by Krista | Feb 17, 2023 | Summer
I haven’t been here for a long time. My beloved Bear died suddenly in October after a brief and brutal battle with cancer. My world collapsed that day, and I needed to pull my borders in close and care for my grief-stricken self.
I read once that grief cannot be fixed, it can only be tended. So, I’ve been tending to my grief the best I can. I give it all the space it needs, all the time and support it needs, and room for any expression it requires. No shame, no guilt, no judgment, no deadlines, just all the love, compassion, and patience I can muster so I can find my solid ground again.
After Bear died, I found an email he’d written me in response to the overwhelming fear and grief I felt at trying to imagine a life without him physically in it.
“My comfort is that, god forbid, should I precede you, I will leave a lady so in control of her destiny, so content in our love, that she will change what she has the power to change and rise above what she can’t. In this, I will give you the means to step up to the next stage in your life.”
I’m not ready to write here about his death and my grief. Maybe one day. But I am ready to gently ease my way back into the world again, slowly stepping up into this next stage of my life carrying with me the sure knowledge that Bear is always with me, my biggest champion and dearest love.
I treasure another note from him:
“My spirit is with you now, my love, and you know I am never too far away. Always a state of together, no question, just are. Two hearts as one.”
Those words are my comfort each day as I grieve the loss of physical Bear and breathe in gratitude for his spiritual presence that reminds me I am not alone or abandoned but always loved, always cared for, always supported. It doesn’t remove the grief, but it does ease my way through life.
After Bear’s death, I tried to hold my shattered heart together and find something, anything to help me keep living. One morning the grief overwhelmed me and I curled up in his big armchair and sobbed saying, “Babe, I can’t do it. I can’t find a purpose, I can’t find a reason, all I can see is pain.” And then I felt these words from him, “Darlin, what if you don’t need a purpose or a reason? What if you just get up each day and do something good and see what happens?”
I stopped crying and just sat there awhile. What if I don’t need a purpose or reason? What if it is enough to just do something good each day? It was the first time I could see a way forward, a glimmer of hope that perhaps I could survive this.
So, each morning I wake up and say, “Good morning, Bear!” and remind myself that I am safe and loved and supported. I have a cry if I need to, then get up and continue our tradition of a big cup of coffee and watching the sun come up. Then I figure out something good to do.
In the beginning, those good things weren’t much. The grief was too all-consuming to do more than the bare minimum of feeding animals and keeping plants alive and making sure I drank water and ate something and kept breathing.
But, as I adjusted to the understanding that death only stops physical life, it doesn’t stop love and connection, my brain made room for more and I was able to find good things to do not just for the present, but for the future.
I re-potted native edible plants we purchased for the food forest we planned, cuddled the eight puppies Bear’s dog gave birth to on New Year’s Day, picked and dried elderberries to put in the cordial blend I plan to sell at markets again one day, and harvested bundles of lemon verbena and lemon balm to dry on the back verandah for the workshops I hope to teach again when I’m ready.
I’ve mended fences, fixed broken water pipes, and coated the steps and verandahs with layers of Danish oil to keep the wood in good condition.
Sometimes I work alone with only our lovely dogs for company, while other times dear friends stop in to give big cuddles and fix machinery, help me figure out how to redo the irrigation system, or collect fallen trees and branches for the burn pile after epic summer storms make a mess of things.
Sometimes I do my good things with a peaceful heart feeling dearly loved and connected to my luvs, but others are fraught, laced with loneliness, sadness, and wondering what the point of it all is. And both reactions are OK. All of it is OK. It’s possible to be heartbroken and full of love at the same time, to be terrified of the future but delight in Bear’s favourite nasturtiums blooming, to feel hopeless yet grateful, lonely yet connected, purposeless while creating purpose by doing something good no matter what.
I don’t know what my future holds, but for now, tending my grief, doing something good each day, and loving myself, my loves, our land, and our animals is enough. xo
by Krista | Jun 23, 2022 | Winter
I love the quiet darkness of winter mornings before the rising sun turns the frosted fields into shimmering gold laced with mist.
I wrap cold fingers around my coffee mug and close my eyes, listening to the steady ticking of the cuckoo clock, the rhythmic thumping of wagging tails outside the back door from dogs eager to come in for a snuggle, my heartbeat.
A few weeks ago there was no heartbeat.
I had taken my badly injured husband into the hospital to have his knee tended. We winced and grimaced together as the doctor probed and bent, figuring out the best way to get him back to fighting strength. The doc turned to update me on the plan then asked, “Are you OK? You don’t look good.”
I don’t remember much after that, but they told me later I scared the hell out of them when I collapsed, turned blue, was unresponsive, and had no pulse. They thought they’d lost me. Thankfully, ten rounds of CPR brought me back and I remember a woman saying, “There she is. We’ve got her.”
I’m so glad they didn’t lose me that day. So glad they fought for me and won.
The last month has been a flurry of hospital and doctor visits, ambulance runs, and innumerable tests, more collapses and more tests as we tried to figure out what on earth is happening with my dear ol’ heart.
Bear has been a rock through it all, teasing me about being his zombie wife in the good moments, hugging me tight during the weepy, scary ones. My luvs have been wonderful, cheering and comforting, calling or messaging to ask the all-important question, “Are you alive??!!” YES!
We don’t have all the answers yet, but I started on medication last week that is working wonders. Before, just walking to the car or into a shop had me shaky and breaking out into a sweat, needing to lay down before I toppled over. Not anymore. I’m able to garden again and run errands and work in the newsroom with no more zombie moments.
Such experiences have a big impact. It’s been scary and overwhelming, frustrating and exhausting. The what ifs haunt us now and then. What if it had happened while I was working on the farm or on the road for work and no one had been there to bring me back? We have much to be grateful for.
My world has slowed and quieted as I’ve made the changes necessary to bring my life back into alignment with my clarified values and priorities. Boundaries have been strengthened to make ample space for what I want to fill my days with, money invested in the tools and ingredients needed to do the things I love.
I’m off work today, so we have plans for adding purple asparagus, sugar snap peas, artichokes, and rainbow silverbeet to our winter gardens, making a run to the dump, and slow-cooking carnitas with cumin and orange juice. They’re just little things, but they make life beautiful to us.
What is making your life beautiful today? xo
by Krista | May 6, 2022 | Autumn
I spent the first 36 years of my life in a culture that regarded females as belonging to someone else from cradle to grave.
From the time a girl was born, she belonged to her father. He decided what she wore, how she behaved, and who she spent time with. He dictated her goals, responsibilities, and dreams. Everything she was and did was a reflection on him. She either honoured him or shamed him. There was no middle ground.
She was her father’s servant, housekeeper, nanny for the other siblings, cook, hostess, the works. She was Wife Part Two minus the sex. If she was lucky. If she was unlucky, she was also raped, molested, or sexualised in some perverse way.
If she had brothers, they were also given authority over her as second fathers, keeping watch when the father wasn’t there, and reporting back to the father on any infractions so she could be disciplined and retrained. This authority and control over a girl or woman were also extended to other males including, but not limited to, grandfathers, pastors, and church leaders.
This didn’t change until the father found the right man to transfer ownership of his daughter to. Then she was given to a husband and the rituals continued. She belonged to him.
At no time, in that world, does a girl or woman belong to herself. Not her mind, not her body, not her heart, not her vagina or her uterus. None of her. She is placed on a pedestal, a lump of clay to be moulded according to the wishes of whoever happens to own her at the time. Her value rests in her submission and obedience and intact hymen until she is handed over to the one man who is allowed to break that hymen and take ownership of her.
She must provide willing sex on demand.
She must get pregnant and give birth regardless of whether that has a detrimental effect on her health and wellbeing. If she loses her life in the process, so be it.
She must obey.
And through it all she must smile and convey joy, for to do anything less is to dishonour her father, her husband, her God. In that culture, there is nothing worse than shaming a male.
Even in this abusive culture, there were decent men who tried to value, respect, and love their daughters, wives, sisters, and mothers within those hellish parameters. Although I honour their efforts and am grateful for the light they shone in my darkness, this does not make the culture OK.
It is evil. Inhuman. Abusive, horrific, and utterly deplorable.
Girls belong to themselves. No one else.
Women belong to themselves. No one else.
I belong to myself. No one else. My body, my mind, my vagina, my uterus, my choices, my beliefs, they are all mine, and mine alone.
I remember the day I learned that I belong to me. My therapist and I had been talking when all of a sudden I said, “Do you mean I belong to me? My mind belongs to me? My body belongs to ME???” She stared at me in shock, trying to grasp that this was new information to me.
But it was. Mind-blowing, gut-wrenching, life-giving truth. I was 38 years old.
I returned to our farm in a daze. I sat in Bear’s big, green armchair for the next three days, basking in the utter wonder of belonging to myself. I felt safe and secure for the first time in my life, and that is when true healing began.
I will never return to the lies of my past. Never.
My body is mine. My mind is mine. My heart is mine.
Never again will someone decide for me what to think, believe, or be. Not a deity, not a church, not a government, not a father, husband, brother, or friend.
I belong to me, forever and always. And I trust me implicitly.
by Krista | May 1, 2022 | Autumn
“Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.”
J. Bishop
The sun is down and the temperature is dropping quickly so I’ve tucked a blanket around my legs to keep me warm as I write.
It’s quiet on the farm tonight. The rain has stopped, the wind has stilled, and the only sound is a gentle tap-tap and occasional peep from the guinea fowl keets in their box in the kitchen. I had to move them into a taller, non-jump-out-able box this week after one made a daring escape and found himself trapped behind a bookshelf. I managed to retrieve the trickster with a prodigiously long set of barbecue tongs, and he’s now back safe and sound with his mates.
It’s well and truly autumn now and the vineyards, orchards, and gardens of the region are in that lovely stage of decline where everything is nodding off before winter, but not quite asleep.
There are still gorgeous flowers blooming amongst rusted petals, curling leaves, and papery husks, and I’ve been taking every possible opportunity to write garden-based stories for the newspaper so I can wander at my leisure through russet and gold beauty.
This week I got to amble through the gardens of the Hokstead Plantation just before they tore out the last of the summer plantings. They were busy finishing up a stunning bouquet of native flowers and greenery, so they let me stroll about to my heart’s content.
It was dark, drizzly, and cool, my favourite kind of autumn weather, and I loved the sculptural beauty of plants losing their leaves and petals and the amazing transition of colours from vibrant pink, red, and yellow to softly burnished rose, burgundy, and bronze.
I explored the nursery, trailing my fingers over the smooth leaves of lemon myrtle, sighing happily at the vibrant puffs of fairy floss flowers high up in the treetops, smiling at the occasional lush blooms putting on one final burst of beauty before the frost arrives.
Autumn gardens always make me feel peaceful because the work is coming to an end and things are ready to be buried under thick layers of compost and mulch and sleep soundly through the winter.
They remind me that not every season is for productivity, some are for sleep, quietness, getting fed, nourished, and rested.
Dear old autumn. I needed that reminder.
This weekend has been a cosy one of good projects balanced with rest, books, art, and reflection.
I made three jars of pear ginger jam and a big pot of ham lentil soup and organised my seeds and art supplies.
I scrubbed floors, installed a new toilet seat, and read “Nicholas St North and the Battle of the Nightmare King” and Darra Goldstein’s Scandinavian cookbook, “Fire + Ice”.
I wood-burned nine wooden spoons, coloured a picture of mushrooms, and bought myself a set of screwdrivers for my toolbox.
As I enter a new week, I look forward to embracing the slower, more peaceful days of autumn, making the most of every opportunity to get outside and bask in the wonders of this most glorious season.
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.
Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you,
and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.”
John Muir
by Krista | Apr 25, 2022 | Autumn
It’s dark and quiet this morning, a cold autumn wind whistling through the trees and making me thankful for afghans and blankets and a second cup of hot coffee.
The last few months have been intense, a hurtling sort of time when you just need to hang on for dear life and push through until you can find breathing space again. A time where self-care is essential to make it to the end of each day when you can finally collapse into bed, sleep like the dead, and wake up in the wee hours to start fresh.
Yes, it’s been hard, painful, and scary, but also rich and meaningful and laced with connections with incredible people who make me stop and smile and feel like there is much reason for hope.
It’s been a time of personal hibernation for me, pulling back from much to make sure I can handle the vital without crumpling.
And now I’m catching my breath as we move into a new season without floods and catastrophic storms and cancer concerns and huge work commitments and debilitating injuries and broken water pipes and dead appliances and the innumerable other things that have had us shaking our heads and wondering, what next?!
This week I get to wash laundry in a washing machine instead of by hand, fill animal troughs with a hose instead of hauling buckets, hear properly with both ears, and take time to actually plan my next steps instead of lurching from one bonkers situation to another.
I am grateful.
Grateful for baby guinea fowl in the warm kitchen, bottles of pear ginger jam on the window sill, and new asparagus shooting up in the gardens. For cuddly dogs, full rainwater tanks, and our first harvest of pomegranates. Aren’t they beautiful?
The newspaper I work for is closing this week and, even though we all know it’s the right thing and the right time, we’re rather sad. We’ve loved working together, loved sharing the stories of our amazing community, and we’re going to miss it and each other very much.
I’m not sure what my next steps are, but, as we write stories for our last issue on Friday and pack up the newsroom and meet together for final drinks, I’m quietly excited about the future.
In the meantime, I plan to rest, potter in my gardens, work on farm projects with Bear, and trust that my next steps will be good ones. xo
