Note: For privacy reasons, the children quoted and referenced in this article will be known as O and E.

“Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.” John Muir

The older I get, the more inclined I am to reminisce about my childhood. Nostalgia overwhelms me as I remember how it felt to run barefoot through the grass, or through a dirt field, where I happened to step on a Garter snake, as it slithered across my path. I can still feel the pain from scraping my shins on the trunk of a tree lying supine along the driveway and how the distraction of the great outdoors dispelled the discomfort of the injury. The memory of my rosy, red cheeks after playing outside in the snow warms my heart, like a steaming cup of hot cocoa warmed my tired and frozen body from the inside out. The snowman I made stood proud and tall as I wondered how snow sticks together to make snowballs. I can still smell the grass after a fresh rainfall and the earthy smell of pond water and pasture where most of my outdoor play occurred. My favourite experiences were those way out in the “back forty” where human feet rarely trod, and the natural masterpiece as God intended it to be had not yet been rearranged by human hands. One of those masterpieces, when I was a little girl, was the creek that flowed behind the house. I remember spending hours floating little wooden boats in the creek, which naturally segued into the study of different little bugs in the murky water. The “chirruping” of the resident gophers led to a game of peek-a-boo, which initiated curiosity about their underground tunnels. I would imagine little rooms branching off the tunnels, complete with furniture and fixings. Watching the birds dipping and diving on a beautiful, cloudless day triggered questions of flight and wings and how they function.

Thank goodness for the outdoors, for sunshine on my face and the wind at my back. Thank goodness for the sweet sounds of birdsong and the coyote howls at night, the smells of farmyards and fire pit evenings, the tickle of grass on my feet or a ladybug traveling across my hand. Even though I now live in the city, these descriptions still fill my senses, just a little more at a remove. It is also in the city where I can hear the cheerful play of children outside on a warm summer day. It is that sound that I find so delightful and takes me back to my childhood. I am finding as the years progress, the sound of play becomes less and less, and I am aware, this is due to the children growing up in my community, that, and they are not playing outside as much as they used to. I am happy to say, this is not the case with every child.

I would like to introduce you to O and E. These two cuties are my niece’s little ones! My niece and her husband raise these adorable little munchkins in a city in western Canada. Being they are six hours away from me, I don’t get to see them very often. I do, however, get to see them a lot in videos and pictures that their mom puts on Instagram, or that my sister sends to me in those moments where she wants to do a little bragging of her own. On my side of the family, these two sweethearts get a lot of attention, even if it is through a computer or a phone. The photos are engaging because anytime you photograph a 4-year-old and 16-month-old, something unexpected is bound to be captured in that photo, but 90% of the time, it is because the setting for the picture is the great outdoors.

My niece is an amazing mom! She invests hours of dedication to her two beautiful children, and it is not all about giving them instant gratification or attention. She has taught them an appreciation for the outdoors from a noticeably early age. Both O and E have been spending time outdoors from infancy to present day. Every day, most of the day is spent outside, especially in the warmer seasons. That does not mean she shies away from the winter months, instead, they are bundled up from head to toe, warm and snug, the exact recipe needed to enjoy a cold winter day.

“I’m tunneling to Africa.” O, age 4 yrs. A comment made while playing in his sandbox.

His little hands grip the mini shovel tightly. He is hard at work, digging and scraping the sand out of the pit, that to him, is making a tunnel across the Atlantic Ocean to the continent of Africa. It’s a beautiful sunny day, there is a light breeze, but barely enough to move a few strands of hair. He works hard while his little sister sits nearby holding a dandelion right up close to her face, turning it over, smelling it, rubbing it on her cheek and then dropping it, only to pull another one for the very same bewildering inspection. Her tiny physical strength develops even more every time she tries to pull one more dandelion from the scattered patches in the backyard. E only knows a few words, but just because she cannot verbally express her wonders, she can still share her intrigue with her eyes. The eyes are the conduit to the soul and her sparkly, expressive eyes do all the talking for her. Despite her age, together, she and her brother are taking in the gift’s nature offers them and doing their own research. Nature is telling them a story and encouraging them to get involved in that story, to learn more about the world, and eventually themselves. This triggers the “I wonder” questions, and before you know it, their little brains burst forth with curiosity and continues to grow from all the incredible, natural information.

Last week O was outside playing with his Fisher Price™ barn and horses and was pulling bits of grass as feed. After placing it strategically in the trough inside the barn he said, “my horses love this feed.” On another occasion, O shared with his mom, “I just love the world, I hope we always have it.” O can appreciate his beautiful world because he has and continues to have opportunities to explore it. His own world goes way beyond that of the walls in the house and a screen.

My sister, O’s grandma, shared another quote she heard from O last week which shows how he is making connections between humans and animals. “Grandma…those birds sure have a lot to say!” Hearing the chitter chatter of birds on a wire or up in a tree, led him to connect that sound to human chatter. In his own way he naturally personified the conversation between the birds.

“Grandma, I tranquilized the blackbird in the tree.” O, playing in his grandma’s back yard.

“It’s a big pile, I blew it up and pieces are everywhere!” O, after destroying a sandcastle his grandma made him.

“I’m going to tranquilize the bubbles when we’re blowing bubbles outside.” O, to his mommy.

“I love being in trees!” O, while outside climbing trees.

I have many pictures of O playing in mud in his backyard. Some pictures show him head to toe mud and I have caught myself thinking, “how on earth will she get those stains out of his clothes?” That lasts for only a moment. Life is too short to always have clean fingernails and sometimes a child may get some dirt on their “Sunday” shoes. At the end of the day children should have messy hair and dirty clothes. Play, both indoor and outdoor is how they learn, and practice what they have learned. To a child there are a million “I wonder’s” out there, they just need the time to explore them. If a child can come inside smelling like earth, then you know they have had a lot of “wonders” and it has likely been an exceptional day!

Brrrr…. It’s cold outside!

I am sitting in my house, bundled up, drinking tea with slippers on my feet and a warm snuggly sweater hugging my chilled body. I am thankful for my warm home and that I am safe and so is my family. 

I am inclined to reflect back on snow days as a child and appreciate how those experiences added joy to my already wonderful life. I am reminded again of the delights of the four seasons and the contributions each one brings to our world of discovery and sensations. 

I don’t really mind the fluffy white stuff and the frigid temperatures, of course within reason but I wouldn’t want it to last as long as it did on the Dakota prairies in The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I can’t say that I would get excited about accommodating snow and cold from the first of October to the end of April. In Laura’s book she shares about the deep snow drifts as high as the train (P.214); twisting hay for fuel (P. 189) and using a coffee grinder for making bread (P. 194). That was hard work and I am thankful for our amenities today that make getting through a cold snap so much easier.

Winter brings silence. When snow covers the landscape it absorbs sound waves making it seem quieter outside. The silent air is powerful and yet tranquil and has the ability to bring a feeling of pause to a weary world. Winter makes me aware that in the silence there is wisdom and part of this wisdom is darkness. The darkness that covers the land for long periods reminds us to find a warm place and settle in for a while; relax, wait and get some rest because something bigger is just around the corner. We need the cold season to rejuvenate our minds and bodies for the work that follows in Spring and Summer. 

The season of winter is like going to bed. Many animals enter into their own form of respite in this cold season and go to their own beds for the long cold months. Thank goodness they are created to know how and where to repose and don’t need to crawl into a small crowded mitten left lying in the forest to find warmth, as in The Mitten by Jan Bret. They use these cold months wisely and know the importance of saying goodbye to what was and leaning toward growth and it is winter that bridges the gap and brings these two experiences together.

Children don’t often feel the brutal cold as much as we adults do. I know that when I was young, I could play out in the snow for hours and when it was time to come indoors, sometimes a battle ensued.  I enjoy reflecting back on some of my memorable times spent outdoors in the winter months, experiencing the cold and snow either alongside my siblings, alone or with animal friends to keep me company. I am reminded of three very different winter stories from my childhood. These stories stand out because of the joy I felt at the time and how the experience permeated by being. Within the play it is coincidental that each story involves a furry friend. My memories of these experiences are crystal clear and it is only today that I can pull lessons from these encounters because of the mature lenses I now see through. I welcome these memories again and smile with gratitude for my childhood in winter, on the farm on the Alberta prairies.

Facing Fear Like a Cottontail

I am sitting in the miniature snow house on the other side of the trees near the garbage barrels. The pine trees nearby create a nice shelter from the wind. I am about ten years old and I am dressed for the arctic. One of my itchy toques is on my head and I pull it off for a moment to give my head a scratch. I’m sitting on a little snow bench inside the walls of my snow house shaping the hard packed snow into another bowl; the next one will be for a plate or a cup. I rub the edges of the snow dishes smooth to perfection, then place them on the snow cupboard at the point of satisfaction. I am alone, yet content, pulling the scarf down from my mouth every so often because it is getting wet from my breath making it cold and irritating.

I have been playing in the snow for several hours and will play until my mother calls me to come inside. My dog Goldie comes to say hello until her tail gets in the way of my art and my face.  I shoo her away afraid her delight will be my demise. Tired from all my efforts, I flop back onto my snow bed and watch the little snowflakes fall slowly down. I blink swiftly one blink after another while they land so very softly on my face. I don’t feel them at all, except for the moisture, the weight of them has no effect on me.

I sit up and glance around my winter home to assess my surroundings and I see a rabbit, huddled under one of the pine trees. His body is a little circular ball of fluff. He doesn’t move; he is still; he is silent, waiting and watching. He knows that he needs to be calm and stay hidden. coupled with being alert to other animals in order to survive the realities of life and the harshness of winter. 

I pick up some snow in my hand and take a lick enjoying the cold on my tongue and again I see Goldie making her way toward me. Instantly, I worry that she will see the rabbit and chase him away. I take a look around and see rabbit tracks twisting and turning over the open slough, the tracks are packed and there are many and I realize he has been here before.

I have barely glanced away when I see the rabbit flash in front of me, running down one of the already made paths and Goldie not far behind him. I stand up swiftly and holler at her to come back and being the obedient dog she is, she stops quickly, spraying snow in all directions and comes trotting back. I give her a harsh reprimand and continue working on my structure a little while longer.   

The sun is lower now, my house is finished and I feel complete. I hear my mother call for me and I head toward the house looking at the pine tree as I go. There, to my surprise, is the rabbit, sitting in a ball, tightly wound, all still and silent. He made his way back to his familiar spot where he obviously felt safe and secure but always prepared in case he ever had to run.

Of course I didn’t know this message at the time but now as an adult knowing a little more about rabbits I can see how these little creatures have to deal with constant fear of being discovered by preying animals. Sometimes those fears are irrational, depending on their location and other times they are very real. Despite this, they face their fears head on and continue to put themselves in places where they are exposed but where they can still forage for grass for survival. The little cottontail of my childhood faced his fear and gave me a wonderful gift at the same time.

Creative Mr. Squirrel

I’m fighting to get my hunter green one piece snowsuit on and the fear of missing the bus weighs heavy on my heart. I am panicked and hastily lick the tears that roll down my cherubic face while fighting my obstinate snowsuit. I am thankful the other kids and my teacher don’t notice. I am painfully shy and an experience like this makes me taciturn and morose.

I know that I am really late and there is no chance the bus will wait for me. I am six years old and in grade one and so very afraid and I am hoping my sister will ask the bus driver to keep waiting. The grade one school is separate from the elementary school and bus kids have to walk further to get to the bus loading area. The teachers always make sure the bus kids get ready at dismissal first so we aren’t late for the bus. Today, I am late and it is my own fault; I had to use the bathroom before getting my snowsuit on; the pains of an hours bus ride home.

My snowsuit finally acquiesced to my opposition and at long last I am dressed. I scramble down the large stairs of the old brick school building and run down the roadway that leads to the bus parking lot. There are no buses anywhere so I run back to the school building and flop down on the steps and begin to cry. I watch my tears fall on the snow in front of me and melt a pinhead size spot of snow and then watch it turn into an icy bubble. I’m sad, scared and embarrassed and rather than going back inside to tell the teacher I accept my failure and sit it out. 

It is a moderate winter day with a small layer of snow on the ground and the sun is shining. As I sit there, I see a little squirrel darting here and there making tiny tracks in the snow.  Every so often he stops to chirp in my direction then scrambles up the pine tree positioned near the school.  He disappears inside a hole and as I watch him I feel a little happier inside. Tumbling back down the tree he scurries around, then does it all over again. I laugh as I watch him doing his exercises and acrobatics and I begin to feel warmer, less alone and less troubled.  He is the distraction I need to keep me settled before help arrives. I was so engaged in watching his play that I didn’t notice the bus pull right up to my school and my sister running to my aid. She took me by the hand and led me to the bus. Writing about this now, as an adult I remember as a child, feeling like I sat there forever, but in reality, it really wasn’t very long at all.

I will always be grateful to the little squirrel that helped save the day back in grade one. Squirrels are creative problem solvers and look for opportunities where others might not see them. When the winter wind blows freezing cold, squirrels will stay tucked away in their nests but on milder days, they do come outside and continue searching for added bits of food that they can continue to store away in their hollow homes. Now as I reflect back on this experience there was a reason it was a little squirrel visiting me that day. I had a problem and somehow it needed to be fixed. Of course as a child, I wasn’t going to pick up on that message at the time, but I can see it now and I can implement the creative resourcefulness into my everyday life whenever a problem arises.

The Wiley Patience of a Coyote

The land around our farm hosted the flow of the Ten Mile Creek and it ran twisting and turning behind the yard through the pastures and carried on over other neighboring properties. The creek bank was host to deep drifts of snow in winter and it was here that my siblings and I built tunnels and snow forts.  In the country It isn’t uncommon to see a coyote or two off in the distance in Spring, Summer and Fall but in the winter Coyotes become even more active because there is less food in their own territory for them to eat, so they venture closer toward the farms in hopes of finding small prey. We were told many times by our father to ignore them and to not be afraid of them.  Coyotes typically only attack if cornered and so we grew up with a healthy respect for them, but not afraid. On this particular day all I was told was being put into practice.

I am having a great time digging and tunneling through the hard packed snow. I am working hard to create the exact pathway system from one tunnel house to another but my efforts are in vain because with every scoop of snow, either the wall or the roof would collapse. In my frustration I am ready to go inside when suddenly I spot a coyote sitting in the field neighboring the pasture. She was just sitting and staring at me, doing nothing but observing with a wiley curiosity. The wind is blowing the snow lightly across her face but she continues to sit perfectly still, unfazed. I continue to play and every so often I peek out from my shelter and see what she is doing. At one point I peek out when I see one of the farm cats walking toward me, padding down the hill in the deep snow. Concerned for the cats safety I turn around to see what the coyote is doing and she is still sitting there, staring in my direction. She is waiting, in the cold and blowing snow, waiting and watching to see where the cat is going and how she can get to her.

I am the obstacle between the coyote and the cat and I realize she isn’t watching me, as much as she is watching the cat. She won’t come any closer as long as I am there and so she has to wait, just like they do every winter. They wait for spring and the warmth to bring them fresh food to forage. They wait for their mate in the long January months so when March and April arrive they will have little pups running around. Their focus in winter is survival and right at that moment, I was the stumbling block between a tasty meal and going hungry another day.

Coyotes are great at adapting and posses a ton of grit and determination. They too, are resourceful but also very clever and I believe that it was that clever mind that kept her from crossing over from her territory to mine. She sat it out and waited, probably hoping at some point that I would retreat and she could make her attack. She was hungry so she chose patience and facing the discomforts of the weather. Her survival in winter is dependent on using her ability to adapt to circumstances. Unfortunately for her, on that day her grit didn’t pay off but she was a gift to me, teaching me something that I came to realize years later. Today, I strive for patience, through listening more and talking less, knowing when to push harder and when to stay still.  

Winter is an oasis of gentle change, waiting, resting and storing up; saving energy and planning for growth. We all need winter, whether we like it or not. If we take a moment or two and pay attention to nature and how it responds to the shift in seasons we too can learn to adapt and embrace the gifts we are given during this cold time. For now, I will accept the frigid -35 degree temperatures, as difficult as this may be, because I know this too shall pass. For now, I will take a break, wait, anticipate and prepare for the change that is inevitably going to come.

“Some call it the middle of nowhere, I call it the centre of my world.”

I am at my parents place, on the farm. I lay in the bed of the guest bedroom, with the moonlight beaming in through dusty rose, lace curtains. The brilliance of the universal white globe has a calming and soporific effect on me. The window is open, not just a little bit, but all the way.  I don’t want to miss a thing. I want to breathe in the night air and hear the coyotes howl and the frogs croaking in the creek behind the house.

The air is calm and nothing is stirring outside. I get up, and for a moment I stand with my face pressed against the screen window, sniffing, like a rabbit sniffs to smell out danger; I am sniffing, to keep the tears at bay. Through the tears and emotion I can smell the air I love so much.  It is crisp and fresh and gives me life. 

I never get tired of this place; I’ve known it for 53 years, my entire life. It predates me and when I met it, I grew in it, and became a part of it as it became a part of me. I am reminded of the quote from one of my favourite books Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte where one of her main characters, Catherine Earnshaw, says, “I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free.” Then there is the famous quote again by Catherine, “Make everything stop and stand still and never move again. Make the moors never change and you and I never change.” I can relate to Catherine’s lament at this moment in the story. To be a child again, free, running wildly through the grass in the pasture where my imagination and reality collide.

Oh, that the landscape would never change; but it does.  Change is inevitable and it is my responsibility to accept it so that I can embrace the beauty of my future. My roots go down deep in this space and hold tightly to what was and still is. What is to come, that I am unsure of, and that is the change I wrestle with. I can only hope that those that put their roots down after me allow this place to do to them what it did to me.  If they don’t they are only half planted and will never feel the full effects the land can have on them. I can only hope they will choose to do so.

Near the end of June of this year, 2023, my world, for a moment, stopped turning.  I was caught in a whirlpool of emotion and I could see myself trapped in a funnel, spinning faster and faster toward the narrow centre, where I knew I would have a difficult time breathing. And…I did.  I felt my heart racing, and I could hear the voices around me, but it was just noise, a cacophony of sounds that when mixed with the pain and confusion in my own mind led me to opine that this was not what I wanted.  I was not ready for this pain.

I was brought back to the moment, and felt recalcitrant as I was being asked to sign the papers as a witness to what was unfolding in front of me.  I didn’t want to put my signature where it didn’t belong.  Come to think of it, my parent’s signature didn’t belong on this document either. 

This land was where my paternal grandparents planted their own roots 79 years ago after a long and arduous search for the right place to call home.  My dad was six years old at the time; the youngest of nine children. Aside from a few years living in Calgary in his latter teen years, this space is all he’s really known.  My dad lost his parents when he was a teen and before he knew it, he was running the farm full time and carried the title of farmer, just like his father before him.

Somehow, in the present I managed to pull myself together enough to put pen to paper as a witness. I signed the document that would take the land I knew and loved so very much and place it in the hands of new owners. 

My dad puts on a brave face and says, “it’s time for this place to be something for another family.” I see the smile of reassurance, but his eyes tell me something different.  I know he’s ready to leave the land physically and mentally, but I’m not so sure he’s ready to leave emotionally.  It’s difficult watching your parents being brave over and over and over again. They do it for each other, because they know that is what each other needs. They also do it for their children; once a parent, always a parent. 

I know this land like the back of my hand.  I know this house even better, but interestingly, it’s the land that has the stronger hold on me.  Saying that doesn’t negate the uniqueness and specialness of the home. The memories within its walls pull and tug at my heartstrings.  I feel the little tug when I help my mother clean out the rooms and we stumble upon an item that brings forth a memory that has left an indelible mark on my heart.  I feel a little pull at my heart, when I stand in my parents bedroom and embrace the atmosphere; I close my eyes for a moment, see myself in that space as a young, impressionable child remembering how the room at one time felt so very big.  It’s not really.  I see the hamper where I sat for a small chat after giving my mother a kiss on the cheek, letting her know I was going to bed after being up late doing homework. There is another tug as I see myself, five years old, on moving day. I pause at the doorway to the living room and remember the smell of fresh paint and the brilliance of the brand new royal blue shag carpet. Since that day that carpet has hosted many guests but none as special as the permanence of grandchildren. That carpet has hosted hours of play while parents found themselves supine after being well fed in the cozy country kitchen.  There is also another pull when I am sent downstairs to bring up a jar of pickles from the pantry to enhance the simple lunch I am sharing with my mom and dad.  I have always admired my mother’s pantry.  Within the confines of its four walls there are so many stories.  Many items have been in a state of quiescence for a long time but they still have a place on a shelf.  It is in that space where the items that hold meaning go in the interim before they end up in their final resting place. Which resting place each item goes to, is being determined by my mother and I as we continue to cull the pantry till all that is left is the jars and jars of canned food.  There are jugs, oil lamps, old mugs, a container full of old spices when spices were still being sold in tins and even two buckets of old clothespins.  I look at each object and see it pass through my mind’s eye on a particular day that I may have used it.  The memories escape from the treasure trunk of my mind and flow like leaves in fall. They swirl and dip, duck and dive until I manage to capture one and hold it for a while before I have to tuck it back inside the trunk for safe keeping. The older I get, the memories also age and they tumble out of the trunk a little more crisp and brittle, so I have to take care to not lose a single one.

My memories of the clothespins takes me to the days of hanging clothes on the line on wash day.  Most of those clothespins at one time or another passed through my hands.  I loved hanging laundry on the line but I loved the smell of the laundry after it was dried best of all.  There is nothing sweeter than freshly washed sheets! It’s the sweet smell of honeysuckle, lilac and garden flowers mixed with the wild smell of Alberta Wild Rose, sage and prairie grass drenched in sunshine and country air all rolled into one.  Bringing a basket full of fresh dried sheets off the line and into the home is like bringing a bundle of nature through the front door and shaking a little bit of Heaven all through the house.

In my mind as I reminisce about the clothing on the line, I see the old house that sat about five feet from the doorway to the present home.  That was where I spent the first five years of my life on the farm.  It was a cozy little shelter with a kitchen, living room, and a bedroom on the main floor.  There was a second floor, but it was unusable without insulation in the walls to keep out the heat of summer and the freezing, biting cold of winter.  I didn’t care though, none of us did because love was in abundance, and size and space didn’t matter as long as there was love. 

I was unfamiliar with a household bathroom for the first five years of my life; another commodity that predates me – the outhouse.  My mother was always worried her children would fall into the large hole should we be so inclined to go on our own, so she usually accompanied us. It sat behind the house and was only used during the day in all seasons except winter.  Winter was too cold to visit the “necessary” as they said in the olden days.  So, in winter and during the night we did our business in a metal pail in the rustic dirt floor basement.  The kitchen housed running water to fill the sink, it drained in a pail under the cupboard and then got hauled outside to empty it.  I share this tidbit of information, not to make anyone think we were poor, we certainly weren’t.  I share this to give dimension to the effect this place has had on me.

This land holds everything I hold near and dear to my heart at this point in my life and when it comes to my first home, there is no exception. Portions of this first home now rest beneath a pile of dirt where grass has grown and is now part of the back yard lawn.  There is a slight indentation framing the foundation and along with the concrete and wood that is buried beneath, I’m confident one of my stuffed animals got mixed up in the burial and lays resting along with all of its counterparts. So, you see, this land holds deeply, my first home.

I step out of that memory and take a turn down a different reminiscent pathway and find myself standing out on the land. God is the creator of all things and it is because of Him that we have all that we do.  I give Him the glory for creating our beautiful world and for allowing our family to experience this little corner of it. The land and everything in it would not exist without His hand and it is because of our Heavenly Father that life that flows from it, what it gives and what it receives. 

I do not specifically see one place in my mind’s eye, but several. I was a barefoot child.  I chose to run around barefoot as much as my mother would allow.  I can still see myself playing or working in the garden, with the dirt squishing up between my toes.  To this day, I go barefoot as often or as long as the seasons allow. Despite knowing this was going to be our last summer on the farm, my father and I agreed we would plant one more garden. This gave me another summer opportunity to walk barefoot through the garden as I either weeded or harvested my vegetables. I took time to look down at my feet and watch the dirt squish up one last time between my toes. My mother loved gardening and her mother before her; they instilled that desire in me.  I am reminded of a quote from the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer where she says, “This is really why I made my daughters learn to garden – so they would always have a mother to love them, long after I am gone.” I have loved every single garden I have tended and so have my parents. When I wasn’t available to weed or water, my father was always there giving the earth, the seeds, then the plants what they needed to grow and service our needs. We tended it, so it could tend to us. That portion of farm land has provided food in our freezers for years and I’m so very glad I had the opportunity to get to know it.

My mindful journey through the land takes me to the pastures where I had to don shoes in order to be permitted to experience freedoms beyond the yard. The pasture was where I pretended to be Laura Ingalls from my favourite books and TV series Little House on the Prairie. I would run and play in my imaginary world, sometimes next to the cattle and one or two horses.  Occasionally I would take an inner tube and float in the creek that flowed past our farm and pretend I was Tom Sawyer. Interestingly, the creek that flowed past the farm had a name on maps: Ten Mile Creek. If I wasn’t being Laura pretending to run dramatically away from a situation I didn’t know what to do with, or floating on my river raft, I was sitting on the grass, listening to the gophers chirrup to each other, laying on my back watching a hawk fly high above me, or smiling at the ducks floating in the creekbed that was, if I wasn’t playing with my siblings or cousins.

Recently, on one of my days helping mom clean out “stuff,” I went for a walk in the pasture, and found myself remembering these moments that I just described here.  I sat down, put my hands on the earth and just soaked up the warmth of what this part of land gave to me and maybe what I gave to it. The act of reciprocity, so vital for existence. Another quote from Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, “knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and to celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that relationship transforms from a one-way street to a sacred bond.” I know the pasture land loved my visits and because of that, it thrived and continued to feed the animals that in turn would feed us and others. It also fed and housed those that help to keep the ecosystems going and sustaining life. I walked out of that pasture thanking God for His hand in first creating and then sustaining the lifegiving grasslands for me and my family to enjoy.

The final stop in my mind’s journey on the land is the largest component and believe it or not, the portion that holds the most meaning for me: the fields. Our farm had two fields that were a part of the main homestead, one on the north side and one on the south.  I spent hours riding my horse, cross country skiing, going for walks (barefoot and stepping on a garter snake), helping my dad move cattle, riding my bike (yes, I actually rode my bike in the field) climbing on bales and helping with the harvest, all in the south field.  The north field gave me some cattle encounters but mostly driving the combine or baler for my dad during harvest time.  It was a little further from the yard. When we were in the kitchen, we could see the field work happening in the north field, and when we were in the living room, we could see the work in the south field. It was in those fields that the real magic happened. They were the bookends to our existence.

I am reminded of a quote I read not long ago with no named author, “And into the field I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” The land’s visceral beauty and power comes from its remarkable performance. The fields portray, to me, the entirety of what it means to be land. The epitome of beauty is land in its most raw state and the best example of reciprocity is a farmer’s field. When the harvest is complete, spring has arrived and the soil is turned and prepared for another season of planting. It is in the dark fresh soil that I find my soul. It is in the being and the becoming of land; it is the only thing that will never leave. It is the only thing on the farm that has never changed. The boundaries to each field may change, but the land as an entity does not. As Gerald O’Hara says in Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell, “land is the only thing in the world worth working for, worth fighting for, worth dying for, because it’s the only thing that lasts.”

            So, you see, our family farm is more than a livelihood; it is that, yet so much more.  It’s the space where our family worked, played and just made a life together. It is where our father taught us kids what it means to be determined and to persevere.  It is where our mother taught us doing is better than sitting idle, how to add color to a landscape with flowers and that planting and sowing is better than buying from a store.It taught us the meaning of hope, afterall, the farming profession is built on hope. It is where we buried all our loving pets on every possible corner of the yard.There is no other profession where individuals that love each other can be born into, grow, learn, play, build their faith, laugh, cry, make mistakes and then try again all under one canopy.  So, letting go of the farm is not just selling a property, it’s selling and then handing off everything that made me who I am today. This is why, as October 4th approaches, I can almost not breath.  I have played the day over and over in my mind and wondered what it will look like and how it will all play out and I just can’t ever get it right. So I have decided, that day, when I drive away for the last time, I will wave and hopefully smile through the tears and say, “thank you for being there for me, now I hope you do the same for the next little girl,” and I will hold my jar of dirt close to my chest.

Come see me at the Airdrie Farmer’s Market this Wednesday, August 16^th, from 3:30-7 pm.

I will be selling copies of my book plus so much more.

I will also be promoting my home based business Firefly Glow Literacy. I’m going into my 4th year operating and will be giving out information and taking registrations.

Come on by to say hello or to purchase a copy of Gracie’s Playful, Dusty Day for yourself.

Renovations of the Heart

When I was out for my morning walk today, as I approached home, I sat down on a bench next to the playground. It was empty of its regular visitors, so the space was quiet and very peaceful. I took the opportunity to sit and listen to the birds and dogs, and the different sounds of the day coming to life in the city.

As a family, we used to frequent this playground on any given day in the summer. I remember settling both my children into the safety swing when they were under two years of age and giving pretend “under ducks” to them. I say pretend, because giving the real thing was rarely accomplished without me falling flat on my face. They thought they were flying so high in the sky; in all fairness, in their miniature world, five or six feet off the ground was like soaring with the birds.

The little toadstools were often used for “striking a pose” as my kids called it. They would hop from one toadstool to the other, and if I called out, “strike a pose,” they would freeze in the position they landed in. This would often lead to gales of laughter when poses would turn ridiculous with tongues hanging out, eyes big and wide, hands on hips and bums sticking out. They thought they were so funny, and I’d laugh along with them in their playful world and delight in their creativity and energy.

I faced a lot of challenges when it came to the slide. I was never one of those moms that could easily slip down the slide, gracefully, with hair blowing in the breeze, looking beautiful and at ease, while my child sat between my legs giggly with pure joy. I was the parent that got stuck on the slide, not even with my child between my legs; it was just me, all alone. I still maintain they make slides too narrow, it’s never that my hips are too wide. I tease. Despite this, I devoured hours and hours of helping my children up the stairs to the top, settling them and then encouraging them as they anticipated the thrill of the ride to the bottom. I felt the thrill myself, watching their little faces light up with excitement on the way down. Then, once at the bottom, the immediate turn around to go back up and do it all over again was exhilarating. This was often when “boo boos” would occur due to the haste of the endeavor, but, mommy would fix it and off they would go again.

Then there were the engagements with the family pet. Our pet at that time was Nikki; a mixed breed large, black dog that enjoyed the playfulness of our children as much as we did. She would scramble up the equipment, run across bridges and slide down slides, and the more the children laughed, the more she felt invited to continue. What a playful pup! When our beagle Gracie came along, the story was entirely different. Outdoors for her was all about putting her nose to the ground, and sniffing out a rabbit, a gopher and even some rascally birds from time to time. That nose of hers got her into a lot of trouble.

Those days were great! I look back on them fondly and I can honestly say, “I have no regrets!” I am in a different phase in life today; my nest is empty, just like this playground is empty. The truth is though, this playground is in an interim part of the day, and my nest is in an interim part of life. This playground will be full again with children that will come to play, perhaps after school, or mid-afternoon when the air is warmer, parents will be out with their toddlers. My nest isn’t truly empty either, it’s just going through an interim time of its own which leads to renovations of the heart. The kids have grown, and flown away, one is married and the other is on his own adventures, and my nest is only empty for the interim and my heart is under renovations.

What happens when a home is under renovations? We may move things out of the way, pack things up, we may place plastic around the area to prevent dust from settling, just to name a few. And then there are the emotions that come with renovations. For example, we may get grumbly, disengage, express frustration, cry and avoid. But all those can be juxtaposed with the positive emotions such as excitement and anticipation of awaiting the end result.

This is the same for renovations of the heart. That is the season of life I am in right now. I have had to do all the same things that are mentioned above, but I am doing them with my heart. I am having to put the former things aside and adjust to the new. It does come with some tears and frustration and there are times I just want to check out for a while to be alone with my thoughts but at the same time, I await the new experiences that will come while my heart is under renovations. The extra time with my husband and the opportunity to get to know him all over again outside of raising children for starters. Then there is the freedom I have to explore and dive into my creative outlet and experiment with different sewing projects, gardening and the biggest one yet, writing and publishing my first children’s book, which is what led to the start up of this website! I have more time to spend with God, and when I do, everything else falls in place the way it is intended to. I get to connect with friends more often and enjoy activities together, I can volunteer more often, become more active in my community and await the arrival of a future daughter in law and maybe some grandchildren. And when you really look at it in this light, there is no way my nest could ever stay empty.

If we are nurturing the soul the way we are meant to, then we willingly, patiently allow the heart to undergo renovations; we cradle it and care for it throughout the process, and then wait enduringly for the project to be finished. When we come out the other side, we will see that the renovations were necessary, and now we are even more prepared for the next chapter in our lives. My heart is still under renovations; I am truly excited to have it completed, but I will not rush the process. I look forward to getting on with my next chapter and celebrating my once empty, now refilled nest. This is where my journey begins!

Lorraine Janzen