I don’t have the highest regard for men these days, they are drawn to violence, are perpetually arguing and blustering and telling women how to live their lives. Strut, however – he does a great deal of posturing and huffing – can be useful. He keeps the hens away from the road, circles them protectively and each evening, climbs on the rung to the roost and starts crowing, the call to end their long and industrious day. Strut hops up, clucks a bit and is the first in. The hens follow. We close the door and keep them safe. Strut is a bit of a preener, a tad pompous I think, but on the whole a useful kind of man.
I have an understanding with all of the animals on the farm. If they pose for photos, sit still for the camera, their lives will be filled with food, treats, fresh water and safe shelter. So far, so good. Every animal who comes her seems to figure this out – Red, Flo, and even the chickens, who suddenly love to gather for family portraits. Some of this is due to Strut, a diligent rooster who keeps everybody close and safe. I enjoyed taking this family portrait.
The Princess Lenore sits on her sofa underneath a portrait of her painted by the Woodstock artist Ellie Steffens. This is where she rests and dreams of disgusting things to eat, and of people to greet and love. This is her palace, her realm. No human or dog is allowed on this sofa, it is her gathering place.
I think of Simon as the Crown Prince of Bedlam Farm, the King of the Hill, Mr. Studly. We hear his bray all day – the neighbors do, also. He can be grumpy. Simon is not into sharing, he chases Lulu and Fanny away from his side of the feeder and will not put up with any sheep poaching his food. He is grumpy around dogs, but is easy with Red now, snorting at him but leaving him alone. Simon demands attention, and if he doesn’t get some, he will let off a bray that shakes the rooftop and echoes through the fields.
Simon is punctual. At 7 a.m. and 3 p.m., he is at his feeder, and he is visibly annoyed if the hay is not there ahead of him. Simon is a lover. He is gelded, but doesn’t know it, and we often see him chasing Lulu or Fanny around. He is usually kicked in the head for his troubles, but this does not seem to bother him or certainly not deter him. He likes to have an apple or a cookie every now and then, but is very happy to be brushed by me or Maria. He likes to have his nose rubbed and his ears also. Simon is a lot of personality, a major presence here. I love him quite a bit.
I am not a Christian (sometimes I think I might be), but I love the idea of Resurrection and rebirth, I think it is one of the most powerful ideas in all of faith, obscured too often by the fear, obligation and greed that swirl around us. This weekend I intend, though my writing and photography and the love in my life, to celebrate the idea of my own resurrection. More than a decade ago, I bought a cabin on the top of a mountain five or six miles from where I now live, and I lived there for a year and studied the writings of Thomas Merton and wrote “Running To The Mountain.” I was approaching 50, and I wanted to pause and consider my life, especially the rest of my life. Where was I going? What did I wish to be? Who did I wish to be?
This time on the mountain left with with several powerful ideas that were to change my life. One was that a meaningful life without faith was not possible. The other was that crisis and mystery were just around the corner, always. When you consider your life, it is sometimes impossible not to change it. And so I did, in ways I could not have imagined. Someone who was disappointed with me told me recently that I was not the man I used to be, and I wanted to weep for joy when I heard that. I hope not. I have worked hard not to be. I did not foresee the pain and joy of my resurrection, the challenge and change, the process that never ends, the rewards and frustrations, the great depth and power of this experience. It led me away from my life and family, my marriage, my work at the time, my whole idea of self. It led me to Maria, Bedlam Farm, hospice work, a deepening life in nature and with animals, a rebirth of my own soul and spirit. It led me to love and photography, Simon and Rose, Red and Izzy.
Joseph Campbell called it the hero journey, I call it the act of rebirth. I thought about how I wished to spend the rest of my life, and I did not know how difficult or rewarding or meaningful that would be, Izzy and I guiding some wonderful spirits out of this world, mornings on hilltops, walking sheep through the woods with Rose. I wanted love more than anything, I think, and there was no greater affirmation of my own resurrection than living a life with love. To live is not just to be happy and secure, it is to find meaning, to overcome challenge and live with pain and loss too. It is, all of it, a brew. Thoreau was right, you can not live a life in the expectations of others. You must find it in your own heart and spirit and soul. So I come to you reborn this weekend, still in the midst of my own resurrection, my life filled with meaning and faith. This is what I want to write about this Easter weekend, as the new Spring approaches, my garden waits for me.
Crisis and mystery just around the corner, always.
