children good gifts, we struggle with.

I am grateful for everything I have. I know I have been richly blessed already. Even when so many others were losing their homes during the Great Recession, I managed to hang on to this one…despite only being a part-time and/or seasonal worker (the only jobs available in this sleepy New England town)…simply due to His grace. It does seem a bit, well, sinful and selfish to be wishing for something more. This house is a fixer-upper; the homestead is small and, because of it’s smallness, it can also be limiting. However, the smaller size has forced me to get more creative as I continue to landscape and design, to find ways to re-purpose certain areas. It’s also on a major interstate so the dream of growing organic vegetables, fruits and herbs is already out the window. With that much carbon zooming by in a continuous stream, even with the row of Thujas across the front border, that carbon is undoubtedly settling onto each and every leaf; the Thujas can only filter out so much. And, though I am grandfathered in for the use to which I put the land, as big box stores continue to climb the hill, closer and closer to home, I can’t help but fear how much worse that carbon impact is going to be…or how long before that grandfathered use gets challenged. Of course, I probably wouldn’t say “no” if some big developer came by and offered me a decent price for it, enough that I could start over somewhere else…but that’s a bit like waiting to hit the lottery.

I dream of acreage somewhere. I dream of that plot of land down that dusty, country lane, with pastures full of goats, sheep and chickens, maybe a horse or two, and border collies zipping around “Come by” and “Away to me” as they herd those sheep and goats into the barn at night. I dream of a small pond, or lake, on that property where my ducks can swim until their hearts’ are content. I dream of paddling a canoe, or pedaling a paddle boat, out onto that lake or pond after the workday is done. I dream of campfires, with friends and family sharing meals and some good music as we break out the guitar, the dulcimer, and open our hearts and lips to song. No Kumbaya, mind you, just a gathering of friends. I dream of herb gardens, lush, full, and diverse. Gardens made for teaching how to cook with herbs; how to tincture, infuse, poultice and compress. Maybe even some “magickal” uses for luck and love and a bit of romantic whimsy. I dream of equally lush vegetable gardens and small fruits growing and a greenhouse that houses an aquaponics’ system for growing even more food. I dream of a thriving produce stand, or a booth in the local farmers’ market. I dream of supplying the local food pantry with fresh, nutritious produce instead of the packaged, processed donations they typically receive. I dream of looms full of brightly-colored threads, all weaving a brilliant tapestry from the wool, angora, mohair and cashmere fibers routinely sheared, or plucked, from the animals I raise. I dream of a little store where yarns and fabric are sold from my stock. I dream of fresh goat’s milk and cheese, and goat’s milk soap scented with some of the herbs I grow. I dream that all, or at least most, of these animals are rescues, given a second chance at life, for a forever home. I dream of summer days out on the road with a trailer full of goats as we clear land for others in a manner that is much gentler on Mother Earth. I dream of an orchard with healthy and thriving honeybees buzzing in and out of the blossoms. I dream of honey and beeswax candles. And I dream of walking into that bookstore someday, or logging into Amazon, and seeing my name on the cover of that bestseller.

And I dream. And I yearn. And I consider that, maybe, these are just dreams and never “meant” to be. Maybe someday I will do as that Garth Brooks’ song says and thank God for unanswered prayers. Surely, His plans ARE bigger and better than anything I could ever imagine. But, maybe, just maybe, I can finally find it in my heart to TRUST that God truly has put these dreams in my heart for a purpose, that it isn’t all a pipe dream, fueled by an over-active imagination. Perhaps *Someday* I will trust that, yes, I am worthy of such dreams, that God loves me beyond any human ability to comprehend. Just because. Not because I “earned” it. Not because I prayed the most compelling prayer and that was the one He chose to answer. Not because of anything of my will but because His will shall be done. Maybe, just maybe, He’s using these dreams and yearnings to first answer another prayer, a prayer that asked to draw closer to Him, to know Him better, to learn how to trust in a loving Father.

Can I let go enough to let that healing begin? To allow His miracles to take place? Can I trust that, even if these dreams do not come to light, that wherever He does lead me, will bring me more joy than I can possibly imagine? Can I trust that His gifts are not like those given on earth, to sometimes bribe, sometimes stifle, to sometimes manipulate? This isn’t a toe-in-the-water sort of thing. It’s that proverbial, giant leap of faith. Can I do it? Can I accept God’s will for me on this earth? And, more importantly, can I accept that, yes, I do have a loving Father in heaven who does desire to give me good gifts?

Okay, then.

Breathe.

Relax.

And let go.

Thy will be done, Father. Thy will be done.

May God bless you & keep you!

Abuse, Addiction, Alcoholism, Appreciation, Friendship, Gratitude, Healing, Prayer, Self-esteem

A Blessing of Friendship

Lisa Burbank

“There are ‘friends’ who pretend to be friends, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” Proverbs 18:24

I have an abundance of friends–good friends who are there for me through the good times and the bad…at least when I let them be. When that ol’ Devil, Pride, and his partner, Self-Doubt, don’t sit on my shoulder and shout through the megaphone to my ear.

Arrgh!

And double AaarrrrrrrgggghhhH!

Do you know how many times I have started and re-started this post? And I’m afraid I’m still going to botch it. I started this post as a way to publically thank some dear friends of mine for the help they gave me recently…help which, all of them would likely say, was no big deal. But, to me, it was a big deal. And, no, the simple “thank you” I offered at the time the help was given isn’t enough. I’m not enough. Or so I tell myself. Despite the 20-something years of therapy. Despite Farnoosh’s wonderful “Affirmations for Life” series…that I make a point to listen to each morning. No matter what, the internal tape recordings still play, chasing away whatever peace may finally settle into my soul.

This expression of gratitude is turning into another one of those affects of alcoholism blog posts instead. So be it. I’m tired of fighting it. And, if I botch it, oh well. At least I tried. With a little luck, maybe that nugget of gratitude will come through after all. Because it is heart-felt.

I grew up with alcoholism. I grew up in a family where, yes, people would help you if you asked…and even sometimes when you didn’t, but whenever there was a disagreement, or I grew angry or upset about unfair treatment, that help was thrown into my face. Ditto for any gifts given. I was disloyal because my opinion differed. Or maybe, just maybe, an ounce of self-esteem reared its head at the receipt of said gift, or pair of helping hands, and, for a moment, I dared to believe that I might be loved and appreciated “just because”. And I spoke up. How dare I? So I learned not to ask for help, became uncomfortable with receiving gifts, and stuffed my feelings all way around. Because it was better to slug it out alone than to deal with the unbridled guilt that followed. Because, apparently, through that “disloyalty”, I somehow did not appreciate the help or the gifts. It was as though any help given cancelled out the right to speak honestly about my feelings, or about the horrors that often took place behind our closed doors. And, with alcoholism–and the many forms of abuse that often accompany it–that’s exactly the point.

Being treated to an ice cream cone cancelled out the shouting and myriad crashing and banging from the drunken argument the night before. The block of notebook paper, the clothes purchased for the next school year, mitigated my right to be angry because the family cat was kicked across the room when she happened across my stepfather’s path as he trailed my mother, shouting at her for…something. The gifts brought back from the weekly eight to ten hour shopping spree should’ve been enough to ease the anger and downright panic that ensued as my 14 year-old self waited for someone to come home so my little brother could be taken to the hospital for the head wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding…and, when he finally got there, required 3-4 stitches. He also had a concussion. PS We never had a phone growing up and, though a neighbor called family members to see if the parental units could be located, an ambulance would not come to pick us up because there wasn’t a parent, or legal guardian, to authorize his admission into the ER (this was very early 1980’s).

Of course, gifts were also dangled before me like the carrot before the horse…at least when I was really young. As a very little girl (5, 6 years old), my stepfather would promise me trips to Rocky Point, or even Disneyland, if I would keep our “little secret” from Mommy. And Grandpa, who was a cop. By the time I reached 7 or 8 years’ old, I knew better…and no gift was truly worth what I was going through. Then he simply threatened to hurt my Mom to keep me quiet.

The help I gave to my family in return was never enough. It wasn’t enough that I cleaned the whole house top to bottom while the parental units were out shopping and visiting family nearly every weekend. It wasn’t enough that I also took care of my brother those weekends–often without choice because they would often be gone before I awakened. Any money given to me for birthdays was taken. Ditto any wages earned babysitting. When I finally graduated and started working, half my pay–whatever it was–was demanded, not a set room-and-board fee.

Needless to say, growing up my sense of self was in the proverbial toilet. And, sadly, that sense is still just dangling from the rim of the bowl.

And, yet, I’ve been blessed with such an abundance of good friends…great friends…best friends, that I am constantly wondering what I ever “did” to deserve them all. And therein lies the faulty thought patterns. I didn’t earn them by anything I did. Or said. Or gave…other than my own friendship in return. For me, that’s a wonder in itself. And enough to make me misty-eyed as I continue typing. I can “know” this on an intellectual level but there’s still that echo of a childhood that keeps looking for ways to earn, or re-pay, kindnesses and caring. It’s as if it is a sin past bearing to ever be down-on-your-luck, or in need, and have to ask for help. The simple “thank you” seems small compared to what is given, what is offered. And, though some part of me hopes I am giving something in return, the scale by which I measure says I am perpetually short-changing everyone. I.e. I’m not enough.

And, as I type this, I can hear Farnoosh’s bright and happy voice echoing, “I am more than enough!” so I guess the Affirmations for Life are having a positive effect after all…

I hope any friends reading this blog post aren’t offended, hurt or insulted by it. It is, perhaps, a feeble attempt to explain how things are when you grow up in such an environment. And that, yes, while outwardly I continue to struggle through this thing called under-employment, it is the internal struggles that often keep me truly down-and-out. I hope you understand that it’s more than just the lift up to the feed store for goat chow or to CVS last minute for Mom’s prescription meds; it’s more than the unexpected call as I was leaving Walmart to see if I would like a ride home instead of walking in the rain and the dark after work. It’s knowing that there are people out there who care. About me. People that I don’t often reach out to because I don’t want to become a burden or wear out my welcome…because such was reinforced over and again as a child. It’s the seed of hope that such seemingly minute acts of kindness can plant…and water…and nurture in the heart of someone–anyone–who has ever felt lonely and alone, abandoned, scared or isolated. And we all feel nudges of each from time to time. It’s that whole Wiccan rule: what you give out, comes back to you three times three.

And, so, with that thought in mind, I am asking the good Lord to bless all of you three times three the blessing you have all been to me. Not just in these recent acts of kindness and sharing, but for all the years that we have been friends. For the love and acceptance you have given so freely. And the love and acceptance I hope to share with all of you–and more–for all the days of my life.

Of His gifts, I have little doubt.

May God bless you & keep you!

Cooking, Creativity, gardening, Gratitude, Herbs, Homesteading, Nature

Violet Syrup Revisited

Lisa Burbank

I should’ve blogged about this sooner as it has been over a week since I posted about harvesting the violet blooms from my yard…especially since the recipe I posted with it called for 8 cups of water, 8 cups of sugar per 1 cup of violet blossoms. Unless you have an extremely sweet tooth, you might want to cut back a little on the sugar. I followed the recipe to the letter and found it to be so sweet, it was actually painful (if that’s even possible). There was also no need for me to gather a second cup of blossoms as I now have five quarts of violet syrup…Mom and I may be eating a lot of pancakes for a while. (chuckle)

Actually, it’s funny because I’m finding that I’m not caring as much for the end product–though that’s always a plus–but it’s the whole process of watching, waiting, harvesting, preserving that keeps me homesteading. It’s the journey. The skills learned along the way. And the satisfaction I find every time I try something new.

Violet syrup? Who knew?

And with it, comes a bit of nostalgia. As a little girl, I was forever picking the violets and dandelions that graced the lawn of my paternal grandparents’ home. Though the blending of deep purple and bright yellow might be considered gaudy by many if, for example, you were to paint your house in this combination (this from the lady who painted hers black with orange doors, but that’s another story for another time…), to my 4, 5, 6 year-old self, they were a striking contrast that looked oh-so-delicate in a little Dixie cup on my grandmother’s windowsill. Sure, I felt a little sorrow the next morning when those bright blossoms shriveled and curled and turned various shades of brown in their cup and yet, the next day, I couldn’t resist picking a few more.

Today, the herbalist in me recommends dandelion greens for everything from a healthy fodder for your rabbits, goats, poultry, etc. to a valuable folk remedy for kidney and urinary infections. And I’m making violet syrup to pour over pancakes. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pick a few extra blossoms for my own windowsill now…and come full circle.

May God bless you & keep you!