Luna

May 12, 2008 – In some ways, this was a rough day. Lots of farm work, hay moving, herding, chores, writing, photo-taking. In some ways, this was a wonderful day.  Much to do, a beautiful Spring day in which to do it, a great working dog to help me.
  I have slowed down as advised, settled, taking deep breaths, am studying my diabetes meter, thinking about what I want and need, staying within the farm, and my passion for it, cooled by other distracting matters,  is returning.
  The donkeys love their temporary pasture, with lots of grass, Annie is fussing over the animals, the goats are jeering,  Elvis is serene and the dogs, like me, are happy, worn and weary, dozing all around me.
  I think I am beginning to understand why I came here, and coming here was not simple. It was difficult, disturbing, painful to me and others.
   People have often suggested to me that I have reinvented myself, reinvented my life. I don’t think that is so. I don’t want to reinvent me, I want to figure out who I really am, and be me, and living my life means that.
    I thought today as Rosie and I brought the sheep down from the woods where they grazed, and the sun washed over us, and the wind swept the flies away that I am, at long last, beginning to live my life.  I can feel it.
  This is not to be confused with living a perfect live, which is not either possible or desirable. Our lives are shaped by pain and loss, fear and confusion as much as they are by joy and success.
  The good life, for me,  is learning to live with all of those things. It is hard work, I see. It is never done. It is a dangerous, sometimes hurtful. It is not contingent on being happy, or safe or successful. I well know, working as a Hospice volunteer, how close we all are to the edge of life, how soon we will all get there.
  What a strange thing for a man my age to say, and to feel, that he is beginning to live his life. But I felt a peacefulness today that has so often eluded me. I felt steady, brave, sure of where I am going.
  Perhaps God is talking to me,  as has been suggested, and that’s why I feel more peaceful and clear. Perhaps the photography has given me a stronger sense of my place in the world, freed some of the beasts wanting to come out, given me a chance to carry out the artist’s task of taking the light and colors of the world and trying to make some sense out of them, to try and capture a bit of Creation. Perhaps it is this blog, a strangely important element in my life now, my own particular and personal signal to the world that my life has meaning, that I am importand, that I have thing to say, images to transmit, people who want to see and hear them. Maybe it’s my family, or my wonderful friends, people who love me and stand by me and have allowed me, perhaps for the first time in my life, to accept things from other people.
  Maybe it’s my writing, which I love doing more each day and hope to do until my last day.
 Or these amazing dogs. How do I happen to have such remarkable creatures, Rosie who has my back and helps me live on this farm every day of her life, Lenore, who forces me to laugh and smile, no matter how dark my mood, and Izzy, the Soul Dog, who has led me into the realm of the dying, where I have learned so much and felt so much?
  Or maybe it’s the farm itself
  I wondered today how all this happened, how all these elements came together, what I was doing on this windswept hill in upstate New York with a border collie, a sweet Lab and 28 sheep, as four donkeys nudged to get through the gate and goats complained at the bottom of the hill. How did I know to do this? Why did I want it? How did I get the nerve, muster the will, figure it out?
   I guess, I thought, because I must be crazy, because  only the mad would even think of doing this, when common sense and wisdom, sanity itself, says it’s a time to go the other way, get rid of things, prepare. Sometimes I wish I had done that, didn’t have to worry about the money, these fences, all that hay, all that water.
  Then, this afternoon, as I called to Rose to collect the sheep and began marching down the hill, I passed Orson’s grave, looked around me, and felt a wave of warmth and joy wash over me. And peace, too, a feeling of peace, that settling in my heart and chest.
  I thought of all those messages I get, from all those people, wanting to live their lives, find their voices, struggling with fear and concern, and I said a prayer for them, as I walked down the hill, that they dare to try.
  I understood. I knew why I was there. It was clear.
  I came here to live my life.