I brought Rocky his apple today, in the early afternoon sun. When I first used to pull into the driveway, Rocky would run and hide behind his barn. Now, even before I get out of the car, he comes running the fence closest to the car engine. I climb into the pasture – Rocky is known to have nipped a few people, but I have not seen that. And I speak to him, so he can locate me, as he is blind and more than 30 years old.
I sometimes speak to him in stories or poems, as today:
“Rocky, it’s Jon, and I’m here again.
I’ve come to bring you our apple,
and say hello.
You seem very content in your pasture, running from the grain pan
to the stream and to the fresh hay you get every day,
it is always nice to see you here. You teach me acceptance.”
And usually, by this time, Rocky has located me, his nose and head
out and I let him touch the apple and then drop it on the ground
below his head, and he puts his nose down, finds it
and breaks it into two or three pieces, and then chews it carefully.
The Hound of Love needs rest, as loving everything in the world and eating everything in the world is tiring. Lenore sows a sea of smiles wherever she goes, and while love is out of vogue, it is important work and nobody does it better than she does. Smile. The Hound Of Love loves you, and will lift your spirits.
Since we decided to sell Bedlam Farm in December, a lot of people have asked me why we are moving, and especially, why I want to move, since the farm has been so important in my life and photography and work (and love.) These are, I think, fair questions (as opposed to inquiries about my trash) and I have thought a lot about good answers.
It was Thomas Merton who introduced me to the idea of the importance of rebirth in a meaningful life, almost as a ritual. He wrote that people need to step back and out of the the daily pattern of life – meditation, walks, hikes, sofas in the basement – and consider their lives. Since then, I have studied – lived – ideas relating to awakening, rebirth and renewal. Thoreau, Campbell, Locke, Arendt. Aquinas. The Kabbalah.
I believe in these ideas, very much, although I did not know how difficult they would be, how much work and experimentation and thought they require, how stubborn is fear, anger and cynicism. I think it is time for me to give birth to myself again, in some ways. I want to be a writer, and a photographer. But there is a “we” now, not just a “me.” That is a profound change. I have found my partner in life and we want to make a home together. I would like a life that offers me new and different opportunities to creative. I do not see aging as the end of life, but as a beginning. I always wince when people mention “our age,” as I wonder just what age they mean.
So one reason I want to move is to live in a home that Maria and I choose together. Our place. Although Maria loves her Studio Barn, she also loves the notion of independence and self-sufficiency. We both want the same thing, to prepare and work on a home together. This home has different meanings for each of us. I expect it will be my last home in this life. That is my intention. I am older than Maria. We both want a place Maria would want to live in, and stay in, beyond me. I want that very much for her. I bought this farm, furnished it, made it a brand. But we take the next step together. That means a new home must have studio and gallery space for her, writing space for me, good pastures and barns and fields for the dogs, donkeys, cats and chickens. A creative place with feeling, character.
Another reason is more personal. When I bought this farm, I was almost literally a different person. I think back on my life then, and I just shake my head in wonder, at what I was like, how I lived, how I survived it. So much about my life was different than now, as many of the people who have read this blog perhaps know. I love the farm, it is a beautiful and beautifully restored place, a wonderful and creative home. Someone will love it as much as I do. But in some ways, it is not me any longer.
I see a life where I am freer to write different kinds of books, take more time. Where I can mow my own lawn, shovel my own walk. I want to be a better photographer, to focus more intensely on my animal stories, the core of what I do in my words and pictures. So that, I think, is why I want to move. Why we want to move. We are closing in a home we both love, and that fits us, and we are considering making an offer on it in the next few weeks.
The three donkeys were lying by the hay feeder, soaking up some Spring sun, annoyed that Jon and Maria had stopped giving them hay. “There is plenty of grass,” said Simon,” but I have to lean over and get it and there is plenty of hay in the barn if they would give it to us.”
“Yes,” snipped Lulu, rolling over in some manure, “I like to get fresh grass and also get hay, especially when the grass is short. They don’t think about all the leaning over we have to do.” Fanny yawned, agreed. “Maybe if we stare at the window, Jon will come out. He’s usually a sucker for that. He likes to rant on an on about animal attachment, not treating them as children, but who is out here at 6 a.m. with carrots and apples and oat cookies? Some hard-ass! Writers.”
Simon snorted. “I wouldn’t complain girls. You are both purebreds, raised by a donkey breeder. I am a farm donkey, and I can tell you it can get ugly out there –” Fanny jeered, “yes, we saw you when you came and you were plenty ugly.” Lulu stood up and ate some brush that was popping up. She nosed the chickens out of the way. “Well, Simon, you and Jon have your thing, reading stories to each other, taking walks. You have his number for sure. But you were not here before Maria came, and I can tell you, it was not all clover and cookies, for sure. That boy was very strange. It was crazy around here. All sorts of crazy dogs, crazy people, those dumb cows and loud goats. And he was so twitchy I got nervous just listening to him talk on the phone inside of the house.”
“Yeah,” said Lulu, “and he had that tough little monster dog, Rose, who bit me on the ass all of the time. Just because I kicked her once. She was always pushing the sheep around and I was always trying to protect them, like I was supposed to do, and what did I get for my troubles? My ass bit. I hate to see any animal die, but I’m glad she’s gone. I have to be honest.”
It was always thus, said Lulu. Whenever humans got in trouble, a donkey got kicked in the ass.
Simon nodded wisely, as donkeys do. “The thing is, we have to work on Maria more. She’s the key. She is like a little love and apple machine, that one. She is not twitchy, and she loves to cuddle. She knows how to commune with a donkey. Jon is always dragging that camera along, and he has that guy thing about being a bit standoffish.” So true, exclaimed, Fanny, you know I think women are just more open emotionally than men. I can smell her feelings, and they are right up on the surface. It’s always been that way, I hear, all the way back to biblical times. Women are just more evolved, I think.”
“Nurturing is the word,” said Simon. He said he doubted he would be alive if the women at the farm he was at didn’t sneak him some food when he was starving. But Simon liked to look to the future, not the past. “Listen,” he said, “about this hay thing. Go stare through the gate at Jon’s office. He’ll sneak out here in a flash and bring out some hay. He can’t resist that. Just big eyes. Look mournful. Wistful. Sort of pleading.”
The donkeys practiced their wistful look, and then Simon went over to the gate and brayed loudly. They all stared at Jon’s office window and they saw the blinds move a bit. “Keep staring, just don’t waver,” hissed Simon. They whinnied softly and looked wise, ancient, knowing. Simon heard the back door opening. “Just hold the pose for a few more minutes,” he said. “He’s got some carrots in his back pocket. Maria will be out in a couple of minutes with the brush, I bet.”
Simon whinnied softly. “These humans. They are so predictable, if you just are consistent and patient.”