When it rains…

Last week I wrote about perspective, and how it was too easy to focus on the mini-dramas of daily life while other people experienced true suffering. The mini-drama I was experiencing was a flood, the second of the season and one that peaked at about 16.5 feet on our nearest flood gauge. “Minor” flooding starts at 15 feet, according to the National Weather Service. The farm starts flooding at around 14 feet. At 16.5 feet, we were almost at “major” flood stage, and we thought it showed. As I mentioned in my last post, we had to do a lot of late-night scrambling to get animals to higher ground, but everyone made it safely and the waters quickly receded. It was easy to sit in my warm house and contemplate how lucky I am.

Mother Nature sure has a way of laughing at over confidence, doesn’t she? The next flood (our third in as many weeks) was predicted to crest at 18.5 feet, two feet higher than the last, and there was still standing water on the farm. The soil was completely water-logged, so there was no room for absorption. The next flood came fast, and it came big. Now this isn’t what you might imagine from a newsreel, where water is rushing by and people are being saved by daring rescuers. Here the flood doesn’t really rush in; instead it seeps in from all directions until gradually the new lakes meet in the middle.

We knew this next flood was coming for a few days, so we were a little better prepared for it. We were able to get most of our animals up to high ground early in the day. We built some temporary pens in a hay barn next to our house, and herded all of the goats, sheep, and our landlord’s two fat, little American Guinea hogs up the hill into safety. Our sows (breeding pigs) were dozing in a stock trailer parked on a concrete pad that, in our previous experiences, stays dry. The hens were locked into their house for the night next to the sows. Our market hogs had previously been moved to a new paddock in a relatively high spot, and were blissfully piled onto one another amid a deep bed of hay in a covered pen.

For the previous flood the turkeys had been moved into a dry hoop house to wait it out. The water started seeping into their house early in the morning, so I ushered them out and let them wander around the dry spaces on the farm. After the water receded we spread a large round bale of oat straw into the hoop house, set up nice roosting spaces for them, and turned them back in to happily (and dryly!) spend the last week of their lives. We knew this next flood would also get into the hoop house, but we had a hard time coming up with a good solution. Andrew thought maybe just having roosting bars would be enough to keep them out of the water. I agreed in theory, but in the last flood I learned that turkeys are drawn to the water at night. Birds have terrible night vision, and they are prey animals. They do whatever they can to be safe, and at night the water reflects light. The turkeys go towards the light, thinking, I imagine, it will be safer there. It is not. We decided to go in for dinner and revisit the issue afterwards. The floodwaters were not threatening just yet.

Our friend Ross was at the farm helping us prepare for the flood when he got stranded here. Our roads in and out of the farm are the first to go under water, so we put him up on the couch. We were grateful for this turn of events, as he was a big help getting animals safe. I should mention that in addition to the flood warnings, Western Washington was hammered with a massive windstorm that night. Our little house is up high on wheels, on top of a hill, and it was rocking in the wind. Trees behind us were smashing to the ground, which is actually pretty common; they’re old rotted plantation poplars. The wind was coming from the north, opposite from the normal pattern, and that small change gave the storm a more sinister feel. Spurts of intense rain pounded our metal roof and added to the feeling of being under fire. Ross and Andrew went out to move cows up to higher ground while I sat on the floor in the only spot I thought would be safe from shattering windows. I’m not sure that was a real possibility, but it sure felt like one! Something like 300,000 people in our area lost power that night. Remarkably ours never flickered.

Once the guys came back in we had a nice hot dinner, and thankfully the intense wind pushed the rain clouds away. We decided we had better take advantage of the clear skies and move the turkeys up to even higher ground. We moved a small tunnel that was previously the sheep house up onto the hill that was quickly resembling an ark. We herded the turkeys into it, which was a slow tedious business since it was dark. We tied the door shut and blocked off any possible escape routes, since heritage turkeys are not fond of being penned up. After that we went in for the night to try and get some sleep.

Sleep didn’t come to me, so I spent time on facebook, chatting with family across the country, which helped keep me calm. I also obsessively checked the flood prediction gauge. At 1:30 am I decided to go on a round to check on the water’s progress. It became obvious that the water was coming much more quickly now, and that the high ground where our sows and hens were parked was not going to stay “high” for long. Our ten snuggling pigs were also going to need to be moved higher. Andrew had set his alarm for 2:30 am to check on things, but I could see that we didn’t have that much time. I ran in and roused him, and we moved all of the rest of the animals up to the highest possible ground. Andrew easily passed back out (a trait of his that makes me insanely jealous), and I continued to quietly fret. A couple hours later the flood prediction jumped from 18.5 feet to over 20 feet. I panicked about this news, but there was nothing more we could do but wait.

Once morning hit we were amazed by what surrounded us. Water was everywhere. This was the first time since we’d been here that all of the farmable space was under water. We did our morning animal chores, which was relatively easy with all the animals in close confinement. We boarded our canoe to shuttle Ross across the street so he could go back home, and then we went up to our neighbors for a cup a coffee and a chat. Darryl, the patriarch of the family across the street has a million stories about this valley. His family has been living and farming here for generations, and as far as he was concerned this flood was minor. He regaled us of stories about previous floods, including one in 1990 where the peak hit 25 feet. At that level everything on the farm except possibly our house would be under water. After departing we took the canoe around the fields to investigate and take photos.

While the flood was dramatic, we were mostly prepared and everyone stayed dry and safe. We spent most of the day inside recovering, and while the animals were restless they put up with their confinement well. Thankfully the flood never reached the predicted 20 feet, and even the van our vegetable farming partners accidentally left on the farm seemed to have avoided getting water in its engine.

As I type all of this it’s hard to remember that this all happened yesterday. It seems like so long ago. I suppose lack of sleep and boosted adrenaline will do that to you. Needless to say were more than ready for bed last night. Andrew has been battling bronchitis for a week now, and I had been having sneezing fits and a plugged nose since the morning. Sleep was in order. And then, just as we started dozing off, we heard a strange sound. Actually it wasn’t that strange, it sounded exactly like gusts of wind rattling the plastic that covers the hay barn. Only there was no wind, it was an eerily still night. After this happened three or four times we ran outside to see what was up. The door on the turkey house had broken free and swung open, and the noise was the whoosh of turkey wings as they flapped out of confinement straight into the lake that now flanked our house.

Wearing only underwear, I grabbed my long down parka, which wasn’t the greatest choice considering it was now raining heavily, but I didn’t have time to think. I jammed my bare feet into my boots and ran out the door, yelling at Andrew to grab the canoe. I began wading into the frigid water to retrieve those turkeys that were within reach. The cold water rushed over my boots and filled them. I sloshed around, urging turkeys to walk up the hill. Those that were too cold to move merely stood there shuddering, so I picked them up and carried them one by one back to their pen. Some of the turkeys were in too deep, so we had to canoe over to them. We took multiple canoe trips, flinging scared, wet birds into the center of the boat while trying to maintain our balance. One bird was roosting on top of the hoop house, impossible to reach. Once we retrieved all the birds we could find we quickly realized that only about half were there. It was dark, raining, our teeth were chattering and my feet and legs were numb. We could not see or hear any other turkeys.

Defeated, we went back inside to deal with our oncoming hypothermia. The fire was out, so we put on dry clothes and crawled under the covers. I was inconsolable. The thought of helpless turkeys, birds I had raised since they were two days old, shivering and drowning in the cold was too much to bear. There really was nothing else we could do at that point but wait and hope for the best. I certainly expected the worst.

After a fitful night filled with horrible dreams of drowned turkeys and restlessness, I awoke this morning to an amazing sight. The water had receded substantially in the night, and I saw turkeys walking inland from various parts of the farm. Although they sounded hoarse from spending the night in cold water, there were no other obvious signs of distress. I don’t know how they made it through the night, but apparently they are stronger than I thought. Last night in the midst of my meltdown I proclaimed that I would never raise turkeys again. Now I’m not so sure. These guys are badass. They are survivors. It’s a strange irony knowing that I will willfully end their lives this weekend, but I am proud that they will be consumed at feasts designed for reflection and thankfulness. Everyone who has ordered a turkey will be sent the link for this post. As you sit down to your Thanksgiving meal, I hope you will feel deep gratitude for these creatures that have given so much of themselves for us.

Now that the waters are once again receding, I have released the rest of the turkeys and the hens. They are wandering happily around acting as a kind of clean up crew, enjoying the worms and other delicious tidbits the flood dredged up. Their sounds of joy and discovery delight me, and while the logistics of this weekend are looming and our roads are still under water, somehow I know it will all be ok. And it’s all thanks to those pesky turkeys.

Canoeing during Flood #1. Thinking, “this is fun!”

Trumpeter swans enjoying Flood #2. Notice all the crops that survived this one?

Flood #3…the hoop house on the right is where the turkeys were originally hanging out.

Silage bales (fermenting hay) were floating everywhere. The owner’s teenage son had given some of them faces.

The turkeys in their pen on “the ark.” Pre-escape of course.

Hens locked inside on the left, sows on the right. Water got close but stayed out of their enclosures.

Pig Mountain. On the left is the blue covered pen where they had previously been snoozing.

The workstation. A lot of equipment was left out under here since this is normally a high point. Thankfully the barbed wire fences around the farm caught most of the stuff that floated off.

The inner Ark. Goats and sheep and two little pigs.

Perspective

Perspective is an interesting thing. Here on the farm we just finished running around frantically preparing for the second significant flood of the season. The first happened less than two weeks ago, and we just got all of the animals back outside and (mostly) organized before we had to get them all back up to high ground again. On our end this is serious business. We have to keep our animals safe, both for their well-being and to protect the significant investments we have made in them. While we are sitting here in our warm, dry house watching the waters rise around us, we are listening to the radio news about a devastating terror attack in Paris that has killed at least 120 innocent people. Earlier today my father-in-law picked up the cremated remains of the love of his life. While the daily grind is important and must be tended to, the larger events that orbit my life help keep me humble and focused on what matters most.

I remember a specific moment from my teenage years when I was complaining about something to my parents. I don’t remember what I was upset about, but I do remember being in tears and whining to my parents that they weren’t being “fair.” I’m sure I wanted to break curfew or something equally paramount to a 15 year old. My dad sat me down and rather gruffly described the teenage son of my mom’s friend who was dying of cancer. At the time this maddened me; why would he try to make me feel guilty for something that was out of my control? But over time this has had a serious impact on my life. I remember this conversation so many years later because it spoke truth to my heart. When difficult events in my life start to overwhelm me I try to focus on what I have to be thankful for, and I am always surprised by how much the scales tip in that direction. This is a humbling, powerful thought exercise I try to practice frequently.

Many of you read my tribute to my “mother-in-love” Nancy, and have probably guessed she passed away. She did so on October 28^th, in her home surrounded by family. She truly died the good death, a concept I have been interested in for some time. Many people in our society die in hospitals, connected to machines, and alone. I am so grateful that Nancy was able to go the way she wanted, and was overwhelmed with the emotional intensity that surrounded the event. Nancy was much loved, and a large circle of family surrounded her bed and prayed over her the night before she passed. The experience was unlike any I have had before, and it will be with me forever.

Those that lived with Nancy must constantly feel her loss. They laughed with her, cried with her, provided her with daily care, and were there to love her or offer support when she needed it. Her loss has undoubtedly left a large hole in their lives, and I imagine the struggle to move forward will be a long and difficult one. The grief is different for us. Being on the farm, with our busy daily lives, we don’t have constant thoughts of Nancy. This is both a blessing and a curse. We’re busy enough to push aside the grief and keep it in the abstract, but as Andrew complained the other day, “I don’t have time to grieve.” The grief is there though, and we must recognize it. I’ll find myself walking along at the farm, feeding chickens or tossing hay to goats when -BAM- I remember that she is gone and my eyes well up with tears.

Mostly though, I am comforted with fond thoughts of Nancy. The other morning I was standing at the kitchen sink with a mug of coffee in my hand, and the bright sunlight was radiating through the window directly into my face. This time of year the sun stays low in the sky, and the sunshine was warm and welcoming. I closed my eyes and imagined Nancy’s smile, and felt intensely peaceful. Every time Andrew hugs me (which thankfully is often), I feel Nancy’s embrace. Some day when we have children I know they will have Nancy’s eyes (a very strong trait in this family!), and hopefully her loving compassion. They will most certainly know her through our stories and photos, and their father’s love.

In my last post I eluded to my recent trip to India and Sri Lanka. So much has happened since then, it’s difficult for me to go back and write about the trip in detail. Instead I am posting a link to some of my favorite photos for you to enjoy. Experiencing cultures in far-flung places and glimpsing the lives of people who are far less fortunate than myself is another of my favorite thought exercises. Not only am I grateful for the experience of world travel, I am grateful for the dumb luck I have as a middle-class person living in a wealthy nation during a relatively peaceful time. I suppose this post is timely as we approach Thanksgiving, so I’ll leave you pondering: what do you have to be thankful for?

For the photos from my trip follow this link (you don’t need to have a facebook account to see them): https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.838499273715.1073741831.14400628&type=1&l=b5d4cdf294

For Nancy

A lot can happen in two months. Chickens grow, go to slaughter, and feed our neighbors. Farmer’s Markets end for the season. Turkeys grow (and grow!) and escape on the daily. Hogs are butchered and tucked away into freezers for nourishment all winter. Two lovely sows are purchased to begin our own hog breeding at the farm. The weather is changing, the leaves are falling, and the clouds are rolling in. A long visit to India and Sri Lanka happened, a trip that warrants its own post. But right here, right now…this one’s for Nancy.

Imagine you are hiking up a very tall peak. You huff and puff your way up, admiring the remarkable greenery along the way, feeling the fresh breeze on your face. You approach the top and peek over the ledge, and see a lake way down below. You bend down and pick up a smooth, cool pebble, wind up, and throw the pebble over. The pebble sails over the ledge with ease, and tumbles seemingly in slow motion until finally it breaks the surface of the water with an imperceptible sploosh. The ripple is so small from way up high you can’t make it out with your bare eyes. But you know it’s there, working it’s way out over the surface of the lake. Because of that action, you have changed the history of the lake. The breaking of the surface tension causes flies and bugs to scatter, disrupting a trout’s planned dinner. The ripple spreads and spreads, until it laps at the shore with barely perceptible motion. A small crab scuttles out of the way, and changes the direction it was headed. The pebble sinks to the bottom of the lake, where it slowly settles into the sediment.

Now imagine that each one of us is such a pebble, falling into the lake of time. Who or what it is that threw us over that ledge, be it God, Vishnu, Allah, cosmic stardust, the Powers that Be, or just dumb luck is not for me to say. What is known is that we are all set into motion. We all create a ripple in this small remote “lake” we call Earth, and every action we take affects every creature that comes into contact with our waves. And every one of us must finally settle at the bottom of that lake, where we eventually become a permanent part of the landscape. The ripple will fade, but the effects are permanent.

I am fortunate to have felt the gentle lapping of Nancy’s wave. I have dug my toes into the sand and felt her move my heart with her love. She has affected me profoundly. She has birthed and raised the man I love, a man who is more compassionate, loving, and sensitive than any other I’ve met. She has built a family dynamic with bonds so strong I was worried about breaking into the fold as Andrew and I planned our life together. I needn’t have worried. Nancy accepted me with open arms, words of love, and big hugs. She told me that she had been praying for my existence since the day Andrew was born, and she knew that I was the right woman for him as soon as she met me.

As many of you know, Nancy has been dealing with a cancer diagnosis for eight years. When I left for India in September, she had some good days and some bad, but was coasting along. When I returned home a month later, things had changed. Nancy is no longer able to walk. A new tumor in her spine is pressing on her nerves, causing immobility along with other physical problems. She is having trouble swallowing, and eats very little. Her pain is astronomical–far beyond what most of us can fathom. She is on high doses of pain medication, which causes her to slip in and out of awareness. Her voice is hoarse, so when she does speak you have to bend your ear down to her lips, and making out what she’s saying is difficult. She is having trouble breathing, and now has an oxygen tank for help.

No one knows how much time we have left with Nancy. The pebble is starting to settle, and it’s hard for us to let go. We try to come visit her as much as we can, and whenever we get to the house it is full to the brim with friends and family. The love that surrounds Nancy hangs thick in the air. The other night all of her children surrounded her in her bed, hugging, laughing, and remembering. I was fortunate to be included in this sacred circle, and know this moment will forever be an integral part of my life story.

As Nancy gets ready to depart this world, the rest of us will be left behind. She will be gone. There will be a huge hole in all of our hearts, and we will have to figure out how to fill them. We will stuff those holes full of memories, grasping onto the small details before they slip through the cracks forever. It will be hard, but it is what all people must go through when they lose someone they love. There is small comfort in that; knowing that we all must deal with such a tragedy. There are no free passes for any of us. None of us are special, yet each of us is exceptional.

The effects of Nancy’s life will persist long after she is gone. Those ripples have changed the history of the entire lake, and I’m just happy to stand on the shore with my toes in the water. No one knows how much time there is left, so as long as I can I’ll be standing here quietly, waiting for that wave to caress me just a little more before it finally fades into serenity.

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This Drought has Clout

You guys. It has been SO hot and SO dry this summer. It’s astronomically ridiculous. It’s all anyone can talk about around here, and not just the farmers. It started with us though, a curmudgeonly lot griping about the unrelenting heat while the sun sucked the moisture from our overworked bodies. Our office-dwelling friends and families loved the early summer; for once the sun was still shining happily for them when their weekends rolled around. Things have changed though. Everyone is running around trying to find plug-in air conditioner units. People are complaining. People are wilting. This is the Pacific Northwest after all, and we’re not cut out for this.

That same relentless sun that has us moping our foreheads has also sucked what little moisture remained in the land. With record low levels of rainfall this spring, our pastures are suffering and our vegetable farming friends are almost at crisis mode. Irrigation is being run non-stop, and drip lines are being moved around their crops all day long. Alice, one of the vegetable growers from One Leaf Farm who shares land with us, just told me their recent harvests are 50% less than normal due to loss. The lack of moisture has weakened the plants which then succumb to pest and weed pressure more readily. On the animal front we are constantly checking water levels, making mud wallows for pigs, and helplessly watching our chicks pant in the brooder. Today we are forecasted to reach 90 degrees, and around here that is just too damn hot.

I know I don’t live in California anymore, and that’s where the “real drought” is happening, but for some reason this feels different. I was raised in Arizona and California, so water conservation and drought have always been a part of life. I think this is the first time that my life has so directly revolved around the weather so I’m more aware of the change, perhaps. Also the spectrum is greater: we’re used to cold wet springs followed by short dry summers. Seasons are a real thing here, unlike in my previous home states, so this prolonged summer is a crazy outlier. For a good read and interviews with local vegetable growers about the drought, click here. Of course compared to California, we are lucky. We still have a pond we can pull water from, and our well hasn’t dried up. These things may change though, as they are predicting an El Niño year for the west coast. In California that means drenching rains. In the Northwest it means little rain or snow to replenish our rivers and reservoirs. Add to that the recent terrifyingly brilliant New Yorker article about how we’re doomed to suffer a catastrophic earthquake within the next fifty years…and I’m thinking maybe I’ll go join my sister in Maine! Just kidding. Kinda.

Other than the crazy weather, we’ve been grinding away trying to promote and sell our meat. We’ve been attending a couple farmers markets, and the chickens are a little slower to sell than I expected. Ditto on the restaurant front. We’ve given sample chickens to several reputable farm-to-table restaurants in Seattle, but so far it seems our chickens are a bit large for most chefs. Customers at the market are often unprepared to take home a whole frozen chicken. But I am having many new interested people join my mailing list, and am doing a lot of educating about our food system and why we do what we do the way we do it. Building a business and a presence takes time; in the meantime I’m doing a lot of networking and trying to find creative new ways to get our name out there!

Over the past couple months we’ve made friends with a wonderful photographer named Tom Marks who is based out of Seattle. He has come to the farm several times to shoot us for his portfolio, and the attached photos for this blog are from those trips. They give a good snapshot of what our daily grind looks like, and he has a wonderful eye. Please keep in mind these are taken a while ago. While I may look nice and chilly in a sweater and scarf, rest assured I’m melting in my chair, occasionally peeling my sticky arms off the table to wipe off the sweat. Cheers!

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A Trip Around the Sun

Things on the farm are chugging along at a steady clip, and we are just a little over a week away from our first chicken harvest. Last time I wrote we were stressing a bit about the timeline crunch since our power wasn’t installed yet. The good news is the poles are now in place! The less-than-good news is that they aren’t live yet, but we are confident they will be shortly. We are definitely approaching the 11^th hour, but I’m putting all of my energy into willing things to work out, so they will, right? I was on the phone with my sister the other day, and she has been dealing with the stress of working on a new house, hiring contractors, ripping up carpets, and taking care of her baby. She was getting pretty worked up, and then she had a revelation. She told me that instead of a “game face” she has adopted a “Maine face.” She said everyone in Maine is so doggone nice that things just always work out in the end because people help each other out. I like this philosophy a lot! I’m going to work on my “farm face.” Everything on the farm always works out one way or another, and we’ve become quite adept at flying by the seat of our pants. Especially when they’re Carhartts.

Last Friday I celebrated my 31^st birthday. For some reason 31 feels a lot older to me than 30 did. I guess because it seems like I’m not more solidly in my thirties, rather than just teetering on the edge, waiting to be pushed back into my twenties by a strong breeze. I’m not actually worried about aging, I think I become more of myself the older I become. The essential “me-ness” has always been there, but it becomes more bold and complex with age. Just like wine, or cheese! And really what’s better than that? My dad recently suggested I write down what a “day in the life” is like for me, and that people might be interested in knowing what I do on the day-to-day level. I think my birthday is probably a great place to start, since it was such an awesome day. Here’s how it all went down.

Andrew was scheduled to work at his concrete job that day, but didn’t have to be in until 10, so we spent the morning together drinking coffee and enjoying local smoked salmon with farm-fresh poached eggs and chives. Then we took a stroll out to the goats so I could visit with my favorite kids. There is a small baby who is a slow developer and he’s very sweet and cuddly. I can pick him up and cradle him and he just nibbles on my shirt contentedly. Then we walked around the rest of the farm and visited the chicks, and pigs and carried out our various chores (feeding chicks, cleaning waterers out, checking the brooder temperature, chucking bread to the pigs, giving them milk, collecting eggs, feeding hens).

Then I took a very special shower. I usually only shower once a week or so (don’t judge!), and this time I had a brand new bar of homemade poppy seed soap from one of my customers, and a brand new razor I ordered from Harry’s. Nothing like getting razor blades in your mailbox to keep things exciting, hah. I also made a new leave-in conditioner, which helped tame my “no-poo” hair. If you’re not familiar, do a google search and you’ll see lots of people have jumped on the “no-poo” bandwagon. Instead of shampoo I use baking soda, and then rinse it out with apple cider vinegar. It gives me great volume and I love how cheap and natural it is, but tangles are an issue. This is where my new leave-in conditioner came in! Two parts water, one part jojoba oil, and a few drops of peppermint essential oil and I was a shiny new birthday girl! When you live a “simple life” like we do, it’s very easy to get excited about the little things!

After my shower I went to Costco with my friend and her three-year-old son. Costco is like a once-every-four-years event for me, but I needed a plastic folding table for the farmer’s market (starting June 20!!!), so Bri took me with her. Costco on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend is not a good idea. Cart maneuvering felt like being on the 5 freeway outside of Los Angeles, But we had fun with each other and little Elliott says the most hilarious things. He even asked his mom if his dumdum sucker was gluten and dairy free before offering me a lick. What a sweetheart!

Back at the farm we had our second visit from an aerial drone. The first visit upset me a lot, but this second one was great because I got the binoculars out and saw it go back home. Now at least I know where it lives, so if I feel so inclined I can stop by and very politely ask that they respect our privacy! I don’t mind when people come over and ask to walk around, take pictures, and enjoy the farm. But just having this thing flying in overhead and hovering above us and our animals made me feel leery. We have contemplated shooting it down, but after checking the laws it seems like this is not really an acceptable option. Although I certainly can’t help it if it happens to come over during target practice…

Later that afternoon I had the door to the house open while I was washing dishes, and a couple barn swallows flew in to check it out. They do this a lot this time of year, but this time one got confused and went for the window. I was able to catch him and release him, and it was pretty cool to have one of these lightning fast little creatures be still in my hand. Birthday power!

When Andrew came home we went to the winery (Covington Cellars: GO THERE!!!!) where I wash dishes for dinner. The chefs and I have become good friends, and they prepared an entire six-course, off-menu dinner full of Micha-friendly items. My favorites were bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with Marcona almonds, spicy prawns, artichoke and smoked salmon deviled eggs, and homemade hummus with amazing gluten free bread. They even gave me gifts including homemade sugar scrub. Now when I shower the combination of baking soda shampoo, poppy seed soap, coconut oil for shaving, and this sugar scrub (all while standing in what is essentially a metal pan), makes me feel like I’m baking a cake!

Next up Andrew and I went bowling, where we nursed bad cocktails while I trounced him pretty handily. Can you name a better way of making yourself feel exceptionally special on your birthday than by beating your husband at competitive sports? I sure can’t!

Unfortunately there is some less happy news to report. My grandmother, with whom (faithful readers will remember) I am very close, recently suffered a stroke event. While she is physically still capable, and certainly still astoundingly lucid for a 91 year old, she has lost some small part of herself. She tires much more easily, loses occasional words, and is struggling with the sensation of mental fogginess. At her age this is nothing unique, but for her (and us) it feels so. The real clincher for me in recognizing that things have changed was that she didn’t call me on my birthday. I was able to get ahold of her the next day, and she wished me a happy birthday, so I know her memory is still mostly intact. But that small little blip was enough to make me worry. At least I know she is in a wonderful home with lots of friends and caretakers nearby, which is a relief. And I’m so grateful I got to go visit her a couple months ago when she was still in top-form. She even took me to the opera!

The other bad news is that my mother-in-law’s cancer is progressing more rapidly than we expected. The new chemo drugs her doctors were excited about don’t seem to be doing a good job at slowing her tumor growth. Nancy doesn’t let news like this slow her down much; in fact she is currently on vacation in Cabo with her husband and friends! But it is hard for all of us to see her in so much pain and discomfort. She has to wear a back brace for some broken vertebrae (her bones are very weak due to the cancer, and then her car was hit by a drunk driver in an accident a few months ago).

As my birthdays come and go I witness the people I love also get older, have babies, mature, age, and head towards death. It’s easy to recognize the changes that occur in others, and sometimes it feels like I’m idling standing in place while the world whirls around me. Yet I must acknowledge the changes that are happening within myself physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My wine and cheese analogy really isn’t that far off; the changes that occur are subtle if you take a nibble or sip every couple of weeks. But if you take 21-year-old Micha and compare her to 31-year-old Micha, boy what a difference a decade makes!