by Krista | Jan 2, 2025 | Summer
“When you reach your edge, soften.
Soften until you slip through the constraints and
can create a new rhythm,
a new route,
a new release.
Water is soft yet powerful.
Reach your edge, and soften.”
Victoria Erickson
I read Victoria’s words over a year ago and they clung to my soul like a beautiful burr, providing light, comfort, and guidance through this incredibly difficult year. Whenever I felt challenging circumstances make me rigid, brittle, or put me in a state of hyper-vigilance waiting for the next tidal wave to hit, I’d whisper to myself, “Soften, soften.”
When I lost dear friends to car accidents and disease…soften, soften.
When someone stole money and resources I needed for survival…soften, soften.
When my animals were killed, fierce storms battered my farm, and I watched helplessly as my loves suffered horrifically from war, abuse, and disease…soften, soften.
Suffering ebbs and flows, sometimes tolerable, sometimes unbearable, but somehow, softening helps me through it.
As I intentionally relax my body, slow my racing thoughts, and remember to breathe deep and slow, my mind calms, my emotions settle, and I can remember my next mantra: “Keep calm and look for options. You always have options until you’re dead.”
Softening connects me back to my own heart, helping me focus on making sure my needs for rest, nourishment, friendship, play, and movement are prioritised so I can make decisions and choices from a place of strength. I want to respond to life, not react to it.
Softening helps me be gentle with myself, honest about what I can and cannot take on, and flexible when my goals and dreams don’t align with my available resources, strength, and support.
And softening helps me be gentle with others, to balance good judgment with compassion, patience, and generosity of spirit.
Sometimes I soften well, and other times I’m a frozen bundle of nerves longing for nothing more than a blanket fort, popcorn, and comforting stories where the good guys always win. And that’s OK. There’s no need for perfection, just slow, steady growth and much love.
Wishing you softness in your challenges this year, with glistening threads of love, friendship, and happiness to make those challenges bearable. xo
by Krista | Jun 4, 2024 | Winter
“I hope you believe that you can still make a beautiful life for yourself
even if you lost many years of it to grief,
or darkness,
or a wound that wouldn’t close.”
Bianca Sparacino
Many things are wondrous to me: love in a cruel world, plants that come back to life after drought, fire, or hail, and people who choose kindness when life has given them every possible excuse to go to the dark side.
This week my wonder has turned inward as I discover that the hope I’ve clung to that life might be good again has deepened into a belief so strong I can feel it in my bones.
I know I’m going to be OK.
I don’t know what it will look like, but that’s alright. For now, I’m just focused on slowly, steadily, and gently building a strong foundation.
I’ve discovered that rebuilding looks a whole lot like cleaning. Sorting through boxes, sheds, and shipping containers, clearing away what no longer suits, carting all the broken, unusable bits to the dump or the burn pile, and donating the good stuff that doesn’t fit my new life, trusting it will bring joy to someone else.
Rebuilding is decidedly non-glamorous and mostly involves days spent covered in dust and cobwebs, my skin an assortment of scrapes and bruises as I remove the old to make room for the new, honouring the old stories and my need to write new ones.
As I clear each shelf, each corner, each patch of earth, I feel an unexpected but most welcome excitement stirring as I envision new uses for those spaces.
I’ve turned the granny flat into a rustic bunkhouse for my loves to stay in when they visit, planted winter gardens full of artichokes, peas, cabbages, lettuces, leeks, garlic, and flowers, and I’ve made steady progress in transforming the sheds into usable spaces for sewing, wood-working, and all the fun foodie things I love to do like brewing, fermenting, and preserving.
For now, it’s mostly solitary work, but, it makes me smile to picture future days with medieval mates hanging out in the woodshop making furniture or shields, clustering around a big table with friends working on crafts of some sort, and gathering with dear ones around the bonfire, visiting for hours and making amazing memories.
Life will always hold challenges, but I’m doing my best to face them with shoulders squared and head held high, looking for ways to make even the hardest days a bit more beautiful and easier to bear. xo
by Krista | May 19, 2024 | Autumn
“I have been avoiding all society, skulking away at home in a kind of shame.
I am staying away from others because…I’m afraid,
and I don’t have the grace to conceal it.”
Katherine May, “Wintering”
When Bear died, I had no idea how long it would take to be part of the world again, how much time I would need to spend in solitude, how many shadows I would need to face and bring into the light so they could be seen, understood, and healed.
I didn’t realize how much this path would change me and that I would have to get to know myself again before I could even start to think about building a new life.
And I couldn’t foresee that more devastating circumstances would arise that would leave me financially destitute and physically shattered.
It has felt like everything that gives me a sense of security and safety in the world has been torn away, and I’ve been left sitting alone in the rubble wondering how on earth to keep going.
It’s an odd place to be in. Terrifying, heartbreaking, yet strangely liberating. When everything is broken, we have the chance, when we’re ready, to make something new. Yes, there’s fear to work through, grief to manage, and a lot of clearing to do, but then one day I’ll look up and all that work will be done and it will be time to create something good.
I’m not there yet.
I’m still in the scary, messy middle, doing my best to care for my body, rebuild my finances, and clear away the rubble. And that’s OK. The inner work I’ve done over the past 18 months has prepared me well for this. I know that no cycle of life, good or bad, lasts forever. This wintering of the soul will give way to spring one day, but for now, I need to live this pain and loss.
I try to make it as easy as possible for myself. I take myself outside for a walk every day and lift my face to the autumn sunshine. I pick flowers in my gardens and put them in bowls around my cottage to cheer me. I journal and read in the wee hours of each morning to make sure I give all my feelings and experiences a voice and then figure out the next right step for me.
I go to therapy and visit my doctor, I take the herbal remedies my lovely herbalist prescribes, I drink lots of water and rest and make nourishing food and spend time with beautiful people who make this scary, messy middle so much easier to bear. It all helps.
For a long time, I couldn’t envision a future for myself, but I hoped that if I was patient and did the healing work, I would figure something out.
Recently, I’ve felt a shift, and some beautiful ideas have started clarifying in my mind and heart.
I’m not ready to share them yet, but I’m so grateful for the hope they bring in this difficult time.
It’s become important to me to share stories while they’re still happening, while they’re still foggy and muddled and hurt like hell. That’s when we need each other most to provide love, support, comfort, or even just a tiny light in the darkness. So, from my messy middle to yours, I wish you deepest comfort, strength to hold on, and true rest in body, mind, and spirit.
Several of you have asked how you can help, and that means so much to me. xo If you’d like to help out financially, you can send funds via Paypal to ramblingtart@gmail.com Hearing from you always cheers me up, so, please keep sending messages or letters when you feel up to it. I love hearing about what you’re learning, going through, and discovering. xo
by Krista | Dec 3, 2023 | Summer
“Keep taking time for yourself until you’re you again.” Lalah Delia
For a long time after my Bear died last year, I didn’t think I’d ever be me again. The day he died, I went into shock. The following days, weeks, and months are a blur to me now, a hazy memory of trying to breathe, making myself eat, and doing the farm chores with tears streaming down my face as I told Bear over and over, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t”.
My brain couldn’t accept the fact that my love was gone, that the creak I heard on the back steps wasn’t him coming up from the shed for a cuppa and chat, the ring of my phone wasn’t him calling to see how my day was going, that his side of the bed was empty when I’d reach for him in the night. It felt like nothing would ever be OK again.
And for a while, nothing was. Things got worse. Much worse.
Drought ravaged the farm creating cracks so big in the soil that I could slide my arm into them. Dogs and a fox got into my paddocks and killed half my herd and I spent days burning bodies. “Shiny, Happy People”, a documentary of the cult I was raised in, came out, triggering horrible dreams, PTSD, and severe flashbacks. Bushfires raged, I was hospitalised twice, and a nightmare litigation ensued.
I told Bear, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t.” And felt him say in return, “I know, darlin’, it’s too much, but you will.”
So, I hung on. And when I couldn’t hang on, dear friends propped me up and gave me the love and support I needed to take another step forward. I went to therapy, read everything I could about grief, and sat with my shadows until I could see them for what they really were – my greatest strengths and the very things I needed to get through this life.
My neighbour helped me repair the irrigation so my plants and trees could have a fighting chance in the drought, I rebuilt fences and gates and made them dog and fox-proof, and I took ownership of my situation and studied Queensland law so I could navigate the litigation to the best of my ability.
In time, things got better. Rain came at last, putting out fires, filling in the cracks, and turning the whole region a dazzling green. Wounded animals recovered, rebuilt fences have done their job, and I’m no longer afraid of or intimidated by lawyers and litigation.
Even more precious is discovering that even though grief doesn’t go away, the soul/heart/spirit, whatever you want to call it, expands and stretches and makes room for peace and joy and love too. They’ve squeezed in alongside my loneliness and heartbreak and despair until they’re all nestled together quite cosily, enabling me somehow to live again. The pain of Bear’s death will always be with me, but as I care well for myself and stay close to my steadfastly loving people, I find that it gets cushioned, its sharp edges softened.
I understand now that I’ll never be me again, not the old me. She is gone. But I can be the new me, the now me, the ever-changing, never-give-up, plant-seeds-in-drought me.
I know bushfires will flare up again, drought will return, and I will lose people I love. Unkind people will need to be stood up to, animals will die, and life will go all sorts of wonky, but I will be OK. Now I know to my very bones that no matter what happens, even when I can’t do it, I will.
by Krista | Mar 13, 2023 | Autumn
Shortly after Bear died I found an article that said the opposite of a trigger is a glimmer.
Whereas triggers set in motion trauma responses such as fear, pain, anxiety, and panic, glimmers prompt feelings of wonder, connectedness, peace, and joy. The article went on to explain that while triggers are unpredictable, generally hitting us out of nowhere and sending us reeling, glimmers are something we can actively look for, collect, and treasure.
Those words were a light in my darkness, reminding me that although I had no control over the devastation I was experiencing, the pain ripping through me, or the triggers that seemed to be everywhere, I could control what I looked for in the world.
When I wake to an empty bed, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, but I can also notice the rising sun turning the branches of our favourite tree to gold and hear the call of the magpies that Bear said would always be a reminder that he loves me and is with me.
When I have to go into yet another government office with my sheaf of paperwork and tell them my husband is dead, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, I can shake and want to bolt for the parking lot, but I can also notice the cute baby grinning at me from his pram and breathe a quiet thanks in my heart for the kind receptionist who gives me a hug and makes the process as smooth as possible.
When something breaks on the farm and I don’t know how to fix it, I can feel overwhelmed and alone and wish with all my heart for Bear’s clever brain and innate ability to fix anything, but I can also shout hooray when I find a YouTube tutorial that actually works or say thank you to one of Bear’s amazing friends who are always willing to talk me through how to use a chainsaw safely, how to repair a busted irrigation pipe, and what parts I need to keep the lawnmower running.
Some glimmers are easy to find because they come right to me – cuddles from dear friends visiting, finding an old love letter from Bear, the wagging tails of four dogs and eight puppies overjoyed to see me.
But others must be purposely hunted for, especially in dark moments or dark days when life feels bleak and meaningless and I can’t rummage up hope no matter how hard I try. In those times I picture myself putting on a pith helmet like explorers of old, squaring my shoulders, and hoping against hope that I will find something to light my next step.
And some days, we need our loves to help us. This past week as I faced a particularly difficult situation and all hope seemed truly lost, beautiful friends stepped in and hugged me tight, validated the awfulness of the situation, then helped me look for the glimmers I needed to renew my strength for the battle to come. How I love them for that.
Good and bad, light and darkness, easy and hard. Life continues to be a baffling blend of all those things and we need each other to make it through. Sometimes we’re the needy ones, sometimes the needed, and both are good. xo
