For me, grace is about courteous goodwill and the full acceptance of life.

Last week, Liz, our shearer, came from Vermont and she and Maria, friends now, worked together to shear the sheep.

Not too long ago, this was my prized bi-annual ritual.

The sheep were mine; I got them to work with dogs herding sheep.

I knew the shearer, sat with him for hours out int he barn, gave the wool away. It was all about the dogs – Rose, Izzy, then Red.

I loved herding sheep every day, more than once.

It was one of the things that defined me, brought me to the country, changed my life, and filled my life with timeless ritual and meaning.

Every year at our Open Houses, hundreds of people came to see me work with the sheep and dogs and herd the sheep.

That has changed.

With the death of Red, I realized I wasn’t up to training another dog to herd the sheep, emotionally or physically. The sheep had a different purpose now, Maria loved them and has learned so much about wool, which she sells as yarn and roving.

This has become one of her central rituals on the farm, not mine.

I think of Red daily and miss him often, but I don’t favor looking back. The past is never better than the present for me. I work hard to make sure that it is true. Zinnia is just what I need now.

I can no longer bend over and move quickly enough, or trust my balance sufficiently to help catch the wool, stuff it into bags and store it in the barn.

I can walk around with my camera, bring water out to Liz and Maria when they tire and sweat.

The one thing I can do is help skirt the wool, but Maria does it so fast, and skillfully, I’m almost a drag.

I don’t think most 20-year-olds could keep up with Maria; she is the Willa Cather girl.

She and Liz have become good friends; they have so much in common.

There are no more Open Houses and no more dogs to show off. Fate loves the sheep and loves to run with them, but she doesn’t herd them.

Red was what I need then; Zinnia is what I need now, Bud too.  Zinnia follows me around and plops down next to me when I am still.

Fate, Maria’s evil twin, is special to both of us. Maria handles the sheep with love and kindness. It works.

So this year, I went into the barn for a half-hour, talked to Liz, and cheered Maria on. I was touched by how easily and well, these two remarkable women worked together.

They needed time to talk alone, I thought.

Growing friendships need that. Tonight, Maria will talk on the phone with another new friend.

I don’t have new friends, I don’t need them now, and few men want them.

I saw clearly that I had no real role to play in the shearing, other than to watch it for a while.

I did that and then went into the house and read a book and wrote on the blog.

Yesterday, Maria shocked me – her energy is boundless – and came into the farmhouse while I was writing.

She told me she had hauled the heavy lawnmower we haven’t used in years out to the back pasture and into the woods – a third of a mile maybe.

I couldn’t imagine how she did that; it’s a long way, and over rough ground.

I felt a pang of guilt at not helping her and then for realizing I couldn’t help her. I know she doesn’t tell me about these things sometimes because she knows I’ll feel badly and try, then fail, to help.

I did take a beautiful photo (above) of her crossing that bridge on her new mowed path. I love it.

I am learning to be honest and authentic; I don’t need charades or false pride.

Maria was proud of herself, she wanted to see the path she had mowed in three feet of grass, and I wanted to see it. I can’t relate how proud of her I am, never jealous. I never want to block that passion for life or undermine it.

I’ve seen too many men do that to their wives, and very few wives do that to their men.

We went out into the woods, and she held a hand out so I could safely cross the Ed Gulley bridge, which I once did easily just a few years ago. It felt shaky to me; I’m not 100 percent sure I can make it across by myself.

I can’t walk well on the uneven ground either, so she often walks in the deep woods, which she loves, alone. When we walk together, she stays close to me so that I can lean on her.

I can walk on level ground and do, and we often go together. The sun sometimes affects my medication, tick and other bug bites affect my diabetes. So does the humidity.

I have to be careful.

The lists of things I can no longer do gets longer. So does the list of things I never did before.  They are benchmarks, markers, mileposts of my life.

Maria often tries to spare me my pride, I have to get to the garbage cans early to haul them out to the curb, and it’s harder for me than it is for her.

There are many things I do now that I never did; there are many things I can’t do now that I often did.

Like most willfull men, I fought these limitations for as long as I could, denied them, pretended they didn’t exist. I am learning to let go.

Pride and fear are significant impediments to grace.

I was too proud to admit what I could no longer do but also increasingly aware of the ways I help. I am more useful than before.

I do the bills, all of the shopping, much of the cooking. I’ve expanded my writing and photography, both of which have become sharpened over the years as I do them both daily and faithfully.

I have blue glasses and colorful socks, a new car that gets 41 miles to the gallon, I negotiated a solar power system that will reduce our electrical costs by 80 percent. My blog gets millions of views every year.

I arrange for the hay and the firewood via my network of reliable local people, farmers, loggers, carpenters.

I do all the dishes when I can get ahead of her, and our love for one another has mushroomed, We always find good ways to make love to one another.

And my work with the refugee children and the Mansion residents has grown more profound, more productive, and more effective than ever.

I have finally figured out how to do this good work more effectively and efficiently, and the Army of Good has ballooned to include every state in the country and some overseas.

I fill with gratitude when I think of those people.

Such good people, so dedicated to good. Have I ever done anything as important and meaningful than that?

My doctors say my health is good; my heart is healthy, my diabetes well under control. My orthopedist says he doubts I will ever need to have my knees replaced. My dentist says I can keep my teeth for 30 years. I should be so lucky.

I am prouder of my writing than ever before; it gets better and clearer. I am just getting older; it’s not much more complicated than that.

For me, grace has as much or more to do with the gracious acceptance of life as it does with hauling hay or shoveling manure or shearing the sheep or digging in the garden.

Life is not just about getting what you want or doing what you want. In many ways, it is about how graciously I can accept what I have, and give thanks for it.

My life is more comprehensive, deeper. I respect life, as I appreciate death. I love the color and the light, and Maria and my dogs and my books.

I am as stubborn and willful and challenging as ever; I can always tell how sharp my senses are by how many times I annoy people or put them off. I’m good.

This is the best part of life for me. I have finally learned some truths about myself and my life.

For a while, I wondered if Maria could love a man who couldn’t help shear the sheep or haul a mower. Perhaps a younger man would make her happier.  I don’t worry about that now. Our love for one another is timeless and eternal. I know now what that means.

Besides, she doesn’t like young men, or in most cases, older men either. I’m one of the very few she will tolerate at all. How did that happen?

Returning to some measured political writing has been good for me, I am glad to use some of the skills I have acquired in life at a time when they matter.

And it’s a pleasure to tell people who only want me to take animal photos and tell animal stories and would deny me my freedom to write what I want for their entertainment to take a hike; they will be happier elsewhere.

I also cackle like an old witch when somebody e-mails me and points out my typos and suggests I get an editor.

I love not having an editor more than I can say. As a Dyslexic, teachers always treated me as if were dumb. “Don’t want an editor, thanks,” I say, and they usually go away.

I don’t care about my typos; they are a mark of triumph and determination for me.

My work is about stimulating people, not entertaining them.

And about growing and changing. I will never give up taking my animal photos or writing my animal stories, not because I have to, but because I love to.

I can lament the things I can’t do or celebrate the things I can do.  I can mourn the dogs I lost or love the ones I have. I can see the sad and the bad, and also the good and the truth.

I accept them all.

That list of riches has never been longer either. As Grandma Moses said, life is what you make of it. In all honesty, I think I’m just getting started.