Brutus, one of my oldest and sweetest sheep, son of Paula, my oldest ewe.
Soon, we will lamb again. Shearing March 31.

March 9, 2008 – Cold, windy, hard ice everywhere. Goat water frozen, we had to dig out another heater/bucket and haul it back and forth. Is this March? Cow water lines open, a miracle. Thanks to Don Cavna for the great water coil system that got us through the winter. There is a relentlessness to this winter that is unique in my time. Snow, ice, cold, one after the other since Thanksgiving. That was a dark week, much brighter now. Ran into an old friend last night, we had drifted apart, and will get back together. Nice.
  It is a peaceful morning. Reading, meditating, Paula is reading the paper by the fire, coffee, dogs strewn about, dozing, I am about to read the introduction to her book, which is about the choices children make for their elderly parents. It is a time of expectation and opportunity. Visited with Lulu and Fanny. Took the dogs for a walk in the woods – no camera, just waling. Time of listening, waiting. Spring, of course, a cliche, but a nice one. Spiritual opportunities, deepening friendships, growth, change, fiasco, bliss. Photos and writing. Need quiet, and am building that into my days now, better than before Posting Hospice Journal this morning, later. Going on a Hospice visit with Lenore and Izzy later – nursing home visit, Alzheimer’s Dementia patients, the most difficult for me, thus the most important.

  Becky send me the poem, “The Hound of Heaven,” by Francis Thompson, and it is quite beautiful. I may read it to Helen later today.

  First verse:
 
    “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
     I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
     I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
       Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
     I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
        Up vistaed hopes I sped;
        And shot, precipitated,
     Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
     From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
         But with unhurrying chase,
         And unperturbed pace,
      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
         They beat – and a Voice beat
         More instant than the Feet –
    “All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”

   Neat poem. I wrote some poetry earlier this year, when I was unhappy, and can’t write any now. Photos are my thing, anyway, and narrative writing. Poems are for people like Mary Kellogg.
  Anyway, it promises to be a sweet and reflective Sunday.

March