Day: June 22, 2012

This weekend, The Pig Barn Art Gallery at Bedlam Farm will offer its farewell to our farm, “Anointing The Goddess.” For us, a beginning, not an end, a temple on the arduous, thrilling, defining Hero’s Journey that both of us have been on, first separately, now together. There is the art show, which is exciting enough.

But is is more than that. It is our farewell to Bedlam Farm and it is yours, whether you are here or not. Maria’s evolution has been as poignant as it is spectacular, a soaring start whose many and long suppressed gifts will be on display Saturday and Sunday, from 11 to 4.

For me, there are barely words to describe the waterfall of emotions I am feeling. What the farm has meant to me. The journey of my life that led me right here. The change, loss, gain, sorrows and joy all jumbled together. What a creative place, what a wellspring for me. A part of me never wants to leave. A part of me knows I have to. My life is not about standing still. Our lives together demand our own place, put together by the two us. So many images come to mind. That awful winter. Rose and the sheep. Orson. Carol the donkey. Farmers, photography, divorce, loneliness and an awful break down that nearly ended me. I am on the other path now. I wanted love and found it. I wanted the artist inside of me to try and come out, so it has begun. This art show is an affirmation of me, of her, of us, of you. We have all been on this trip together and I have shared it.

For me the weekend is a farewell – my farewell to the farm I bought in 2003 – and a celebration. New things, many of them here to see – Simon, Lenore, the sheep, and now, Red. We will do some short demos this week, we are both ready. I’m not sure the sheep are. And it is the start of many new things. My work continues. My writing continues. The animals remain. My photography continues. The blog continues, all at the New Bedlam Farm. A new trip, a new path. Wow. So glad I am not going the other way, hunkering down, freezing in place, digging in, downsizing. An early kind of death for me, to succumb to the idea that our lives must shrink as we move through life.

I took some photos tonight of Maria who has finally hung her art show. They are radiant, I think, capturing her sweetness, energy, heart, creativity and presence. I’ll put an album up on Facebook. I welcome those of you who are coming to the farewell Pig Barn Art Gallery show. Those of you who can’t come will not be forgotten. I will share the experience with you on the blog, in words and photos. Bless you all. For me, the weekend is a bit  wet smooch to the world’s most magical farm.

I get emotion when I see this barn, especially in the dusk light. Want to cry sometimes, I don’t know why. It seems the barn wanted to speak in black and white. Captured the emotion of it for me.

I pulled over to take a photo of the aluminum barn, one of my favorite’s and a big stinky, rumbling old Chevy pulled up with two good old boys in it. They smiled. “Sell your farm yet?,” they asked. No, I said. I knew I didn’t know them, but I also knew that didn’t matter. They knew me.

“Spend a lot of money on this barns didja?,” said Bob, smiling a bit. Yes, I said, I sure did. “You’ll never get it back,” they said. “No, I sure won’t.”

“Moving into Florence’s place?” Yes,  I said. “Knew her all her life,” he said. “Used to go shoot woodchucks for her back in the day?”

“Really?,” I said. “That’s what you do?” I had not expected that from these two ruddy, wrinkled and fit old men.

Yes, said Bob, introducing Tom. We go shoot woodchucks for farmers. Keep tractors from falling into holes, crops being damaged. Woodchucks can be wicked destructive.” Bob told me in great detail how they put out bait, brought beer, sat for hours in the sun or in blinds with their rifles and scopes waiting for the chucks to come out, and then pick them off one by one. Got $15 per chuck, he said. Or sometimes, flat fee if it’s good enough.

“You  busy?” I asked. “Busy enough,” he said. “We’re booked up through mid-July. Not easy clearing out these big fields, the chucks can be pretty clever.

I had not thought of woodchucks as clever, but Bob persuaded me that they were. Not easy work, he said. Everybody thinks we just sit around and drink beer, but it is much more complicated than that. Yessir, said the man driving, introducing himself as Bob. They told me they were a bit off of the grid, tax-wise and all. Yessir, I said, I bet. But they’d been doing it for years, and never been laid off or out of work. And they both said, they loved what they do. “No benefits,” he said, “but we stay healthy.” I bet, I said.

Well, Bob wished me luck, game me his card in case I had a woodchuck problem at either place, shook my hand and drove off. I love living here.

In the morning, Red and I walk around the farm. He doesn’t really know how to take walks. He walks by my knee, looking for sheep. He is getting it. He wanders off a bit and sniffs the grass, coming back and then setting out again. Small steps.

We had the second Hubbard Hall Writer’s Workshop last night and it was a wonderful experience for me – some great ideas bubbling up from very focused and committed people. Mostly, we had to get past the usual stuff about people feeling worthless about themselves and their work, part of our culture, I think, that spreads like an infection. People seem to need to feel that only the very few can be creative in the same way that people need to feel that dogs can speak and think the way we do.

For me, part of the awakening of any creative person is seeing that this is not so. None of these people are dumb, worthless or lack creativity. Why do they think so? To be creative, this idea must be purged. There are no wannabees, people who create and people who don’t.  One of the great ideas touched my heart, and was from Christine Glade, who also happens to be my photo instructor. Like me, she believes buildings speak and she hears their stories in her head and takes photos of them. A great story for our book on rural life. I talk to buildings all the time, and they talk to me, like this milkhouse in my back yard that I often visit at dawn. I close my eyes, it tells me stories of people, places, other times, loss and commerce and family life. Thanks for listening to me, it says. I hear you too.