Day: February 19, 2016

Ed Gulley has has a life many might call hard. He has suffered a hard childhood,  struggle, loss, tragedy. He has worked hard every day of his life, suffered many hardships, never pitied himself.

He does not speak poorly of his life, he is blessed with a spirit of hope and optimism. He believes he can and will do what he set out to go. He understands that the only way one can become a human being it through relationships with other human beings, and other living things – animals and the earth.

Joseph Campbell wrote that if you can see the path ahead of you, it isn’t yours.

Wendell Berry put it differently: “It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

Ed wants to bring forth sparks, to engage the world in a dialogue about his life and values. He is an artist, and the artist inside of him is demanding to come out. Ed is listening, he has not closed off that part of himself. He believes his life is important, the travails of life as not shaken that belief in him.

Ed concedes that he has no idea where his life is about to take him, he is preparing to sing, he is the impeded stream.

Both of these gifted prophets – Campbell and Berry – are saying the same thing. The mind that is not puzzled is not alive, is not engaged. If you no longer know which way to go, or where you are going, then the journey begins. If you are not afraid of the dark and mysterious abyss that lies in front of all of us, then your soul has already died.

If you do not know fear, you are blind. If you surrender to fear, you have died for the first time.

They are afraid of us, I think, because they depend on us to be too frightened to see the path and set out on it, their world depends on our trembling in fear and doing what is expected of us.They want us to stay off the path. Sacred are those who bring forth sparks.

Ed Gulley is a dairy farmer, as was father. He is in his 60’s, many farmers his age are planning to sell their cows and get to Florida, or they are just wearing out, maybe going under, thinking of selling out to a big and hungry corporate farm, or sub-dividing their property for realtors. In a sense, Ed is a dinosaur, one of those tough old birds they talk about at the feed store. But he is writing a new story for himself now, he is  defying the expectations others may have of him.

Like most farmers, Ed lived a life centered around brutal and endless work and around family. He is a strong and powerful man, he pulls calves out of cows, chops his own wood, takes tractors apart and puts them back together, knows every part of a machine or a milking cow. The government and the economists have decreed that Ed and the other small farmers of America are no longer efficient or  relevant in the new economy, they are expected to accept reality and go away. Ed is just getting started.

His body is aching, his hands are numb, his legs getting sore. He is ready for the journey to begin. Like most farmers, he knows little about technology and would rather run naked in a snowstorm that go on Facebook. But he has put the tools together to begin his own blog, show off his art, tell his story. He has enrolled in a writing class, his battered fingers can no longer type but his soul is on fire, and Carol, his wife, will see to it that his words will live.

He doesn’t have to be told that his stories are important, he already knows. His new blog is up. And I can tell you that just a few months ago, Ed Gulley had no idea what a blog was.

Ed’s got three posts up already, the kid can write. His newest entry is about Sadie, his goat in heat, she is hanging around with the steers to see if she can get some action, so far no takers. You won’t read this stuff anywhere else. Ed Intuitively grasps the idea of the blog: post often, tell stories, be honest.

He is a biblical figure, I think. He is a figure out of the Kabbalah. There, God tells us that stories are sparks of holiness, they intermingle with everything in the world, even inanimate objects. They are food for the soul. Those of us who dare to be creative are commanded to bring forth holy sparks.

We do not live by bread alone, or by money alone, life is not just the physical but the spiritual – the holy sparks, springing from our souls and minds.

Blessed are the story-tellers, the ancients believed they spring from the mouth of God.

 

Maria is working on calming Chloe down at feeding time, she stomps her hooves on the ground, bites the fence, bangs into the gate. She is impatient. Maria stands still when she starts to stomp, and just waits for her to calm down. When she is calm for a few minutes, she goes to the gate. It’s working.

I’ve spent a lot of time on farms, taking photos and taking to farmers, but I realized this week that I’ve never milked the cows. I asked Ed Gulley if I could come by and learn how to milk the cows, and he said sure, I’m going over there Saturday afternoon for the second milking and I’ll help Ed and do some milking myself and write about it.

I’m excited, I’ve always see this as one of those things other people do but not me, but since I love writing about small family farms I ought to learn more from the inside out. My friendship with Ed gives me a wonderful opportunity to learn a bit more about this hard and rich life.

So I’m going to the Gulley’s for the 6:30 p.m. Saturday milking. I’ll milk some cows. And take some photos of course. More lalter.

Chloe, like many ponies, is a bit of a brat sometimes. In the morning, when we get up, she paws the ground, snorts and bangs into the fence, walks in circles, gnaws on the gate. We didn’t like it, she could damage something and she seems too  excited. We were inadvertently sending her the wrong message, reinforcing the behavior we didn’t want by giving her a treat or bringing her hay while she was being obnoxious.

We woke up to this. We decided to use some of our dog training techniques and  work with her. What we do is walk to the gate, if she is stomping or banging into things, we just stop and talk to one another.

We don’t move until she is quiet for a full minute or two. When it is clear that she is still, we walk to the fence. The first couple of days she kept stomping, today, she stomped a bit, then stood still, watching us. She may be a brat, but she is a very smart pony, and like most equines, she is intuitive. She is also quite affectionate, she pays close attention to us.

She knows what we want and is figuring out that in order to get feed or get attention, she has to be calm and still.

This is an important element in dog training also. We often speak to them at the wrong times, when they are doing something wrong, but not at the right time, when they are doing what we want. We end up reinforcing the behaviors we don’t want – we were shouting to Chloe to be quiet, which is silly – and then got our heads straight and began reinforcing the behavior we don’t want. It is working out. There is already a big difference.

My Post Office Box (P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816) continues to be a source of inspiration, comfort and love for me, it has become such a cherished ritual in my life.  There are letters waiting for me there every day, sometimes small boxes filled with fabric for Maria.This morning, Maria and I sat down to read some letters. She was in tears, I was close. I am grateful for this daily connection to goodness, humanity and community.

The first letter was anonymous, it was in a plain envelope and and hand-written (above) on white lined paper. “Dear Jon,” the author wrote, “your blog is a ray of hope and sunshine, every day. Thank you for your insight and your wit, for your clear eyes and full heart. This is my voluntary contribution for 2016. A Long Time Reader…”

Thank you back, that is a humbling message to get.

Outside of my life, I am not blind to the anger and hatred  and division often raging in the world, it is so sad and disturbing. Even Pope Francis can’t seem to avoid being a target of it. To get these messages, to be mindful of the steps people have to take to get their money (many $5 and $10 bills), write and send their letters, lick the envelope. I timed it today, it takes three seconds to write a cruel or angry message on Facebook, it takes a few minutes to write a letter, put it in an envelope, wrap some dollars in paper, get it to the mailbox or the post office.

Perhaps that is the difference.

The letters are not easy or instant, they take thought and work.

They are a quilt, a tapestry of the good in people, of their patience and their generosity of spirit.

Could you imagine, dear readers, what this means to me – to us – sitting here on this beautiful cold winter morning with a cup of tea and Maria, feeling the connection and appreciation of so many people from so far away? Can you imagine, good reader, what this would mean to any writer, who lives for this with his words?

A woman from Oregon sent Maria a $10 bill so she could buy a cup of coffee at the Round House Cafe? “Take Jon if you wish, or one of the good witches,” she suggested.

Deb Bates wrote me from a small town in South Caroline. “I started this card at Thanksgiving time, then I messed up the envelope and didn’t send it ‘cuz’ it wasn’t “perfect.” I am thankful each day for the ability to read your words and see the awesome pictures.  You’re a treasure to me and that’s why (for the lst time since I was 10 years old and sent Donny Osmond some cash) I am sending $ through the mail. And there was $25 inside.

It felt like a million to me, and it marks the first time I have ever been compared to Donny Osmond. Thanks, Deb,  you are a treasure to me. Your message was beyond perfect.

The messages are often simple and brief, many are longer, typed out or hand-written over several pages. There are all kinds of cards, photos, images.  I feel I know these people, it is as if I am sitting here having coffee with them, which is the same way they feel about me, and what a great compliment that is.

In careful handwriting, Fred send me a $5 bill and message: “Love your photos and e-mail.” Enough said.I had the feeling this was a hard-earned letter and hard-earned money.

It is not, of course, necessary to send me money, the letters are quite a gift. Letters are not e-mails, they are not Facebook messages, they can never be replaced by them any more than books can be completely replaced by e-books. We change, we grow, we learn, but we are best when we connect with one another on a human and personal level. That is something we all need, and I think I had mourned it and given up on it until my Post Office Box.

That is what we need, that is what we seek, that is what we can give. My letter writers are generous to send me money, but their true gifts come from their good hearts and souls. They make me feel worthwhile, they make me feel what I do is worthwhile, they tell me that there must be parts of me that are good to deserve to get messages like this.

(P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816).