Day: July 17, 2012

When the outside thermometer hit 100 degrees, I thought of the old sheep out in the barnyard. This heat is rough on me, and I felt for them. I went out to check on the water and brought my camera. I know that to capture photos like these, you cannot simply walk out to the sheep and shoot. They won’t sit still for that. I am learning to be thoughtful about my photos, and George Forss has taught me much about that. But this was different.

I have been going outside two or three times a day in the heat to get the sheep comfortable with me and the camera, edging closer each time. When I get too close, they jump up. Sometimes a noise stirs them. The sun was blistering today, and I thought if I want to see the sheep and capture the feeling of these old ones, spending their last summer here on grass, I had to be one. This afternoon was so still. The chickens were hiding under a lilac bush, taking shade. The barn cats were asleep in the barn. The dogs were inside the house, gulping water, being still.

I sat there for an hour, and at first they got up, and then they began to forget me, accept me and position themselves naturally. I lay down on the ground and sat still. I was sweating so profusely that I couldn’t see the viewfinder and I didn’t want to move and get a towel so I put the camera on automatic and was shooting blind. Then I just started to roll around and shoot, one at a time. I moved one or two feet, then stopped. I was completely accepted, more than before.  I was rewarded, I think, for this. In my head, I became a sheep. Maybe this is why they saw me as one. I understand being still against the heat, conserving myself, although I wished for the covering they had. Something to put between me and that blinding sun.

Yet I loved every minute of it. I would not have wished to be anywhere else, not even cool.

None of them moved away from me this time, even though I saw they were all watching me. He is a sheep, I think they have concluded. No need to run. He hasn’t brought his little red dog. He is no danger.  I got in sync with their slow and even breathing. Their incredible stillness. Their powerful and instinctive sense of community. The smell. The sound of the flies, buzzing ominously in their clouds.  Their acceptance of their circumstance. I see that photography is a physical art. You can’t just point things. You have to think, move,  know what you are shooting, sometimes become what you are shooting. I was dizzy and soaked when I got up. I lay down in an air-conditioned bedroom but couldn’t be still until I looked at my photos. They were earned, and I was pleased. To see one, be one. The old sheep are teaching me their old sheep lessons.

Photo album on Facebook.

Shirley Partridge and the other chickens love their chicken door. Pop in and out of it all day. I was waiting.

In my time with animals, I have never seen anything as horrible as Simon when we first saw him in the pasture of Jessica Barrett, our town’s animal control officer. She and the State Police had removed Simon from the farm where he lay dying and starving in freezing water, charging his owner with animal neglect.

Terms like “abuse” or “neglect” don’t seem adequate to Simon’s condition. His hooves had grown out nearly a foot, his skin was black with rain rot, his legs misshapen, his teeth implanted into his jaw, his ribs sticking out in an almost skeletal way. Simon is in his second year with us, and as rough as his story was, it is now a sparkling jewel, a happy story.

Some people believe a farm is the way to a perfect life, just as some believe we can offer animals paradise  and eternal life, even as we struggle. On the farm, there is joy and sorrow, life and death, success and disappointment. Like in life. The test of a good life is not that it is free of struggle and grief and loss, rather in the way we choose to handle it.

I am happy to tell you that Simon has a very good life. He is in nearly perfect health, except for some work still to be done on his legs. His coat is shiny. After the donkey-guzzling of the first spring grass, he is in good weight. His eyes are bright and clear. He and Lulu and Fanny are inseparable. I read donkey stories to him, still, and am still training him to halter walk with me. Maria and I visit Simon and the other donkeys several times a day. I sing to him, nuzzle his nose, and we brush him, give him carrots, apples, cookies. He brays and comes running when he sees us, and why not? He is no fool. He loves attention, loves children, loves to be touched.

He has admirers all over the world and many girlfriends, although Red is closing on the farm’s best chick magnet. Simon epitomizes the wonderful drama of the donkey, independent, smart and often misused creatures. Humans have a sad record with donkeys, perhaps because they are so independent-minded. Everything has to be their own idea. I am working on a book about Simon, and I can’t wait to get started on it. But I wanted to pause in the madcap pace of things around here and let you know that Simon is happy, well and has a very good life. His is nothing but a happy story. It is wonderful to be able to present happy stories when so many bad ones are sold to us all day as news. This one is free and true.

I think the closing will take all the rest of my bank account. Checks flying all over the place.  We will own the New Bedlam Farm at 3 p.m. Thursday. We are excited. Terrified also. Sometimes you just have to let it fly. Not a spiritual time, although it is a spiritual opportunity.

One of the many nice things about the New Bedlam Farm is that is well situated for us to do some of the things we have come to love – show Red off with the sheep, give Maria a chance to sell her art and the art of the artists she loves. I suggested that if we get into the new place in the Fall – Bedlam Farm isn’t sold yet and we won’t move fully until it is – it might be fun to schedule some times when I will work with Red and the sheep right next to the farmhouse. Maria can gather some of her artists and sell some art.

That would be a great use of the new place. Red should be seen – it is important. And art should be made and sold. Maria loved the idea of devoting some weekend mornings to that – informal gatherings at the New Bedlam Farm.

Beyond that, I plan to open up new pastures, dig out hiking trails, walk the dogs in the woods,  walk with Simon, take care of Rocky,  love my new neighbors, sit on the porch and bullshit and watch the trucks flying bye. And take lots of new photos, write many books and e-books and by the way – cable is available in the new place! More of everything, poor people.

I woke up at 2 a.m. this morning, my mind racing with closing details – home insurance, utilities, calls to the lawyer, cashier’s checks, taking the car in for repairs, binders, passwords and codes,  how to pay for two mortgages, getting some water to Rocky on this hot day, new electrical lines, meeting with the fence builder.

I got up to read – it is stifling here today – and I read three messages, early in the morning, and each one touched my heart and lifted me up and I will share them with you.

– Betty Barbour wrote from Worthington, Maine to tell me that a package arrived from Amazon for her husband Dick this week and she asked him what it was, and he said “it’s a Kindle. I got it so I can read Jon Katz’s new book, which is in electronic format only.” Betty thanked me. I thank her and Dick.

– Sandy wrote from Tennessee she has made some changes in her life as well and many people have doubted and questioned her. She left “secure” work for a new life.  “The future is what you make it,” she wrote. “It’s not always easy or fun but should be fulfilling and wonderful when you follow your heart. Have fun with it.” You too, Sandy.

–  Sue Merrill, who is 73 and reads this blog brings her flowers to market every weekend – she also does weddings and events with the help of her husband and son –  at the South Carolina Market Place – was dismantling her tent when she saw a beautiful red border collie. “I thought I was seeing ‘Red,’ she wrote. “I rushed over to inquire about this beautiful dog and was told by Paul that he is the son of  your Red. I just couldn’t believe it. Paula told me she worked with Karen Thompson and knows my blog well. The dog’s name is “Flex.” She was on Cloud 9 for the rest of the day. Even Red’s sons and daughters are famous.

“It is a small world and everyday I am so grateful to plug into Bedlam Farm Journal and become inspired by your beautiful essays, poems and photography. So thank you. Thank you from my heart. You will do wondrous and beautiful new things at your new Bedlam Farm with Maria and your devoted animals. I eagerly await each new adventure. With love, Sue Merrill.”

It is a small world, Karen Thompson e-mailed me later. Flex was one of Red’s 70 children. He is a lover and worker.

I was so moved by these messages of the heart. To get messages like that in the dark of night from Tennessee, Maine, South Carolina helped me shed the cares and worries of the mundane world and remember what is important, why I am here, what love means, what I am about. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart and imagine the beautiful and wondrous things coming to your lives as well.

You lift my heart.