by Krista | Oct 29, 2018 | Spring
It’s dark and still this afternoon as rain falls gently, making our farm feel like a secluded island, cozy and safe.
The rain has brought life back to our land. Every morning I wake up and look out at the lush, green grass, thick and verdant, that now carpets the farmyard, paddocks, and rolling hills in the distance.
I finally braved a trip out to our orchards, worried that I would find only dead trees after such a long and harsh drought. And there were some dead ones. Our cherry, a peach, the avocados, and a few apples are gone, but so many more survived.
The pomegranates are covered with bright red flowers, the plums, which I had to severely prune after hail damage, have delicate white flowers along the bare branches, and the oranges, limes, and lemons are absolutely covered with blossoms.
I’ve never seen so many blossoms as we have on our citrus trees this year. I just buried my face in the branches and inhaled the exquisite scent that, to me, is Spring. Hopefully we’ll have good rain through the Summer, and no hail, please, and by Winter will have abundant crops of blood oranges, Valencia oranges, Tahitian limes, and bush lemons to zest and juice for beautiful desserts and liqueurs through the cold months.
Even more exciting was discovering tiny quinces growing. I planted it as a cutting from my friend Oma’s tree several years ago. It survived 3 hail storms, drought, blistering heat, and the unwanted attentions of goats, and this year it is bearing fruit for the first time. I’m thrilled to pieces, and cannot wait for Autumn when I get to turn these wonky, velvety fruits into luxurious quince paste to go with our beloved Camembert cheese.
Most of our apple trees survived the Great Goat Invasion of 2018, and, while not looking their best after a necessary pruning after all the chewing, they too have the prettiest little blossoms and bright green leaves. We may not get a big apple harvest this year, but hopefully it will be a tasty one.
Bear and I are still recovering from a dreadful virus that has hung on for over a month now. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I hope to never do so again. My voice started coming back yesterday, though it likes to dash off now and then just to keep things interesting, but my hearing is still bad and the fever keeps returning like a bad penny. Hopefully we’ll feel like our old selves soon.
One good thing that has come out of this illness is that it has forced me to slow down, and sometimes stop dead in my tracks. As a recovering workaholic, every day is a new chance for me to manage my own time, making sure I include rest and play and looking after myself in body, soul, and spirit.
With the fever, severe pain, etc, I could do little else for a while but lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, spotting shapes and figures in the knots and swirls of the pine boards, and thinking. So much thinking.
Sometimes too much thinking is counter-productive and distracts from actually living, but other times it is vital work that imparts life and light.
As I lay there, with no distractions, my thoughts calmed and settled, making room for needful things to bob up to the surface and be faced. One by one I was able to work through fears, anxieties, self-sabotaging habits and the roots they sprang from. I grieved through broken relationships and celebrated the restoration and discovery of others.
I also stripped away layers of wonky beliefs and thought patterns until I got down to the cherished nuggets of truth that are most precious to me. It is a lovely, freeing thing to be able to say, “I believe this” and know that I actually do with all my heart.
Belief. Faith. Trust. These have been incredibly difficult terms for me. They’re so closely tied to lies and abuse that the words themselves became anathema. This was sad to me, because I think they are meant to be beautiful words, freeing ones, lovely, comforting, affirming words.
So, a few months ago, I stopped pushing them away. I acknowledged how they made me feel, what memories and experiences they evoked, and I started making them part of my inner conversation. I wrote them on paper, added them to my art, worked them into journal entries and doodles and spoke them aloud and sat quietly with them.
It gave me the heebie-jeebies every time. I could feel myself physically recoil, my shoulders hunching as if to protect myself from whatever damage they could inflict. So I kept sitting with them, through the anger and frustration and grief and pain. I was so afraid that if I let those words back into my life, I would find myself back in the place of bondage and abuse that I had escaped from. So afraid, until I remembered two things: I’m not the same person and I’m not alone.
I’ve got my back now. Always. And I won’t let myself go back to that darkness. If Belief, Faith, and Trust are going to be part of my vocabulary now, they will have completely different definitions. They’ll be marked by kindness, love, gentleness, freedom, and they will bring life to my Self, not death.
I have others who’ve got my back too. Lovely, lovely souls who See Me and faithfully remind me of all that is good and real and true. They won’t let me go back to that darkness either, because they’ll keep reminding me who I am.
One of the most treasured things about this journey I’m on now, is knowing that these words are mine to define and live out. If I want to share what I’m learning, I can, but if I want to keep those lessons safe and close in my heart for only me to be privy to, that’s OK too.
I know that’s probably obvious to most people, but I grew up in a world where we weren’t allowed to have secrets. Especially women. Every sin must be confessed, every choice justified, every situation exposed to be weighed and judged by people who decided they had the God-given right to rule over me. It is like Christmas morning getting to have a private world all my own where I can think my own thoughts, cultivate my own beliefs, map out my own choices, and only share what I choose to share. I love it.
Belief, Faith, Trust. I’m still working through how I feel about them, but they no longer have the power to harm that they once did. Sometimes they’re actually a bit beautiful. xo
by Krista | Oct 13, 2018 | Spring
It’s been raining steadily for hours, and the grass seems to be growing before our eyes. Puddles dot the yard and little streams meander down the lane past fallen leaves and branches tossed hither and thither by wild winds yesterday.
The air smells so good, clean and fresh and earthy, and I smile as I hear little bleats and grunts from under the house where the sheep and goats are keeping warm and dry out of the rain.
This morning I took a break from writing to check on my gardens, thrilled to find everything flourishing in this damp, cool weather. The herbs are flowering like mad, asparagus spears shooting up over a foot tall, tomatoes and peas blossoming perkily.
I also discovered that the goats had broken into my kitchen garden, happily devouring everything in sight. I shooed them all out, Bear found a strong rope to secure the gate better, and I forgave the little blighters for they had thoughtfully only eaten the leaves of all my plants, so most of them should come back.
It’s been a quiet couple of weeks around here as Bear and I recover from a particularly dreadful virus that knocked us both flat, snatched our voices, and had us hacking and feverish and exhausted. Poor Bear got it twice. Needless to say, we are more than ready for it to skedaddle and leave us in peace.
The good side of this misery is that we’ve had lots of quantity and quality time together, watching movies, listening to audio books, just sitting and listening to the rain fall. We enjoyed those moments immensely.
I’ve been writing a lot, tucked up in bed with a giant mug of tea and a candle flickering beside me. I’ve watched the raindrops run down the windowpanes in our bedroom while I untangle thoughts and hopes and goals, letting go of what doesn’t fit anymore, embracing what is good for me now.
It’s funny how the habits we make in times of crisis no longer serve us in times of peace. I’m becoming more mindful in how I live out my days, more purposeful, less reactionary. I’m getting better at scheduling, guarding my play/rest time as jealously as I do my work time, and not letting them get muddled together. I’ve been prioritizing time to learn new things, create art, sit quietly and do absolutely nothing, burrow under the covers and chat with a dear friend. Work is lovely, essential, and I’m deeply grateful for it, but these other things are equally vital, and I’m no longer letting them play second fiddle. I’m making sure I look after me, no matter what.
When I started feeling better, I made good things for us. Elderberry Licorice Cordial to soothe our raw throats, wintergreen massage oil to reduce inflammation and ease pain, and this lovely calendula and lavender oil which will be done infusing in a few weeks and feel so wonderful on dry skin and insect bites. (To make it yourself, just fill a jar with fresh calendula and lavender flowers, cover generously with grape seed oil, seal, and shake once a day for 6 weeks. Strain and bottle.)
I picked mulberries, our very first mulberries, and have them infusing in vodka to make a delicious liqueur for the holidays. Each day, as the berries ripen, I pull them off and add them to the mix. It will be ready the end of November, just in time for my birthday.
I received my monthly order of dried herbs and spices, and couldn’t help but smile as I poured each bag into big glass jars and lined them up on the kitchen table. Astragalus, hawthorn berry, hibiscus, rosehips, elderberries, and cinnamon bark. In the months to come they’ll be turned into teas and tinctures, syrups and pastilles, all sorts of nourishing things to help us feel better no matter what life throws at us.
It felt good to finally have the energy to do chores today. I mended our favourite flannel bed sheets that one of our dogs decided to play with when they were drying on the line, cleaned out the fridge, swept the house, and remade our bed with those oh-so-cosy sheets that will be bliss to sleep in on this cold, rainy night.
I’ve started getting things out of storage that always bring me joy. Favourite books that I never tire of rereading, a lantern my brother brought me from Morocco, a basket of pretty stones, a painted tile I found in Portugal, silver bell earrings I usually reserve for medieval events. I love seeing them on side tables and bookshelves. Little vignettes that make me smile.
Now it’s time to wind the cuckoo clock, put away the green ginger wine we’ve been sipping for our sore throats, close my journal, and climb into bed.
It’s not often I get to fall asleep to the sound of rain on the roof, and I don’t want to miss it. xo
by Krista | Oct 12, 2018 | Autumn
Earlier this year I was honoured to share my friend Katy’s story of the loss of her baby girl, Alma (read her story here). Today I’m equally honoured, and thrilled, to share her thoughts as she waits the final few days of pregnancy before the birth of her first child.
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I love Autumn. The encroaching darkness may be a little hard to accept after summer’s long, halcyon days, but there is something so comforting and cosy about the burnished colours of falling leaves, the warming aromas of spices and apples on the stove, the steam of hot cocoa on a crisp, chilly day.
Autumn – and October in particular – is a significant time for my husband and me. It’s the month we first met, three years ago. On our second date, we hiked up to a rugged swathe of moorland where stags were rutting. We unpacked a picnic and watched, breathless, as the stags locked antlers amid the russet-hued grasses and swirling mist. A downpour swiftly ensued, and as we laughed and stumbled our way back down the sodden hillsides, dripping wet and shivering, I knew I’d found my soulmate. The following October, we got engaged at Whitby Abbey, on the wild and windswept coast of North Yorkshire. Or, more accurately, we got engaged on the steps down from the abbey, after I apparently messed things up when he tried to propose at the top. Last October, we got married in our beloved Peak District. And this October, we’re expecting our first baby, due any day now.
Normally, the start of Autumn is the time when I love being out of the house, picking blackberries and going on long, blustery walks with my husband in the Peaks. We wrap up warm, pull on our hiking boots, fill up the thermos with hot coffee, and set out on rambles through the hills before ending up in a country pub with a roaring fire.
But this year, due to a pregnancy dominated by a pelvic condition which makes walking far difficult, I’ve had to make my peace with staying home. In these last days of pregnancy, I’ve been nesting: cleaning, upcycling furniture, decorating the nursery and batch cooking meals to store in the freezer ready for the early, crazy days of parenthood.
I’m now at the point in pregnancy considered full-term, the point at which the baby can come any time. Yet I still have up to three weeks before he will definitely arrive, one way or another. It’s the paradox of the ‘due date’ – somewhat arbitrary, given that only 5% of babies arrive on that date, but it’s been the measure of my life for almost 40 weeks, the arbiter of midwife appointments, scans and milestones; the day I’ve been counting down to. Yet I know that for first-time mothers, a 41 or 42-week pregnancy is actually pretty normal and an ‘on-time’ arrival not so common.
So this is a time which can be full of stress and anxiety: googling natural induction methods with highly questionable scientific bases, over-analysing every twinge and cramp, worrying about the possibilities of medical induction and forceps and c-sections. At home on your own, it’s easy to let your mind be filled with all of this while you drink raspberry-leaf tea, bounce on a gym ball, and mull over the benefits of evening primrose oil for helping the dilation process.
It’s a strange limbo, being on the precipice of something so fundamentally life-changing that I can’t quite imagine it yet, but I’m impatient for it to happen, already! After 9 months of weathering every pregnancy discomfort, from the early days of morning sickness to this late-stage elephantine condition, the desire for things to get a move on is overwhelming. One of my friends, a new mother, joked that these last few weeks are part of evolutionary design so that when labour does finally start, you don’t care about the prospect of intense pain anymore – you just want the baby out!
At the same time there is ongoing fear of the unknown. For me, it really isn’t a fear of labour: this is my rainbow baby, the first my body has brought to term after two miscarriages. Because of that, I know without a doubt that I can cope with the pain of labour, as long as he is ok. But everything from this point on is completely unknown territory.
In the midst of these whirling thoughts, I am trying my best to find an Autumnal calm – to savour these last days of solitude and little projects, reading books that have been sitting on my bookshelf gathering dust, binge-watching boxsets without guilt (something I am finding surprisingly hard!), enjoying brief forays into the October sunshine, going on brunch and dinner dates with my husband, meeting other pregnant and new-mum friends for lazy coffees and camaraderie.
My wardrobe is covered in colourful affirmative cards, given to me by a friend, which remind me daily that my baby will come when he is ready, that I am prepared for labour, and that I will be a good mother. If nothing else, sitting on the end of the bed for a few minutes each morning and reading a few of the cards offers a quiet bonding moment with the baby.
I’m hoping that he’ll come while the leaves are still turning, while there is still warmth in the sun, before the nights draw in further. But this really is one decision left to my baby and my body, that I really have no choice in. He is currently snuggled inside me, kicking his little legs and using my bladder as a pillow, apparently in no particular hurry to come out. I know that watching and feeling him move inside me right now is something I will look back on as a fleeting memory that passed too quickly, and is something to treasure.
This will be a life-changing Autumn, but for now, it is a season in which I’m learning patience and calm, waiting for the day when I can hold my baby in my arms.
by Krista | Oct 2, 2018 | Spring
The political events of the past week have been gutting for me and many others, taking us back to moments in our lives when we were violated and disrespected, our stories dismissed as insignificant and unimportant. They brought back memories we had successfully suppressed. They helped us see the truth of situations we had glossed over, pretended were OK because it was easier than facing the truth of how we were treated by people we loved and trusted. They have left us feeling battered and vulnerable, grieving and angry.
For me, the Kavanaugh/Ford situation has not been about who was telling the truth. Only they know that.
What troubles me deeply is the experiences Ford described being dismissed as nothing, as insignificant, as something that should be forgiven and forgotten.
What troubles me most is the belief that Ford should never have spoken up without evidence sufficient for a court of law. That no woman should speak up about assault, molestation, or rape without evidence.
The problem with this is that most abusers are not considerate enough to leave sufficient evidence to convict them.
Abusers wait to abuse until there are no witnesses, even if it’s only for 30 seconds. That’s enough for them to penetrate, violate, and harm irreparably.
Abusers wear condoms so there is no semen left behind. Or they penetrate with fingers or other objects that don’t leave any evidence.
Abusers use positions of power to control and dominate, so that even when the victim speaks up they are not believed and are, instead, punished for seeking attention, ruining a reputation, or causing a scene.
Abusers traumatize their victims so they do not have the tools they need to report until long after the outrageous statutes of limitations have passed.
So what is a victim of sexual assault supposed to do?
This is the question I’ve been pondering all week. If we don’t have evidence, what do we do?
We speak anyway. We tell anyway. We voice what happened to us regardless of what the response is.
We speak the truth to ourselves first, name the perpetrator, detail what happened, and how it affected us. When we speak truth to ourselves, we assure ourselves that we are on our side, we’ve got our back, we are there for us. We start to heal the disconnection that happens when we are assaulted.
We speak the truth to others. To safe people who will carry our story in love and compassion. A partner, a friend, a therapist, an online friend. To be believed is an essential part of healing, and does much to rebuild trust and remind us that in spite of what we’ve experienced, there are good, trustworthy people in the world.
Then, if we want to, we can file a police report.
Of the numerous times I’ve been assaulted, I’ve only filed 2 police reports. The first assaults happened during a time when I didn’t know I could report, didn’t have a support system in place to help me know what to do. But the last two times happened when I was healthy enough to know and believe my worth, when I had the support of Bear and dear friends, when I had recent, first hand accounts of what happened.
When I filed the reports, I knew that they would accomplish nothing in terms of justice and accountability, but they accomplished much in terms of my own well-being, courage, and strength.
The cops who took my reports told me that even though there was no evidence, simply by filing a report, I put the perpetrators on the police radar. They now had a record of their abhorrent behavior. It put the perpetrator on notice that they would be watched. If any other reports came in about the perpetrators, the victims would be believed without question.
It is not justice, but it is something.
This week I spoke anyway.
Two memories I had suppressed came flooding back and took the breath out of me. Suddenly I was sobbing uncontrollably, sick to my stomach, numb with grief, then shaking with anger.
I wrote it all out. The names, the locations, what was said, what was done, how those vile people made me feel, how they damaged and affected me to this day.
I reminded myself that no matter what, I am worthy of love and respect. Always.
I spoke to the me that was assaulted, and apologized for not knowing how to protect her, not being able to protect her. I wrote out what I’d do now: scream, yell, fight, cause the biggest scene imaginable, call for help, report to the police. I used all the tools in my healing tool belt to release those memories and the power they’d held over me.
Then I slept. Deep, peaceful sleep, with good, lovely dreams of the good people in my life now.
We may never get justice for the things done to us, but we can take back our power and be the thriving, shining, brave souls they tried to break. xo
by Krista | Sep 15, 2018 | Spring
I love these words by Mara Glatzel:
“The trick of a lifetime is the story that
we have to already know how to do something perfectly before we commit ourselves to it.
That we should rehearse in secret, working things out on our own lest someone should see and judge us for our imperfections.
That we should somehow know better or be better magically on our own without sweat or struggle.
That our imperfections and mucking around are moral failings instead of essential parts of being a human and living our lives as best we can….
Today I am celebrating the things I am practicing out loud and in the light of day that feel terrifically and terrifyingly raw, vulnerable, and new.
I am celebrating our individual and collective choice to be ourselves on purpose and to bravely allow other people to see and hear us – before we feel ready.
I am raising my coffee cup to the messy glory of learning in front of people and knowing that even when it makes me want to hide under a blanket, I simply wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“The messy glory of learning in front of people…” How beautiful is that?
I’ve read these words many times in the past week, mulling them over, letting their freeing wisdom sink deep into my wobbly soul.
“…practicing out loud…”
These words are such a gift to me. Even though I’m a fully-fledged grown-up, I often feel like I’m still practicing so much of life: marriage, work, finances, farm, self-care, etc. And I think that’s why I love these words. They take the pressure off, release the build-up of expectation and trying to do it all and be the best me I can be.
They let me be what I am: human. Beautifully, messily human. Wobbling along through life, quite astonished when I get things right, rolling my eyes when I mess up for the umpteenth time, so grateful for innumerable second chances to try again.
“be ourselves on purpose…”
This phrase makes me grin.
And sometimes get a little teary when it highlights ways in which I’ve betrayed myself, taken on the ideals or priorities or values of someone else because I was too scared to stick to my guns.
Then grin again because it’s never too late to return to our funny ol’ selves.
The other morning I needed all these reminders:
Be myself on purpose.
Practice out loud.
Embrace the messy glory of learning in front of people.
I went out to my gardens for a bit of grounding and inspiration and, most of all, courage. I stopped in my tracks and smiled when I saw the borage flowering at last, for borage is the flower of courage.
I like learning about the history of plants, and this plant is particularly lovely. It is used to give you the courage to be yourself, to help you feel safe. After a long illness, borage tea renews strength. It can be used as an eyewash to soothe inflammation and soreness, or gargled to relieve a sore throat.
Renews strength, helps you to see clearly, helps you speak, imparts courage, makes you feel safe.
What a beautiful plant for those of us ready to be ourselves on purpose, practicing out loud, in all our messy glory. xo
