I love Jenna Woginrich, the person and the idea, she is a good friend, a neighbor, gifted writer, blogger, farmer, a passionate and articulate advocate for homesteading, farming, the meaningful and independent life in the midst of the soul-sucking Corporate Coup that has become much of life in America. Last night, I got a call from a friend of both of ours who was nearly in tears, alarmed at a post Jenna had published on her blog saying someone had come to repossess her truck and she had published a desperate plea for people to help her by sending money and supporting her efforts to keep her farm.

Jenna has published numerous calls for help on the blog, talking openly about her troubles meeting her mortgage, paying for her truck.  She asked for and received help in building a mews for the hawk she hopes to acquire as part of her interest in falconry, friends came to help her build an expanded pig pen and she has repeatedly for financial assistance – contributions, workshop attendance, the sale of  pigs, chickens, produce, personal belongs and recently, subscriptions –  in keeping Cold Antler Farm  going.  Jenna lives near Bedlam Farm, we are part of a community, around here we worry about each other and there has been some discussion about her repeated alarms. She has many people who care about her.

But this piece is about me, truthfully, not only about Jenna.

When I woke up, I went to Jenna’s blog and saw the wrenching – to me – message she had published. I know what panic feels like and reads like.  I checked on her Facebook page and saw the expected messages from the people I call the “go girls” and “Amen Charlies,” telling her how amazing she was, how brave and authentic and inspiring.  I gather other, less supportive messages had been taken down.

It seems that one of the difficult symbols and issues in Jenna’s life is her horse Merlin, who she loves dearly and has kept at considerable expense. She can’t give him up, she wrote, because if her truck is repossessed, she will need him to ride around town. Merlin is important to Jenna, I see how much he means to her. I would not easily give up the animals I have, they can be so essential to our emotional lives. It is not for me or anybody else to tell Jenna whether she needs to keep her horse or not, and shame on her for arguing the decisions of her life in public. Whether she can afford him or not is a personal issue, not one for me.

I called Jenna this morning and asked how I could help. I told her I wanted to write about this, as she had been so open about it. and it raised so many issues that were personal to me. I said I was available if she need to talk to me.  After we talked, I saw that her original posting had been taken down and another published in it’s place, explaining that she was figuring things out,  giving up her karate lessons and considering selling one of her horses.  In a signature Jenna declaration, she wrote “I refuse to give up Cold Antler,” she wrote, “I refuse to give in,” all sorts of healing was on the way. It was all good, said Jenna, a wake-up call.  It was disturbing to me, as if every decision about life was a life-or-death drama involving submission and surrender.

I saw that for Jenna, every problem, every setback, every unpaid bill,  has become a declaration of purpose and faith, a test of strength and endurance. I see that people admire declarations of faith and determination, they always seem heroic, there were a lot of admiring messages on Facebook.

Jenna must solve the riddles of her own life, she is responsible for it. I am writing this because I need to work this issue of help  for myself, to write it for me and for others who struggle with issues relating to help – how to be helped, how to help. Jenna is not asking me for help, doesn’t seem to want any. I respect that, of course.

I have always identified with Jenna in many ways, even though we are very different.  I am not a farmer, but a writer who lives on a farm. But I walked through this fire, the fear and panic and confusion still goes through me like a knife, it is a communicable disease, even though I am on the other side of it.  A meaningful life in America is frightening, difficult, confusing, expensive. A hard thing to go off and get a farm and try and keep it. Thoreau would not have lasted a month in our time in his woods. There is, in fact,  something heroic about Jenna, she is astonishingly creative and resourceful.

I want to be clear that I am not writing this to raise money for Jenna, those are individual decisions for people to make. I cannot help her in that way, won’t. We all have to put our notions of life to the test. My own were dragged through the woods by angry Stallions, pieces of them left for scavengers to pick at slowly and painfully. I will never get over it, I will never forget it. That, I suppose is also why I am writing this.

In the somewhat inverted world of the Internet, doing things you can’t quite handle are seen as admirable, not reckless, brave, not immature or foolhardy. Perhaps this is because the rest of our world is so fearful and enslaved we all root for those few who breakout, I know I do. Jenna wrote on her blog this morning that after her first message enough people sent her money that she has some breathing room, the farm can stay alive for a bit. So, I thought, the message worked for her. Everything is okay for today.

I remember those messages of affirmation, I used to get them all the time. People said I was christic, noble, brave. They admired me when I bought things I could not afford, cheered me on when I gave all of my money away to people who took advantage of me, lived from one delusion to the next, rationalized getting everything I wanted. I was constantly declaring that I was fine, I was okay, I got, I was changing. I was not fine, I was not okay, I did not get it, I was not changing. When I did changed, it was long and hard, it is still happening.

This is what I learned, this is what I would tell Jenna if she ever asks or anyone else if they ask (they often do):

The people who cheered while I spent money – helped me spend money –  were not my friends. The people who enabled me were not helping me. The people who I thought would rescue me did not help me. The people who told me how brave and wonderful I was were my partners in delusion, no one ever told me that I could not buy things I could not afford, I could not live a life of fantasy. I lurched from crisis to crisis, drama to drama. It was always okay, it was always going to be all right. In AA, they call it alcoholic thinking. There is always a good reason to take a drink. There are always people whose lives are so filled with holes they fill them with the lives of others. The Internet is a blessing and a poison in that way, it brings support and reinforces just about anything.

And then one way the glass shattered for me.  It was around time of the divorce, when the  good woman who had helped enable me for years was gone and I found myself wandering in a life that was not mine, that I could not afford, that was not in reality, that was not brave or noble, that I could not sustain, that I did not understand. I was always discovering how the banks really worked, how bills really had to be paid, it was always the fault of the system,  I was always surprised how it worked, the corporate SOB’s, the greedy bastards. I never seemed to get what was happening to me, it was never my fault, I took responsibility for nothing. Blessedly, this all unraveled like a skein of yard in a tornado. It was the end of a life, the beginning of a life.

I think I understand better what help is now. Help is not giving people money, unless they are poor, sick or helpless. Help is not about doing things for me that I can not afford to do myself. Help is not about doing things for free. My good friend Jack Macmilian is always here to help me figure out problems on my new farm, to replace tires, salvage trees. He always gives me a bill when it costs him time or money, I always take it and pay it. That is help. I don’t want it for free, never again will I confuse that with love.

I do not listen to the “go, girls,” and the “Amen Charlies.” I pay attention to challenge and criticism, I always make room for it.   I love praise and affirmation, but people who do not know the details of another person’s life are not helping when they offer blind support and assistance. I can’t speak for Jenna, but for me, it kept me crazy and in pain and fear for years. The people who finally helped me the most, the real friends, the real angels, were the ones who told me the truth: you can’t acquire things you can’t pay for,  you can’t live a life of denial, you can’t live in delusion and self-interest, you cannot ask other people to pay for your life, bail you out of your own misery and trouble. I went and got some real help – from therapists, spiritual counselors, a partner and lover who spared me nothing when it came to challenging me and calling me on my own endless rationalizations and self-justifications.

This morning, I woke up thinking of my friend Jenna. “This is disturbing” I said to Maria. “I need to help her.”

Maria looked at me with that hard look I have come to know. “You are thinking of giving her money, aren’t you?”

But i met her eye and answered her in a way that surprised her.  One of the things I learned about love is that people who love you often tell you what you do not want to hear, they love you enough to make you angry and uncomfortable, to force you to drop the delusions and face the world, the truth about who you are. “No,”I said, “I am  not there anymore. I need to write about it, for me.  I will tell her I am here if and when is ready to talk honestly about her life and I can share with her what I have learned. To help her get help if she wants or needs it. I need to tell her that.”

So I did. I felt that old flash of drama, that pull, I went for a walk, it is gone. I am back to myself.

I love where I am in life, but one of the curses of aging is that you have learned things that so many people simply don’t want to know.

And this is the curse of being young. It is not a time to be cautious or wise, but to go get your farm and fight to keep it. Cautious and wise people don’t do that. I pray every day that Jenna keeps Cold Antler Farm. And I know I care for her because I will tell her my truth, not just cheer for hers.