by Krista | Jul 12, 2020 | Winter
“Hope is being able to see that there is light, despite all of the darkness.” Desmond Tutu
It has been raining gently off and on through the night and this morning turning our hard-packed land into glorious mud. The brown, brittle grass is already turning green and the dogs are having a glorious time splashing through the puddles in the farmyard.
Physically, it’s been a painful week. Some days were spent in bed with eyes covered and ears plugged because even light and sound hurt, but today is a better day, a wondrous day when our drought-ravaged land gets luscious rain and our weary hearts receive a boost of courage to keep on hoping.
I’m on month 7 of Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome (PVFS), and my world is small and quiet as I wake up each day and try to do what the doctor ordered: rest, drink lots of fluids, and above all, don’t lose heart.
Don’t lose heart. That’s the hardest part because I love my life, so much, and I miss it terribly. But each day, even though most of my choices have been taken away by this illness, I still get to choose what to do with the time and energy I have.
I try to make good choices.
I choose to cry when I need to cry.
I choose to be gentle with myself and let go of shame and guilt and unrealistic expectations.
I choose to give and receive love.
And, when I have the energy, I choose to do things that bring me joy.
I have a list of things that I love to do, all requiring varying levels of energy so that even when I’m at my very worst, I still have something happy to look forward to. It never ceases to amaze me that just having one happy thing a day makes all the difference in the world.
Sometimes I have hot chocolate and sit on the veranda with Bear to watch the new baby goats and sheep jump and leap around, others I get warm under a blanket and do wood-burning while listening to Harry Potter audiobooks, and other times I’ll go outside with my camera for a few minutes and take pictures of beautiful things like my gardens covered in raindrops.
They’re little things, so little, but they keep me going and give me courage.
One thing I really love is writing here, sharing pictures and stories and thoughts. So, I hope to do more of that in the months to come.
What little things make your hard days easier to bear? xo
by Krista | May 20, 2020 | Autumn
It was cloudy and dark today with the finest of sprinkles falling now and then, just enough to make a little puff in the dust and fill the air with that lovely scent of damp earth. We are hoping for rain, proper rain, a farmer’s rain, but we’ll give thanks for even the tiniest drop that cleans the air.
Bear and I are celebrating today for the last of my blood tests came through and my doctor excitedly announced that they are clear and I am officially in recovery. I am deeply grateful. I’ve been very ill since December, but the past 6 weeks have been particularly heinous. I’m feeling quite emotional tonight with the hope of being able to breathe easily on my own, to move without agony, and have the energy I need to do things I love with people who mean the world to me.
Recovery will be slow for my dear, battered body has been through hell, but it will happen through patience, love, and much gentleness.
Last week I could barely move without assistance, couldn’t breathe unless I was on all fours, couldn’t function without pain killers. This week I’m walking and bending unaided, able to work without mind-numbing migraines, and I finally have my voice back.
I must continue resting a lot so I don’t relapse, but I’ve been able to start going for short walks and I’m pottering in my beloved gardens again, watering unruly beds of lemongrass, burdock, motherwort, comfrey, and elderflower. I love being out there listening to the cold winds in the gum trees and watching our local fairy-wrens and double-bar finches flitting and swooping through the misty spray of the drip hoses.
When I get tired I sit with Bear and our dogs in the warm Autumn sunshine and rest. We watch the goats and sheep grazing in the paddock, listen to the geese as they splash in their pond, and check out the trees to see which wild birds we can spot. Our lives have become so quiet and peaceful since my illness, and we can feel the good of it in our very bones. Gentleness has been our guiding light, leading us into a tranquil cadence of living that we treasure.
Our routine is simple: sleep as much as possible, eat healthy things, drink lots of water, rest, and, when I have energy, make a little progress at something.
I’m normally a bit of a whirling dervish with eight projects on the go at once, my brain whirring constantly to stay on top of everything. This past year showed me that this isn’t a character trait but a coping mechanism, a detrimental habit developed in an old life that made me believe my worth was in working non-stop and accomplishing as much as possible.
I didn’t know how to break this habit until a chance conversation with Bear when I heard him say, “make a little progress.” Not finish a project or achieve a goal or cross something off the to-do list, but simply make a little progress.
His words meant nothing to him, he didn’t even remember saying them, but to me, they were a revelation, a light to guide me out of a lifetime of being a workaholic. The change in how I engage with life and work has been astounding to me. Instead of thinking, “I need to do All These Things today,” I ask myself, “How can I make a little progress today.” My ever-active brain has quieted and calmed, my anxiety has shrunk, and I’m actually able to really enjoy and focus on what I’m doing. What a gift. I’m so glad I’m never too old to learn new things and move into greater freedom and peace.
Now it’s time for bed. Time to wind the cuckoo clock, take my medicine, and climb under warm covers to read a bit before sleep. xo
by Krista | Feb 26, 2020 | Summer
Slowly but surely I’m getting back into the gentle rhythms of a life not marked by one catastrophe after another. I’m learning to breathe deeply again, to relax my shoulders and unclench my stomach and be at peace instead of desperately trying to keep afloat as towering waves crash and smother.
It takes time for a body to adjust to the security of knowing that our land is no longer in mortal danger, our animals are not on the cusp of death, and our community is no longer withering away before our eyes. You don’t realize how much energy is expended hanging on for dear life until you loosen your white-knuckle grip and see that the roller-coaster you’ve been on has stopped, the ground is steady underfoot, and you really can start to rebuild.
I love looking out my office windows each day to see the hills and fields covered in lush, green grass, vibrant weeds, and succulent herbs. Even after 3 weeks of this wondrous beauty, it is still a delicious jolt, a glorious surprise.
I miss seeing the kangaroos and wallabies grazing side by side with our sheep and goats, but I’m overjoyed to know they’ve gone back into our bush, safe and sound, with plenty of grass for them to feed on and leafy trees and bushes for them to rest under.
The wild birds that came during the drought have stayed, and we love having them. We toss out birdseed for the big ones and finch seed for the little ones and every day we are rewarded with the arrival of double-bar finches, zebra finches, satin bowerbirds, top-notch doves, wild ducks, and magpies. This morning they were joined by sparrows – the first ones we’ve seen in ages.
We love having our cuppas on the back veranda, watching the birds hop, swoop, and dance as they feast in the grass and bathe in the birdbath until the geese arrive, honking and hissing, to stake their claim.
We don’t know when the next rains will come, so we’re letting the farmyard and paddocks run wild, watching them get tall and thick so we have food for our animals through the winter. It is rather wonderful to wake up early in the morning when the wildflowers open and see the paddocks full of them, tiny shimmers of blue, orange, purple, yellow, and white in a sea of green.
We’ve let the gardens run amok too, excited to see what comes back, what reseeds itself, and what starts producing again. Tomato, berry, and pumpkin vines form a tangled and prickly web that requires careful stepping when I harvest. Leeks are getting tall and fat, eggplants provide a vast umbrella of leaves for the jewel-like purple and white fruits that dangle underneath, and the capsicums have finally started producing beautiful, plump peppers. Herbs that went to seed during the summer heat, drought, and smoke have returned in a haze of seedlings – basil, dill, mugwort, lemon balm, pineapple sage, and others I haven’t managed to find yet under the forest of weeds.
Our land looks wild and unkempt now, and I absolutely love it.
I feel myself rebuilding along with the land, animals, and plants as I recover from nearly a year of severe illness, surgery, and hospitalizations. I get so excited to feel my muscles grow and strengthen, my mind clear and calm, and see my calendar steadily fill with projects, meetings, and consultations that delight and challenge me instead of overwhelming and tiring me.
I’ve purposely rebuilt slowly, quietly, so I didn’t take too much on and end up back where I started. I’ve clarified what I want to do, how I want to do it, and who I want to do it with. It feels so good to be working with people I respect, enjoy, and trust.
My business partner, Shaun, and I have been working hard on a new website for the work we do. Until recently we’ve been happy to take on projects by word of mouth, but now we’re ready to grow and expand and we’re having so much fun putting together packages, designing our site, and choosing how best to share our work so it connects us with kindred spirits who share our love of creating thriving online spaces for businesses and bloggers. We hope to launch this week and I promise to share it with you.
I’m so grateful for this time of my life. This welcome and longed-for season of rest, renewal, and growth. Life is always sending crazy situations and encounters that unsettle or upset us, but it also sends amazingness. Today I’m especially thankful for the lovely people I’ve met, delightful opportunities for learning and adventure, and treasured chances to get to know myself better and get more comfy in my own skin. xo
by Krista | Feb 18, 2020 | Summer
It is a wonderful thing to feel at home with oneself. To feel safe and loved, comfy and at peace. For most of my life, I didn’t know what that felt like. My inner peace always hinged on whether those around me were pleased with me, approved of me, and validated my choices. When those affirmations were taken away, my peace went with them.
Not anymore.
When my health collapsed so catastrophically last year, I had a choice to either continue flailing about trying to find outside approval or to call myself home and build a place of security, peace, and unconditional love inside my own heart, mind, and body.
I chose to return home.
Such journeys are innately lonely, for they require separation for a while, sometimes a long while, so the lines of communication, trust, and truth within ourselves can be reconnected, sometimes reforged from scratch. I spent a lot of time alone, first in a hospital bed, then at home on our farm, time spent getting comfortable with silence, time learning to listen to my own voice.
Bear was incredibly supportive, encouraging me to take all the time I needed to ground and settle myself in this coming home process. Sometimes he would sit quietly with me, holding my hand, just looking out at the trees and fields. Other times he’d pop in just long enough to bring me a cup of tea and a quick smile before leaving me to my silent retreat. He is a gift to me.
Such journeys are also choppy, going in spurts because life doesn’t stop for extended quiet. It barely even makes room for brief moments of silence because there are people to look after and jobs to do and chores to finish and animals to care for and things to mend and commitments to fulfil and laundry and dishes and cooking and, and, and. But I knew I needed it, so badly, so I made the time.
I said no to mostly everything. I withdrew from every non-vital commitment I had made. I cut back to only essential work. I let my closest friends know what I was doing so they wouldn’t feel slighted or abandoned. And I scheduled my days so there was always time for silence, somewhere, somehow. I let go of other’s opinions about how I ought to be spending my time and allowed others to step capably into spaces I had previously filled. In every way I could I became unnecessary to the outside world so I could become vital to my inner one.
My treasured silent moments became like links on a chain, strong and sturdy, forging a deep inner strength of mind and spirit that is not easily shaken by outside forces. No one can see it inside me, but I feel it, anchored and sure, vivid and powerful and alive. Such inner fortitude is a fog-clearer, a decision-affirmer, a path-clearer. It makes my friendships dearer, my work more satisfying, the future something to be excited about instead of dreaded.
Being at home with oneself is to always have a port in any storm, a safe place to land, a lovely dry cave of safety and silence where you can hear yourself think, work through knotty problems, and emerge with clarity of purpose.
Now I know the symptoms of wandering too far from home – insecurity, anxiety, nightmares – and when they pop up, as they always will in this wonky life we live, I can return to silence and call myself home again.
It is awfully wonderful to come home. xo
by Krista | Feb 6, 2020 | Summer
A gentle rain is falling softly and I’m looking out from the back veranda at what has been for so long an endless stretch of dry, parched ground void of any plants or grass. Now it is a sea of dark, damp earth with islands of bright green grass and wild herbs slowly but surely getting bigger as they inch towards each other. I hope that one day it will all be green again, the soil restored, the land healed, recovered, and vibrant.
I hope the same for myself. No, I don’t want to be green, but I will love to be healthy, recovered, and vibrant. That is my dearest wish in spite of everything life has hurled at me over the past year.
I had hoped that would begin at Christmas, but instead, I caught an uncommon virus that robbed me of my voice for most of the past 6 weeks and gave me blinding headaches, nausea, and caused me to randomly tip over thanks to inflammation of the inner ear. After finally getting through the hospitalization, cancer, surgery, and recovery of last year, the arrival of this virus was a kick in the gut. Combined with severe drought, the threat of bush fires, and all the difficulties those events entailed, it has been a rough time.
In the past, I would’ve downplayed how hard it has been, quickly shifting to all the good things I’ve learned through it. But not now. Hard is hard, pain is pain, and when life is difficult there is no sense in pretending otherwise. It’s right and good to be sad about sad things, to be discouraged and frustrated and overwhelmed. I know I won’t stay that way. I know that after the weep and the whinge and the woe-is-me-ness, I will take a deep breath (or ten) and feel better and braver. My courage will return, I’ll find light in my darkness, and I’ll be able to make something beautiful in the midst of the awful.
And I am.
The virus is a weird one. My doc told me it is nasty and lasts a long time but that it ebbs and flows until it finally ebbs away completely. Somehow, this helped me. Knowing that I would have a few good hours or even a good day now and then made all the difference because I could plan happy things for those good moments, little adventures that would comfort and delight me and make all the bad stretches easier to bear.
Since those moments have been scarce and unpredictable I wanted to make the most of them, so I wrote a list of things I love best that didn’t require any talking. At the very tip-top was being outside – forest, mountains, water – and that is what I planned for. When the good moments came, I was ready.
- I put my hiking gear within easy reach.
- I kept my car filled with petrol so it was always ready for last-minute adventures.
- I researched hiking trails in our region and made a list of options according to my strength levels.
- Not Much – sit on a bench in the rainforest.
- A Little – 15-minute walk to a mountain stream.
- Pretty Darn Good – 1-hour trek through the bush.
Being voiceless and ill for so long can be terribly lonely and isolating, but getting out in nature, taking pictures of beautiful places, feeling strength return to a body that has been through the wars, makes a huge difference. Even a few minutes can yank me back from the brink of self-pity and grief and remind me of all that is good and wonderful and worth fighting for.
Bit by bit I’m getting better. 8 months ago I was stuck in a hospital bed unable to stand, walk, or even sit up by myself. 6 months ago I had my head cut open to remove cancer. A few weeks ago I stopped falling over and regained my balance. Last week I did my first solo hike in the mountains. 4 days ago I got my voice back, albeit a bit raspy and creaky. I’m deeply grateful for this progress and look forward to the day my head incision finally heals, my muscles are strong, and the last vestiges of this virus disappear.
In the meantime, I continue to embrace a quiet life.
Even though my voice has returned, the doc said to use it as little as possible so it can heal completely. I cherish silence in ways I never did before. After the initial frustration and discomfort of not being able to communicate verbally, I now enjoy our very quiet days of naps and book-reading, bird-watching and drives in the country. I’ve heard all sorts of new stories from Bear since he’s the only one who’s been able to talk, and it’s rather nice to hear him tell me all the details of his day and the projects he’s tackling and dreaming about. I’m getting pretty good at charades-style communication, much to Bear’s amusement and total confusion and I’m thankful to lovely friends who don’t mind doing non-verbal things with me like going to the movies, reading together, and going for walks.
We are deeply grateful to friends far and near who have supported us so kindly and faithfully over this past year. We are eternally grateful for the money you’ve sent to help keep our farm going while we hope and wait for the rains to come and end this horrible drought. You have comforted and cheered us through your emails, texts, and care packages, given us hope when we were hanging on for dear life, and shown us what true love and friendship look like. When I look back on this incredibly difficult year, it is your love and care that I remember most clearly.
