Good morning. I’m grateful that the farm is intact and that I can turn my computer on to send this message. It was touch and go.

I can’t ever recall hearing wind like last night; it was just one roar after another.  The house trembled.

We slept downstairs, dogs and people. I was sick and needed to be near a bathroom, but we all slept well. The wind woke me up.

Maria slept through the wind; I couldn’t stop looking at the trees and bushes leaning sideways in the storm. The wind transfixed and captured me.

We expect more rain, more snow, and then a 50-degree drop in temperature. We lost power once or twice, but it came back on. The ice storm tonight will probably bring us into the dark. This storm has bite.

Still, this is a picnic compared to what the Midwest is going through. The wood stove fires kept us warm. The bathtub clogged, and all kinds of black gook came up. It took Mike Conklin and us a couple of hours to get it cleaned up and cleared.

Right now, the temperature is 50 degrees. It will drop quickly, and the next challenge will be ice on trees, cars, and ground.

I admit my nerves are shot a bit. Feeling upbeat is challenging when you can’t keep any food down.

Last night was one of the more harrowing experiences I can recall. Maybe being sick makes one more vulnerable—time to meditate and walk alone in the pasture. There is too much going on.

As a city boy who came to the country late in life –  I was almost 60 – I arrived at the first Bedlam Farm in a blizzard and lived alone for six years.

There was lots of weather up there, as bad or worse than this. But I was drunk with my farm and my life. I was fearless up there. I was alone in blizzards and feared nothing. I was answering a call.

There was something about it that I had been waiting for all of my life.

 

Maria was happy hauling manure out of the barn, fussing over Lulu. She’s in her element when nature acts up.

Now I’m 75, I have to be more careful about ice, and there are many things I just can’t and shouldn’t do any longer. A careless fall could change my life. In Hebron, I fell every other day and thought nothing of it.

Being older and sick makes me feel more vulnerable. I am getting better.

This farmhouse is my refuge and temple, my muse; I can’t be at peace when it’s in trouble.

When it comes to storms now, Maria is just the opposite. The bigger the mess, the happier she is. She is a person of great confidence and strength. She rolls along with life.

I am fortunate to be with her. We complement each other so well. She is the person who tries to fix everything. If she can’t do it right away, I call and summon help.

City boys, who do little for themselves, know how to do that

We’re ready for the next chapter tonight. I admit the storms are getting impressive. I am thinking of all the people suffering in the snow and cold, and I am very conscious that we are fortunate or all of our minor difficulties; we are the lucky ones.

After lunch, I’ll get back into bed—lots of water, soup, and two good books to read. The Sunrise was spectacular.

I watched the animals for a while and admired them the way the poet Walt Whitman did:

“I think I could turn and live with animals; they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition, do not lie awake in the dark, weep for their sins, and do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.”

Amen

Animals are the world’s great teachers of acceptance and dignity.

I realize that I am a worrier, and I often feel vulnerable, and for most of my life, I never admitted that. It’s old stuff, a part of me. I see it for what it is. I am blessed. I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve wanted to write since I was eight years old, and when you do what you love, you never work for a minute.

Now, the lights are on, the house is warm, our bathtub is fixed, the animals have all eaten, Bud is in a crate in my office gnawing on a bone, and Zinnia is in her accustomed position at my feet.

Our visit to the Mansion on Christmas has been canceled, and my Ukulele debut will have to wait, but we are still hoping to get away for one night on Monday.

It was lovely, all of us sleeping by the fire, Bud in my lap, Zinna at my feet, Fate staring at Maria, waiting to go to work. Dogs can be a blanket of sorts.

Oddly enough, this is one of the most beautiful mornings I remember. I have a nasty stomach bug that has left me drained and weak and rushing to the bathroom. But going outside to stand in the wind, watching the sky open up,  made me feel better and stronger. I couldn’t resist taking pictures and a video.

Nothing grounds me more than hauling my Leica around. And the sky is beautiful. Something about feeling the wind is magical. It’s something I’ve never captured with a camera—one day.

As I write this, I am calming, setting, and finding my true self. I see the worrying for what it is now; I know it is rarely about what I think it’s about. There is nothing to fear.

We’ll all sit again by the fire, talking, loving each other, reading, and maybe watching a gentle old movie. It’s almost Christmas. I feel the spirit.