Howdy y’all. Ben here, spending more of my waking time in the house than feels reasonable on a beautiful June day, amidst the thick oak canopies and breast-high stands of parsnip and bergamot of Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage.
I feel like there’s a good three or four months in our current climate when a person can essentially remain outside twenty-four hours a day, with the proper hat at least. There’s a west breeze picking up, and the fat yet delicate leaves of rhubarb tell me things are becoming droughty. Hopefully this is just a minor dry spell, and not the heralding call of our climate tail-spinning into desertification. Perhaps it would be best to ignore that corn patch I finally got in and begin planting date palms and raising camels.
In a world which is constantly flowing, changing, and transitioning, I am unsure of how to plan and prepare for what comes next. Damaging to the psyche as it may be, I find that expecting the worst outcome in any situation probably keeps me better prepared than anticipating smooth sailing. This is what generations of our forebears, bound close to the land, have done to keep the human race existent up ‘til this point, but as problems, real problems, begin to stack up, it seems our progressive, can-do, technofix culture is perhaps choosing to remain unaware of how fine an edge we walk along, as a species, and as part of a planetary organism.
I am not an alarmist, and I am certainly not a prepper. I’m bad with guns and overly willing to give things away. I am happy to embrace whatever changes occur rather than fight a war against them. Yes, I do have a root cellar with sixty pounds of salt in it, though. But that’s just ‘cuz I like salty food, and it’s cheaper this way.
In natural cycles, change is essentially a full circle of birth, growth, reproduction, death, and decay. But don’t take my word for it, I’m just a fool out here in the bush, and a filthy one to boot. Still, it’s all around us. I know not whether the chipping sparrow mourns for her windblown young, lifeless and ant covered in the grass. I’d ask, but her innate distrust of humans is properly placed. Freshly pruned trees tell me even less.
Domesticated animals, such as goats and pigs, can be highly expressive. Our young sow (technically a gilt in swine lingo) Esmerelda has just farrowed her first litter of piglets. All nine are doing well, nursing, exploring, playing, but mostly lazing in the shade. I do wonder what pig milk is like. The goat kids are growing prodigiously. My own infant son, Arthur, is putting on some major length, and I don’t know what do with him once he outgrows the bassinet. Maybe just keep him with the chickens. He likes those chickens.
A fox seems to be training her kits to hunt on our pastured chicken flock, simultaneous with the death of our fence-charging batteries. All I can do is spend more time in the chicken ranch, maybe turn that pig loose with the birds as an extra measure of protection. We fully intend to remain a predator-friendly farm, but I’d prefer it not become a buffet. If anyone has advice on what to do about this situation, save it for someone who needs it. I do this stuff all day, and am fairly resigned to paying a minor predation tax for being on, and impacting, this land. I’d sooner confine myself than confine those chickens and ducks. Animals, including ourselves, deserve and require an outdoor life. Still, I am struck with the predation blues at times. I feel as though I am letting my friends down when they are snatched up by hawks.
I have a deal worked out with these critters. I will provide them with nourishment, affection, adequate shelter, companionship, water, and medical care, and they will feed us, work for us, inspire us, and be our friends and confidants. I don’t believe that the chickens and ducks are all aware of this arrangement, being as though they are essentially little dinosaurs, but the goats and pigs know. Donkey may be pushing his luck, between his tendency to break halters, chase goat kids, and demand massages. Esmerelda though, she has that sparkle in her eye. If I might anthropomorphize for a moment, I don’t think she’s far off from human. Dolphins of the dirt, I say. I certainly communicate better with the pig than I do with most human critters. I am honored to be a part of her life, to witness and interact with her natural rhythm.
Other big news this week is that the trees we’ve been planting for human/animal fodder are beginning to bear fruit. I’ve had a handful of juneberries, mulberries, and Nanking cherries that we planted as a part of our perennial feed system, and I beam with pride every bite I take, even if it ain’t peaches. Next year the other critters can have access to them, but for now, they’re mine.
Fruit, and tree growth in general, reside on the part of the life cycle spectrum that is easy to appreciate. Birth, growth, reproduction, within natural limits; these are good things. It’s the death and decay that still makes me queasy, in moments, though I enjoy the sight and smell of composting manure a bit more than most.
My daughter, nearly seven years of age now, has known the prairies and draws of this place for as long as she can remember. She can essentially feed herself from the land without adult assistance, and is now a stronger swimmer than myself. Somewhere between growth and reproduction is maturity, or as we call in humans, puberty. Not yet ready to think about it, really.
I am becoming mature myself. Or at least older, and more broken. This winter I began finding some gray hairs. Yesterday I took my hat off for the first time in a while and discovered I’ve got male pattern baldness. I hope to become dignified, if not friendlier, as I age. If I get any grumpier, y’all can just feed me to the hogs.
I might’ve had a point to make here, and if I haven’t made that point well enough, or if you find disagreement with whatever point I have made, that’s too bad. I don’t put much stock in enlightening people, or keeping them content with my words. It ain’t my job, and this is volunteer work anyways.
I would like to encourage y’all, wherever you be, to go out there and find your existence. Grow, reproduce, die, decay, get born again if ya have to. Toil in the sun. Roll around in the dirt. Hug your grandkids. We are not livestock to be confined. And by the way, livestock ain’t meant to be confined. There’s plenty of work to do as humans in this unique age, and it might just happen if we’d get neck deep in all that natural cycle stuff. I’m in over my head, personally. You can take it wrong, or you can take it easy. Just take it.
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Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.