The last Rebel Yell and Ben’s gift of Balance

Symbol of Change

I have always been an extremist. Black/white, right/wrong, yes/no – well, let’s face it, mainly no, to any form of authority. Rebel without a cause. Rebelling mainly it seems against myself – making life hard for myself, beating myself up or putting myself on a rack of my own making. Goodness, what a torturous path I have been trudging all these years.

I am a firm believer that children come to teach and heal us. They mirror us so perfectly and show us ourselves, they hold candles to illuminate our dark corners and recesses – those shadowy places where we would rather not see how we are, how we behave, what we show the world.

We ask ourselves where they get their ideas about life and how to behave from, and if we are brave enough, we see ourselves. It’s not pretty. It’s very confronting. Sometimes it is truly horrible. All we can do is change ourselves, our reactions to the world, our interactions, our perceptions. And we can read and listen and learn and try to be better parents, different parents to the way we were parented – less controlling, more patient, kinder etc . . . it all sounds so nice and sweet and obvious – but when the child is tired and hungry and throwing a complete tanty and the mother is desperate to get same child to bed so she can have some peace and quiet, things can degenerate very quickly if the Mum reacts at all. In other words, it’s bloody hard work!

Balance and the middle ground were unknown to me until Ben, the perfect Libran, came into my life and slowly, slowly (and against my knowing) started pulling me from my alternate extremes into the middle – neutrality, balance.

I see so clearly now how swift and sudden my swings can be. The recent cleanse has shown me how much of a role what we eat plays in our emotional and physical wellbeing. Now that I am back on ‘normal’ food I am finding that I miss how good I felt on the paleo primal diet and how many grainy foods really don’t agree with me. Just ask Ged about the first time I had lentils after my cleanse!!

So many grainy starchy foods are convenient and quick, requiring little thought or pre-planning but don’t serve us either in energy, clarity of mind or digestivity (did I just make that word up?) Of course vegetarians have to eat lots of pulses and grains to stay full and get enough protein. They are safe, familiar and filling. But actually, I have to admit, I felt amazing on the veggies, meat and seeds.

But now that I am eating grains again, I don’t fancy meat so much but I don’t feel as good in myself. I don’t want rules around food because as an anorexic and bulimic I have imposed far too many of those on myself in the past but I do want to feel the best I can – body, mind and spirit. I have long known that my vegetarianism was just another way of controlling what I ate and would ‘allow’ myself to put in my body. For sure I just need to relax and have no rules but I think it is important to know what serves me, nourishes me, fuels me. Because as I learn to love myself more I want to give myself what is good for me.

Because it feels like for so much of my life I have been torturing myself – with my thoughts, diet, repetitive running, and other strict regimes. And rebelling against any form of authority with my giant ‘f**ck you’. But in the process have been hurting only myself. Smoking for 15 years to spite my parents (hello?), drinking to excess to spite myself, drugs as my anti-establishment two finger salute, but the only one I harmed or scared or hated with all that was myself.

And I have always rebelled against ‘goodness’. Why don’t I want to be ‘good’, why do I want to be ‘bad’. Or is it that I believe I AM bad and therefore want to hurt myself accordingly, or that because I am bad I don’t deserve good things, or gentle treatment, or nurturing . . . or love?

I rebelled against my cleanse and jumped off the wagon to start supping my tea again. But you know what, my body has been telling me for more than 4 years that I have to give up the black tea. And I keep fighting and reclaiming my last great addiction, clinging to that pommy warming sustenance which actually no longer serves me. Bucking feeling good, clear and bright in the head, and glowing in body and mind. Why? Because I want to have one last vestige from my past life as an addict – because I want to stay an addict? because I want to feel bad? and be stressed and be cranky instead of peaceful and happy?

Wow, this self-sabotage of mine is sometimes mind-blowing. Literally.

I am going back on the cleanse in order to shed this unhealthy habit once and for all. And to let my light shine unfettered. And because tea stresses my adrenals which then hurt and powers up my negative monkey mind, whereas herbal teas make me feel lovely and ‘good’ and happy. I am going to further explore the no grains paleo primal diet and work out how to bring more health-giving foods into our lives and lifestyles, without compromising taste and flavour (I am always up for a bit of a kitchen magic challenge!)

I don’t know why I am so scared – I have been caffeine free before and it was great. Maybe it was because I was fat then that I am so scared of getting fat again (hello, that rings true!) I can be caffeine free and slim for sure!

In two weeks I am going to walk the middle way – balancing meat, grains, fruit and veg in healthy quantities (am so loving my huge daily salad). And picking fresh herbs from my beautiful herb garden for tisanes and fresh, healing drinks which nurture and sustain me.

I want to thank Ben who all those years ago brought meat into our lives and instigated the raising of our own meat animals and who shows me myself in all my fury and who is teaching me to love my inner child, the importance of play and relaxation, and how precious family time is together – just the three of us.

Both Ben and Ged have taught me that while it is tempting to rail at the behaviours and actions of others, we can only change, and heal, and help, ourselves. And by changing the way we see and react to the world around us, everything changes – the world shifts and a new paradigm is born.

So here I am, letting go again, free falling into the unknown and trusting that the grass is truly greener on the other side . . . so mote it be.

Connecting with my inner Carnivore

I am on a 14 day detox and cleanse, along with 50 other people in the local area, inspired by a local Naturopath, Amaali Shaw. Unlike other detoxes, this is not about all raw fruit and veg juices and salads – this cleanse is designed to rid the body of parasites and bad gut bacteria (including candida) by eliminating all the foods they feed on – dairy, soy, sugar, honey, grains and all grain products. Now, for me, whose favourite food is pasta and who eats way too much bread (after all a sarnie is always a quick and easy solution when hunger strikes!) and who is completely addicted to tea, the chance to rid my body of a few unhealthy addictions and toxins after the whole giardia drama and subsequent antibiotics. Plus, it seems I am ridding myself of toxic and unhealthy thoughts, feelings and ways of being so cleaning the temple which houses my soul at the same time, seemed appropriate.

A number of acupuncturists over the years have told me that soy creates mucus in the body, but I have chosen not to listen to them. After all, for a vegetarian or vegan, soy facilitates my tea addiction and tofu etc are protein, right? I have known since I was quite young that dairy did not agree with me, which helped my decision to become a vegan 20 something years ago. But I have been amazed at the difference no soy milk has made to my body – no more post nasal drip or stuffed up sinuses – I can breathe, hallelujah!

The first few days were relatively easy and exciting as I explored different food options (all fermented foods like tamari, balsamic, vinegar etc were also out, and all fruits bar berries and granny smith apples) and I certainly felt like I had a challenge on my hands. Ben was really sick with ear infections and fever so being house bound with him gave me kitchen time which I needed to ensure I felt fully satisfied at meal times.

Eggs which were once a staple of my diet had been left by the wayside recently, in favour of cheese and bread and homemade cakes, so it felt good to embrace them once more and fall in love once more with my lovely brown ladies who lay them. But still, it wasn’t enough and at supper time I had a bowl of carrots topped with a tasting of the delicious Harry stew that Ged had made for us – full of pumpkin. I carefully scooped all the meat out of the juice and settled down to sup. But a couple of little bits of meat had escaped my scrutiny and found their way to my mouth, and let me tell you, they were delicious! Hmmm, the carnivore within was reawakened … and I had a little more to fill me up.

I was beginning to enjoy my chia seed and coconut milk porridge in the morning (commonly known as frog spawn in our house!) and I loved my big salad with avocado and home made lemon, garlic and herb salad dressing for lunch. But again, by supper time, day two I was SO hungry so I broke out the bacon and fried it up – oh my, it was delicious. And I felt the emptiness subside . . .

Eggs and bacon were therefore my staples last week and at the weekend we went away to the Central Coast as Ged had to be on hand for a work project and our lovely Broome friend and her Mum were coming up to see us and for us to finally meet Jennifer’s children, and for them to meet Ben. Judy has always been exceptionally generous and while where they were staying was not very special, they had happily found a truly exceptional restaurant, The Lake House just next door . . .

So they had booked for dinner on Friday and I had a car full of pumkin soup, home made dressing, chia porridge, soaked almonds etc to get me through the weekend. I had requested a restaurant where we could have salmon steaks as that was what I was craving and I knew Ben and Ged needed some fish too. The menu was fantastic -salmon poached in coconut milk and chilli which quickly put my hand up for. The roasted pork belly on the starter menu was calling my name, so I recommended Ged try it to compare commercially produced pork belly with that of our friends who home grow, and to give us an idea of what Lilly and Pilly will taste like. He complied, I tried, and while everyone else was ordering their sugar laden desserts, I was asking for roasted pork belly. OMG it was divine. The crispy skin, the fat melting in my mouth, the chewy sweetness of the meat . . . I have slipped off the moral high ground and into the mire . . .

Frog Spawn and salads on Saturday day and then back to The Lake House by popular demand. Lead me to the trough where I can taste again those flavours, and feast upon those sensations as they explode in my hungry mouth! Goodness, who is this girl?

Now that I am on my way home and in the swing of the diet and my caffeine cravings are gone (rooibos anyone?) I shall endeavour to satisfy myself with just eggs and veg – roasted, steamed and stir fried, and tame the carnivorous beast within . . .

But I think it is fair to say that when the pigs meet their maker, I shall be happy to partake of the provenance . . .

But when the diet is over and reality is resumed, with grains reintroduced, will my carnivorous cravings abate and will I climb back on my meat free high horse, or will I finally, after all these years of dietary disorders (anorexia & bulimia) find a balanced way forward where nothing is taboo and all can be consumed in moderation. Time will tell, but I’m excited to think this could be true.

Meanwhile, I feel fitter, happier, stronger. I’m sleeping well, waking early and not tied to a litre of chai before I can do anything. My brain feels clearer, I have more enthusiasm and I don’t feel like I am struggling through a fog every day – long may this continue!

A change of heart . . .

Funny how the universe can keep presenting us with information and we turn our backs on it again and again . . . I first read Louise Hay’s ‘You Can Heal Your Life’ 20 years ago and it marked a huge shift in my understanding of the metaphysical nature of dis-ease, but I didn’t ‘get’ the central message about loving and healing yourself by changing your thinking . . . .

Then more than 6 months ago my wonderful psychologist suggested Louise’s ‘The Power is Within You’ which I began to read avidly, but again I didn’t really ‘get’ the idea and it all seemed sort of too hard, and not applicable to me somehow . . . I guess I was just more comfortable with my negativity, judgemental attitudes and self hatred . . .

So I put it down again and lost myself in a novel instead . . .

Last year Ben and I started seeing a new Bowen therapist, who is a Louise Hay teacher and facilitator and she lent me the Louise Hay ‘You Can Heal Your Life’ movie. It’s been sitting on the shelf for 8 or 9 months, but recently I felt guilty about how long I have had it for, and started making intentions to watch it. Finally I plonked Ged and I in front of the computer and said ‘we’re watching this’.

And a doorway opened in my head as I finally saw the wisdom inherent in changing my critical, damning, bullying thinking . . . and the light and love of Louise Hay penetrated my closed heart. They say that ‘when the student is ready, the teacher will appear.’ So I picked up the books again and read anew.

I started with ‘I am safe. All is well.’ And my shoulders dropped, my body started relaxing and I realised what a central issue this is for me, that I am scared and feel unsafe most of the time. The more affirmations I chose, the more I invented for myself and the happier I felt. After 40 something years of a postnasal drip, I checked out the cause and affirmation and started repeating the mantra, and I started to feel better in my body and in my life . . .

I have been feeling more relaxed, less stressed, more willing to have time for enjoyment and rest and have eased up on those around me. I have stopped my obsessive exercising and have experienced deep peace in my heart for days at a time. I am eating in a more balanced way, I am more aware of what I put in my mouth, of myself, my actions, thoughts and obsessive and unconscious habits.

I guess I am becoming gentler. I still find the mirror work really hard although sometimes at yoga I reach the zone where I can look into my eyes and love myself . . . I’ve always been better at picking on myself and others and beating myself up.

The initial bliss bubble wore off after a week or two and last week I felt very discombobulated, this week I lost my temper in a big way with our infuriating neighbour (an arrogant architect who lives in Sydney and knows everything about everything up here) and I felt a whole raft of unidentified emotions bubbling under the surface . . .

By yesterday I was starting to identify them as grief – grief that I have been so mean to myself for 40 something years, that I have tortured myself and picked on myself and literally eaten away at myself for so long. I was waiting for Ged to get home so I could take myself off into the shed and process in peace. Ben and I were having a fun day regardless although his whining and crankiness has been very frustrating of late. He refused to go to bed until Daddy got home and I didn’t argue, but he was super tired and over excited when Ged did walk in the door so he started mucking up as he often does at teeth cleaning – kicking and smacking Ged and general being silly. I shouldn’t have got involved, it was their problem, but even though I am advocating and striving for ‘the way of the peaceful parent’ somehow seeing Ged being so calm made me cranky and I wanted bedtime over and the day done, so I started taking control, being bossy and impatient and of course I made things worse, longer, and more drawn out.

I am ashamed to say that I finally lost my temper and there was a horrible scene reminiscent of my childhood when a beautiful small boy felt completely powerless and overpowered by the adults and his distress was enormous. When he smacked me I actually smacked him back and screamed ‘how does it feel?’ I am far from proud of myself and I cut off my three week www.theorangerhino.com arm band in my guilt and shame.

And then I wept and sobbed and howled and what came up for me was all those feelings of self hatred and worthlessness and being bad. They came up one after another in all their darkness and ugliness so I could take a good look at them. I was plunged into that old depression and despair, contemplating running away for ever (except the trailer was on the car full of mulch and so I couldn’t take my car) or killing myself and freeing my beautiful boys of the torment and me of the agony of being such a blight on the earth. One after one these emotions presented themselves to me in all their horror and diabolical allure, and my body shook and retched and writhed as I felt them one by one. These are the core beliefs that have been running my particular show for all these years – ugly, sad, horrible, every one.

At least I didn’t fall for them, I let them come, I didn’t buy into them as I have in the past. I must be getting better, a little more healed, a little less hurt. And the fact that they were so violent in their insistence means I must be threatening their existence with all this positive self talk and affirmation, I’d better keep it up despite feeling very fragile this morning . . .

This path of personal growth and change is a rocky and steep one. But there’s no turning back and I know now that I can leave hell behind if I persist. I am so lucky to have the most wonderful, forgiving, generous and kind man as my husband. And the most beautiful, light filled, angel as my child. Sent to save me, heal me, forgive me, and love me as I have never been loved before and to help me to love myself and become a better human being. I am so very blessed.

How Chickens changed my life . . . and the psychology of food

Happy Cows at Avalon

Ho hum. One of the wonders of blogging is the opportunity to connect with others – across Australia and around the world. Last week I became the recipient of a large number of comments on my last post ‘The Carnivore’s Conundrum’ from a host of vegans from across the US of A, because a philosophical professor and vegan blogger had posted a link in his blog, ‘Eating Plants’.

And then I became the subject and target of a great deal of violent vegan activism, particularly because I am soiling my son’s soul by allowing (forcing) him to murder innocent baby animals in order to fulfil some misguided fantasy that he needs meat in order to grow and be healthy. Phew!

As you can imagine, it has all got me thinking . . . and many of the comments have resonated deeply with my soul, because I was a vegan for over 20 years. I too was an angry, militant, neurotic food nazi who drove my friends and family crazy. I was completely committed to my belief that to kill any animal was anathema to the soul, and that we are supposed to live on this planet harming none (meanwhile, with my anger and attacking personality I was hurting the humans around me). I believed in peace but there was no peace or love in my heart. In fact, the reason I love animals so much and crave their presence them is because they radiate the peace that I have so rarely felt in my head, body and heart.

I was in a war zone of my own creation. At war with myself with my enraged, judgemental, critical and perfectionist mindset. At war with the world. I had been anorexic since my teens, and then when I gave up smoking, alcohol, and recreational drugs, I became firstly fat and spotty, and then bulimic. As I began to work through a life time’s rage, the bulimia stopped (thank God, because that complete out of control experience was the most terrifying for this control freak) and slowly, slowly, I began to see that all this control around what I would or wouldn’t eat was a manifestation of my continued eating disorders. There was the paradox, my spiritual beliefs around eating meat were deeply seated, and yet as I explored my psychology, I could clearly see that all these rules and the obsessive, excessive, exercise were all part of the same rigid control patterns. They say that anorexia stems from a desire to control SOMETHING in a life that seems totally out of the sufferer’s control. I resonate with that. And I also see that the childhood sexual abuse and critical parenting which gave me to believe that I was not good enough, unworthy of love etc, made me believe that I was also unworthy of good things, happiness, a nice life, and hearty, healthy food.

As a single person I didn’t cook creatively for myself and had a habitual diet of tofu & veg stir fries, and pasta as my quick and easy comfort food. I was close to 40 and despite all the exercise and vegan food, I wasn’t really healthy. So I fronted up to a fantastic naturopath, Mim Beim, with a wonderfully pragmatic approach to health and wellbeing. She was horrified at my supposedly healthy diet and its lack of protein, which is the building block for the body. We talked about how my veganism was just another manifestation of my lifelong eating disorders. She knew it, I knew it, but we both had to respect my spiritual beliefs as well. ‘Could you eat fish?’ she asked. ‘No way’ I answered. ‘Sardines?’ she queried. I gagged. ‘What about eggs?’ I balked. But she insisted that I must start eating some protein. Finally, I capitulated, ‘Only from my own chickens’ I said. So it was that I bought 6 lovely Isa Browns, or Rhode Island Reds as they are called in the UK and US. I made a home for them, fed them, watered them, cuddled them and loved them and before long they started gifting me with daily eggs.

It wasn’t easy to begin with, eating them, but soon I became used to and learned to love, my poached eggs on toast and I began to feel stronger and healthier. What, I beg of the vegans, is wrong with eggs. These are NOT baby chickens, because there is no rooster to fertilise them. They are eggs, just like most women release every month. Hens just lay them every day. As a by-product of all the good grain and scratching around for worms and bugs. They are an important part of the ecosystem – chooks eat the paralysis ticks which could kill the dog or cat, they provide food for same and their human owner, they rake over the ground and improve it by aerating it, they fertilise it with their lovely nutritious poo, and they are delightful to befriend and be around. Happy, healthy, free ranging chooks lay beautiful eggs which are a joy to consume. We should all keep a few in our backyards and knock the global cage bird egg production industry on its foul (pardon the pun) head . . .

I am a firm believer that the Dairy industry is indescribably cruel. Boy calves born to dairy cows are routinely shot immediately after birth, or just left to die from weakness and lack of food. Some farmers bucket feed them for a few months to be sold and slaughtered for vealers, and we have spent a lot of time and mine bottle feeding dairy born boys. Many fail to thrive because they just want their mothers, and they often haven’t had the benefit of the first essential colostrum feeds. The reality is that male animals are raised for slaughter, the girls are ‘keepers’ because they add to the herd with their breeding prowess. Sometimes we have to help the young to suckle. Sometimes we have to milk the mother and bottle feed the baby until they can ‘latch on’ for themselves. This happens with human babies too. And often the Mumma Cow doesn’t mind sharing a little milk with her human. Although I agree that humans are not designed to consume or digest dairy products past weaning off their own Mothers. But on the farm we do learn to share!

The vegans would have all flesh raising farming cease immediately. But while they focus on factory farming which is abhorrent, what they don’t realise is that there are an awful lot of small farms across the globe who use herbivores to manage weeds and pasture. And if we love these amazing animals and want to share our lives with them how do we do that – just keep them as pets? Or do we kill them all off and just let the beautiful countryside revert to weeds and trees? And do the rabid vegans like the farmed countryside to visit and appreciate and will they miss it when it goes? My dog is a carnivore – how am I supposed to feed him? Isn’t it better that we raise our own animals, giving them happy and beautiful lives, and peaceful deaths (one shot, no fear) rather than hauling them to the abattoir where they smell the fear and the blood?

Humans have always been opportunistic carnivores, mainly eating fruits, grubs and leaves, tubers and herbs. Their diets have been supplemented by what nature has presented in the way of protein – eggs and meat. Spiritually, I agree we must do no harm and tread carefully and gently in this Eden. But I don’t see the problem with unfertilised eggs. And yes, I guess, living on this land that I adore and nurture, with these beautiful, gentle, beings who I love, has changed my mindset somewhat. I remain on the horns of a dilemma, but I feel more empathy and respect for people who are on the land and raising and killing animals for their own consumption like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Jamie Oliver et al. Because they are wrestling with their conscience in very real terms, and they truly respect and love the animals they consume, waste nothing, and honour that a life has been given that they might eat meat.

Vegans also abhor the robbing of honey from hives, but bees are essential for pollination and life. I’m more up in arms about the heat treatment of honey (which destroys all its health giving properties) than the global honey industry. I love our bees and getting up close and personal with them in the hive is amazing. What a lesson in the miracles of Mother Nature. As in all things, we must not be greedy, and take too much.

The vegans are angry about my decision to feed Ben meat. But here he is, growing up on a 400 acre oasis, with the platypus playing in the river, the alpacas providing the fleece for his duvet, the sheep providing the fleece for his underlay and felting projects, the chooks laying eggs for his breakfast and yes, a lamb or two a year and a steer go in the freezer for his consumption. And he loves those animals, he gets to see them being born, learning to live, staying safe from the predatory wild dogs, foxes, eagles etc and growing up happy and very much loved. He also tends the veggie patch with me and he knows where food comes from. He has an amazing life here – rich and varied and full of the miracles of Mother Nature and her incredible abundance. He has a reverent attitude to life, and an appreciation that death is a natural part of life. It comes to us all, and what better epitaph for any of us, than that our lives meant something, that we are remembered with love and gratitude.

I know before I had a child I was full of high minded ideals about how to raise them. It’s amazing how the reality of Motherhood and parenthood changes much of that. Not that there is anything wrong with holding high minded ideals but as my psychologist tells me – there’s no such thing as Mary Poppins and while aiming high is healthy, being a perfectionist is not. I have been a rigid perfectionist for all my life to date, and the person who has suffered most is ME.

My little Libra child came to me to teach me BALANCE in all things and while I may be a slow learner, I am sure that I will get there in the end. Or as my dearly beloved Grannie used to say ‘a little of what you fancy does you good.’

Vegans (remembering that I have been one for almost half my life) won’t wear leather and many won’t even wear wool. But what is worse – the petrochemical plastics and recycled PET bottle fleeces which are produced by first raping the planet for oil, then concocting chemical solutions with their resultant waste products into the waterways etc and then not biodegrading once they are worn out? I would rather wear natural products from the animals I adore, and feel their loving gift to me, and know that once they are worn out, they will natural compost down, giving back to the earth they came from.

The vegans who have diatribed against me refuse to answer the questions about where their food comes from and how entwined they are with its production and packaging. They are more concerned about damning any bloodshed than entering into the very real and live debate that all humans need to engage in about where and why and how ALL their food is raised and grown and harvested and shipped and packaged and priced. THIS is the crucial ethical debate of our time. That we all learn to shop locally, eat with the seasons, know the growers, engage with the farms, meet the farmer and the animals and make decisions based on that solid footing and relationship with the land. As long as foodstuffs are scrubbed, packaged and priced at below production costs, presented in artificially lit supermarket lane ways at bargain basement prices and bearing no relation to the land or beast that produced them, we will never learn to engage with Nature, with reality, with the land that sustains us.

Don’t damn those who are thinking, feeling, and philosophising about food and clothing – embrace and educate them, calmly and rationally. We are all emotive beings and food politics can ramp up the emotional temperature. But let’s open up this debate, open our hearts and minds to lots of different perspectives and arguments and make our own choices without ramming them down everyone else’s throats.

The Carnivore’s Conundrum

New lamb 2013

For most of my life I have been a vegetarian. For a long time there I was a vegan. I have had my moments of meat eating but then my spiritual sense that all animals are sacred beings has sent me back to the veggies and pulses.

Living on the farm has changed me, and I waver more and end up sitting on the fence a lot! It was all very clear cut for me before I had Ben. I wondered and worried whether he would want to eat meat, whether I would know if he did, whether I would let him and cook it for him etc . . . (I have to admit that I have turned Mother Worry and Guilt into an art form!) But one day, I looked across at my toddler sitting eating at the dining table and I realised ‘that boy needs meat’ . . the next day his career as a carnivore began.

And this has changed me. Keeping his diet balanced with meat and veg and being determined that he eats the very best meat money can buy – which, of course, means not buying meat at all but slaughtering our own. Now he’s almost 5 and happily eating Harry, our lovely chestnut steer out of Honey, and beautiful farm bred and reared lamb (the sheep don’t have names . . .)

I cried when Harry went and as I witnessed his terror and resignation in the trailer. He knew exactly where he was going. On the one hand he accepted that this was the ultimate gift he gave to us and humankind, but on the other he had the natural terror we all feel when facing death and bucking (literally) against that unknown abyss.

But I have cried over the natural losses we face as well – unexplained illness and death or deformity. The waste of a life and the cruelty of nature. The randomness of Mother Nature’s scythe across the swathe of our livestock. Is it better just to die or to be killed and used and appreciated? I have tasted and enjoyed the lamb, but I balk at sampling Harry.

We bought our first pigs last year so we could have a house full of ham and bacon, but of course they have stolen our hearts and are off to the boar tomorrow for some fun and frolicking and to birth our pig population to fill a few local freezers. Two more fatteners arrive tomorrow and they need to be called Ham and Bacon so we keep the end in mind and not fall in love with them. I have hatched a plan for pigs and chooks to live together in harmony so later in the year we should be able to fill the freezer with lots of roast chicken dinners and I am looking forward to hanging hams, making salami etc.

My body really appreciates meat but in my grief over my beloved horse and friend, Baby, and my clear realisation that she was my Mother in another life in India when I died as a child, my belief in reincarnation has become ever stronger (although I have never wavered in that). I have come to understand that far from common belief that animals are somehow lower on the spiritual scale than us, that they are, in fact, higher.

I have always said that people who think animals are stupid are wrong – after all you don’t see any animals on the relentless wheel of work, mortgage, motor and power payments – they live peacefully with what they have and can forage. Cuddle a cow, alpaca, horse, pig or sheep and you can feel the palpable sense of peace they exude. They are happier than us humans, far more content. Serene in their sense of spirit and where they stand in the grand scheme of things.

I began to think that they gave of themselves in the ultimate sacrifice as an act of service. Now I think they are accepting of our insistence in slaughtering and eating them. Perhaps this is the human dilemma – whether to serve the base needs of the body or the higher mind and spiritual consciousness. Maybe this that I wrestle with is the ultimate human question. The idea of eating flesh and blood feels so much like cannibalism to me and yet faced with a plate of pork sausages, roast lamb or chicken, I am often hard pressed not to sample some, though the texture can often revolt me.

How can it be right to kill another, whether human or animal? Is it ok to kill a wild dog who is stalking our livestock? Or to end the suffering of an animal or human in pain? Does our quest for flesh make it easier to countenance the demise of another human in a war or other? These are all big questions with no easy or right answers . . . the Bible purportedly says ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and yet globally Christians eat meat with relish.

Tales of cannibalism relay how addictive it is to eat the flesh of another and I do believe that eating meat is addictive. Perhaps we are all trapped in a spiral of addiction to flesh? I don’t know what the answer is, and I wish for a finite solution.

Meanwhile I continue on my path on the land of raising healthy, happy livestock for my family and friends to enjoy . . . I guess what I have learned is to have enormous respect and love for the animals we eat, to know where they have come from, what they have eaten, how they have lived and died. And to rest easy in that, at least.

For the animals’ sake, I wish for every carnivore to ask themselves the same hard questions, and to make sure that the meat they eat is raised ethically, organically and killed peacefully, if it is possible for any of us to go gently into that final goodbye . . .

Platypus Tales

When I was at school in the UK we learned about the Australian platypus. I thought it was big, like a beaver. It was mythical – like a pterodactyl or unicorn. Most people will never see one in their lifetimes – in the wild or in captivity. And contrary to my expectation and early education, they are small, only about a foot long, in the old measurement.

I was so excited when my Kangaroo Valley neighbour, Neil, said he had spotted one on his early morning run. I couldn’t wait to get down to the spot at 7 the next morning to spy the monotreme for myself. I stood on the timber walking bridge in the early morning chill and mist and waited. Just when I was sure that he wouldn’t show, up popped a small, sleek creature who paddled around for a moment before duck diving back down to the depths.

Mesmerised, I returned again and again to witness what seemed like a miracle. Little did I know that only a few years later I would have the privilege to live on a large farm, bounded by pristine river, populated with hundreds of these amazing little creatures. They are creatures of habit and I can often set my clock by them. Mummy keeps saying I should get a dishwasher but then when would I get to gaze, from my kitchen window, at the peaceful flow and playful platypus in the pool below the house?

They have a reputation for being shy and I never understood why as they don’t mind us, the current custodians of this beautiful oasis, until we started having visitors and trying to point out a platypus to them. Suddenly our platypus friends are in hiding!

I have swum with them a couple of times in the summer. There are three main pools I swim in and I have come face to face with a platypus in each. They look at me calmly and curiously with their small eyes in the white skin surround and then disappear beneath the surface to steer clear of the giant in their water world.

In the first big flood Ged and I experienced on ANZAC day 2008, we walked around the riverscape, marvelling at the force and flow. When we went down to where our concrete bridge normally is, there was a huge expanse of brown muddy water and we stood in our wellies in the first 6 inches or so. I looked down and saw a platypus inches away from my feet for one brief instant, I bent down to pick it up, but it was already gone. I hope he or she survived.

In the last flood we took Benno down to the end of the flat where normally there is a big dipper into the river that we drive down. The flood water was up to the height of the flat and there was a platypus ducking and diving in the murky depths. They are easiest to see when the river is thick and red-brown with mud, as the contrast shows them up more clearly. In the clear crystal pools they can be hard to see for the untrained eye when the rings in the water show only where they were, not where they will pop up next!

Benno has (or had, until the last two floods ripped away some of the riverbank) his special ‘Platypus Walk’ which he would take newcomers to the property on, to show them the places where the platypus eat freshwater mussels on the bank, overlooking their feeding grounds.

We delight in being able to watch them every day. Sometimes we have seen as many as 5 at once in the main pool beneath the house, and once we witnessed (and videoed) what we could only assume to be a courtship and subsequent mating which looked like platypus synchronised swimming and involved lots of fun, frolicking and splashing – what a treat!

My most amazing moment to date came when we were recently down in Kangaroo Valley for the annual show (in which I came last in the over 45 iron woman event!) Late one afternoon, when it finally stopped raining, I went for a run down to Flat Rock. This consists of a beautiful natural bedrock pool which the Aborigines used for birthing and women’s business, and then a causeway of stones worn smooth by the water over millennia. It was twilight as I rounded the final corner and stepped onto the concrete causeway forming part of the road. In the dusk I saw a flash of movement to my left where Gibson Creek murmurs down to meet the Kangaroo. And there in the half light was a platypus aqua planing across the rock in a centimetre of water. He steered himself down through one of the pipes under the road and plopped out into the little pool below where he swam to the debris and roots which hid his home from view. He was only a toddler and clearly having fun – he looked pretty pleased with himself. Platypus have given me many moments of pure, unadulterated, natural magic.

Giardia or the Alien Invasion at Avalon

Ever since I first started living the rural Australian life near Tamworth 10 or more years ago I have been drinking tank water and relishing it. In Tamworth the water was pumped from the huge dam in the old lime quarry on the neighbour’s place or fell from the sky. In Kangaroo Valley it was trickled down from a spring in the bush behind the property or gifted by God in the form of rain (which there was plenty of!) and here, at Avalon, it is pumped from the river until we put a rainwater tank after Pickle was born. But I relish the fresh, sweet, water we drink here and from the river or creek on a run. I love just dipping my hands in and gulping it down on a hot day or just to cool down a hot flush. I don’t want to stop that. We have a horrible Richard Scarry book (we call it ‘the torture book’) about how the world works and we tell Benno that we don’t believe in coal powered electricity (it is old-fashioned) and that we don’t understand why they treat the water with all the chemicals . . . only now I do!

Before Christmas when the river was very low because it hadn’t rained for three months, we had friends to stay and for lunch and the following week we all had dodgy bellies of varying degrees. Then in February I felt sick all the time and had an ache in my tummy and foul diarrhoea and burping. After a couple of weeks I even went and saw our divine Doctor who, of course, prescribed antibiotics, thinking it was a bug. I was so sick that I went on holiday in The Tree House to rest, and I took the antibiotics for the first time in well over 20 years.

I did feel a bit better for a few days after that but then the symptoms came back and I was exhausted! Dragging myself around and sleeping after lunch in ‘quiet time’ every day. Then I figured it must be an ulcer because I’ve had one before and all the symptoms were similar – constant nausea, loss of interest in food etc. So I started myself on the heal ulcer diet – bananas and natural yoghurt all day. My tummy felt a bit better but my symptoms kept getting worse. Then we had all the floods and in addition to dragging myself through each day, I was hauling Ben and I over the raging river every day, hand over hand, on the flying fox. Every inch a huge effort, with a few rests on the way, and Benno counting me in for the last 10 metres each way.

It was a bit like morning sickness – constant nausea, feeling that there was a snake rolling and twisting in my belly, feeling a bit better with the first mouthful and worse thereafter. I was losing weight, listless, exhausted. It was horrible. Finally I turned to Doctor Google and found all my symptoms matched those for Giardiasis or ‘Beaver Fever’ as they call it in the US. Back to the Doc and as soon as I told him my symptoms he said ‘Giardia’ and printed out the prescription and the stool sample forms. I didn’t want to take the potent pills without a positive diagnosis but I got the script filled just in case (after all, we’re a long way from a pharmacy) and popped my poo into pathology.

Three days later, just before knock off time on the day before the Easter holiday, the surgery rang to say I had tested positive for Giardia. Thank goodness I had the pills to hand. I waited til Benno was asleep then downed them with some food and took myself off to bed (my very favourite place for this whole nightmare). Half an hour later I was bent double over the toilet bowl vomiting for the first time in many years. Those pills tasted truly foul coming up the other way. Sleep was the best way to process and I crashed out long before Ged came home.

The next morning I was up early and making everyone breakfast and tea and barking out instructions for the day. Ged and Ben looked at me in amazement. When I saw their blank and uncomprehending faces I said ‘what’s better – sick Mummy or bossy Mummy?’ With one voice, united, they replied ‘Bossy Mummy!’

She’s back . . . ! It was our very own Easter miracle, my own resurrection from the almost dead. Thank God.

Then we had Ben and Ged tested. Ben was positive, but Ged negative. Regardless, we decided they would both have the medicine, and in fact that week Ged started to feel sick and snake in the belly. I was tempted to let him suffer for a few weeks so he would have more sympathy for how I had felt for over 6 weeks, but relented in the end and organised the drugs. My symptoms then returned – obviously all the eggs had not been destroyed by the first batch, maybe because I threw up.

I was beginning to think that we would never be rid of this parasite. I felt like Sigourney Weaver in Alien, or maybe the colleague with the beastie erupting out of his belly . . . when would this nightmare end?

We all took the toxic chemicals, gladly if they would kill the uninvited guests. We all got our energy back, Ben started being happy again after I don’t know how long of crankiness, and Ged came home on the Friday night with a clear complexion after about a year of some strange, increasing, blotchy, spotty, red rash all over his face.

It looks like we had been hosting these little Aliens for a long time. Who knew how long?

Water is the most common source and I am now pretty neurotic about only drinking double filtered or boiled water. I hope I can and will relax my vigilance as time heals my body and the memories ease. I hope that this was an aberration, maybe caused when we have, by necessity, pumped still muddy water after a flood, or too low to the riverbed during the dry times last year. Or maybe it’s from drinking milk straight from the cow. Or maybe just from all the lovely poo we work into the veggie patch and simply not cleaning our hands carefully enough. Or maybe Ben had it first and Ged and I got it from wiping his bum and not scrubbing up enough or me cleaning the loo without rubber gloves – who knows. I don’t want to become OCD about hand washing or all Hyacinth Bouquet about Marigolds but I am becoming surgeon like! We will never know where it came from. We can only have all the water tested for E coli, not for giardia, so we will get the rain water tested and maybe the river water just to see . . .

We have some pretty vile herbs from Angela at The Horse Herbalist to make sure all the eggs are dead, and I have even been taking homeopathic arsenic so keen am I to make sure they can’t survive.

Fingers crossed it was an aberration and we will never be visited by these horrible parasites again – they are not welcome here!

Back to Back Floods

It seems like a long time ago now as I have been battling the Aliens in my belly, but at the end of February and beginning of March we had unprecedented rainfall and two floods back to back over two consecutive weekends. I didn’t think Ged would get home on the first Friday night (22nd February) because the rivers and creeks were rising so fast, but he got in by the skin of his teeth. Both cars had to be abandoned on the other side of the river and we all had to haul ourselves across the raging torrent on the flying fox, hand over slow hand.

The rain was pounding on the tin roof so loudly we could barely hear ourselves speak, let alone think, and hourly checks of the river showed it rising at an alarming rate. By bedtime the roar of the river was competing with the rain of the roof and while I passed out into dreamless slumber, Ged was kept up all night after the howling wind started to compete in the battle of the elements. Every time he heard a crash he went out and investigated and checked that we were still safe. He brought the farm car into the house paddock and parked it next to the verandah, ready for evacuation to higher ground, because never before has the river risen so rapidly or violently. I slept through . . .

Being floodbound is always exciting – witnessing the power and force of Mother Nature, knowing that we are completely cut off from the world. We had no internet which was really frustrating so we had no idea what was happening in the wider community – we were well and truly marooned. We went for a walk and drive around the property on Saturday morning and saw higher water levels than ever before. Angle Creek had backed up right over the bridge and there was no sign of Paddy or her lovely little Melissa calf. We presumed they had gone up into the bush to get away from the deluge.

The water was significantly higher than ANZAC day 2008 and the force of the flow was incredible. At the end of the house river flat we stood and watched a platypus feeding at our feet – under normal circumstances that is a steep bank down into a shallow river crossing. No sign of Paddy and Melissa but all the other animals were present and correct. It was a housebound weekend and amazing that Ged and Ben got out over all the creeks on Monday morning for preschool and work. The highway had been closed at Long Flat all weekend and when we saw the height and extent of the flooding we were all amazed. Once the internet came back on we realised just how widespread the damage and deluge had been.

I was weak and sick so pulling Ben and I across the river and back in our saggy flying fox was really hard work. I grew muscles in both body and mind! The river was slower than normal to recede, but beginning to go down when the rain in earnest began again. It was like Groundhog Day. Again Ged got home with minutes to spare, but at least this time we didn’t have the roaring winds and crashing trees. We stood at the window and saw a huge gum uproot from the bank and fall down into the river. Closer inspection of the banks during the week saw enormous she oaks had been ripped, roots and all, out of the river bank, gouging great chunks from our land. Now it was all happening again, it seemed incredible that so much water could fall out of the sky and we found streams and creeks rushing out of the bush where we’ve never seen water before. Still no sign of Paddy and the calf.

The second flood was stronger, faster and more powerful and took 10 days to go down so we could finally drive into and out of the property again. So for three weeks Ben and I were hand over hand across 100 metres of muddy brown torrent. Hot, sticky work!

Our river landscape has completely changed. We have welcomed a beautiful sandy beach at our swimming hole below the house, Ged has farewelled a huge rock he used to stand on which has moved 20 metres further downstream, and we have lost more bank. Thankfully all the young she oaks we felled on the other river bank which were waiting to be burnt have all been swept out to sea. Have checked with our neighbour, Pat, and they went straight past her. We went to the beach the other day and I think I saw bits of them in the driftwood pile on the tideline. All the rocks and pebbles at our bridge were completely rearranged and we had to wait for the tractor to come back from its long holiday at the menders (almost a year and $5,500!) before Ged could blade them all back again. It has been a bumpy ride in more ways than one!

But our greatest loss is the beautiful Paddy and little newcomer to Avalon, Melissa. We have looked high and low, up into the bush on rocky crags and escarpments and down along Angle Creek but there has been no sign, or smell. We have watched the wedge tail eagles circling and trudged up to where they land but nothing there either. They are gone and we can only presume that they slipped into Angle Creek and have been swept away to sea. It is hard to believe that we will never see them again and that they are lost to us completely.

Paddy has been here with us since the beginning. She has stood patiently while we all learned to milk kneeling at her huge udder. She has been friend and comforter. We thought she would have to have a bullet when she seemed to dislocate her shoulder over a year ago, but after a month or so of limping she came good, if always a bit slower than the rest of the herd. We had determined that Melissa would be her last calf because of the distension of her udder. But now we have neither.

We can only hope they survived – we have written to the paper to broadcast her loss, but we all have the same feeling, that they didn’t survive. Angle Creek rose so fast and the banks are so steep that it is possible that Paddy went down to water and slipped in, or maybe the calf slipped in and she went after it. We will never know. We are richer for having known and loved her, we are the poorer for her passing.

It’s a reminder that we are at the mercy of the elements, that Mother Nature has more power than we can ever contest. We think we are so in control of our world, but when we look at the sheer naked force of a flood or gaze up at the crystal clear skies at night, we are reminded just how small and insignificant we are.

The Babies and the Boobies

Alpaca hug

We have had almost every conceivable birth difficulty and defect here this year. Waiting and watching for babies is pretty constant for much of spring, summer and autumn.

Firefly was born to Tinkerbell in mid winter. He was all wonky from the first and only after all day of waiting for him to stand up did we realise something was very amiss and whisk them both into the house paddock. We didn’t know if he would make it, did a lot of googling and realised he was ‘windswept’, his legs might straighten or not. But first we had to milk Tinkerbell for the colostrum and try and get that boy on the booby. We soon gave up and brought him into the house by the fire and gave him two hourly feeds. We even had to take him to town with us and leaving him with friends for a few hours each while we went shopping. We got some very strange looks unloading him from the back of the car at the beach for a quick bottle stop! We took him to the vet who splinted the legs and after quite a lot of fiddling to get them right we trained those legs to stand straight and he is an absolute delight. Our kissing and cuddling cria to this day.

We had our first twin lambs but one was weaker and couldn’t get on the booby. I had my first experience of milking a ewe to get some colostrum for him and try and tempt him on to the teat. I guess we should have just taken him away and bottle fed him and we will know for next time, but we lost him, he walked away from his mum in the night and got out of the pen and was dead in the morning. Always a heartache, what a waste.

Then there was Bambi, just came home one day and there she was. Gorgeous doe eyed suri out of Caroline. After doing twice and thrice daily drive bys for weeks, Artimesia birthed when no one was watching and obviously had problems. Because we found her and the baby not long dead, who had obviously died in the birthing process. Wendy we found with a dead baby stuck half in and half out and I discovered the infinite joys of KY jelly and gloves (as opposed to bare hands) when inside and pulling. Poor Wendy. Though she seems much happier to be free of Motherhood and with Peter Pan finally off the boob.

Sapphire birthed little black Lucky on the day we rolled the car and it was wonderful to get home and find a little shadow present for us after what had been a truly horrible and traumatic day. Blossom birthed on the day the lovely sheep shearer came. Found the afterbirth but no baby. There were five of us looking down the riverbank and among the she oaks but no sign all day. Just bizarre. That night Ged went out to shoot a wild dog we knew was around and found instead a cria roaming, looking for his Mum. Ged had gun raised and him in his sights until he saw the long neck. Good thing my man is all sense and eagle eyed, especially with a gun in his hand.

Blossom was so pleased to be reunited with the boy she thought she had lost, so we called him Lost Boy and he got straight on the booby no trouble at all. Then Charity birthed another little boy child who had a hard time getting on the boob and seemed weak and she seemed distressed. We came home from town and found him roasting in the sun down by the river and hauled him up under the lemon tree in the house paddock while I found bottle, teat and cria milk. It was only after his second bottle that I thought to check his bum, something we were told to do with all newborns. No anus opening. Shit!

So I left him with Mum and rang Ged, the vet and Ged again. There was no way we could afford a new arsehole two weeks before Christmas and the vet said the prognosis was not good. Back and forth I went on the phone, to the shed, to Charity who looked at me beseechingly saying ‘do something, do something’ and to that strong little boy who was so determined to live. I even tried to make the cut myself and learned that while vets make it look easy, it’s not. I called him Hope because ‘where there’s life, there’s hope’ and the next morning when he was still as determined to stay here as ever, and both the Bowen ladies had concurred that he just needed a simple cosmetic procedure. I rang the vet again but they couldn’t do him, so rang another vet, struck a deal with him re cost and raced Hope back out to the road so the Bowen ladies could take him into town.

Phew! $500 or so later he is just fine, no problems at all, a feisty, bouncing boy and Charity was so happy to have him home and well. She lost her little Christmas last year, we had to save Hope to give her hope . . .

And then there was Ruby. Born while our beloved Grippers were here after Christmas with one blood red eye (hence her name) she wouldn’t stand up, her neck was bent, she had a strange one eyed view of the world and we worked out that she was almost certainly blind. And after a week of trying to get her on the boob and bottle feeding her, and spending lots of time on Google, we realised she had the very rare choanal atresia which meant that she couldn’t breathe through her nose. She would progressively turn blue while drinking her bottle. We had to say enough and let her go.

Each one has a name, a personality, a soul and heart. Letting any of them go is really hard.

The rest of the lambs were rams and now the cows are setting their burdens on the ground. First Paddy, our Jersey cross whose udder is progressively bigger with each baby and each time we say ‘no more’ but she always finds her way to a bull somewhere! She birthed lovely little Melissa a few days ago and Ged and I had to milk the colostrum out and bottle feed her. I finally really got the hang of milking and feeling the chamber fill and release – beautiful. Then, having persuaded her to latch onto one teat, I had to try and train her to try the other side which is lower and with a stumpier teat. Anybody who ever says breast feeding is easy is a fool – best, yes, but rarely easy!

Honey birthed down in the rain yesterday no dramas at all and just turned up at the house with a littlie going great guns at the milk bar, the rain is so atrocious we haven’t got close enough to sex it or name it, but Ged thinks it is a boy which will fill the freezer later – poor Honey, she needs to have a girl so she can keep it close.

Here’s hoping the rest of the calves and cria come easily and no more problems, we have had a steep learning curve this year, but each experience gives us knowledge, hardens our hands (if not our hearts) and makes us more like farmers . . .

Ode to a Horse

There is an emptiness at Avalon. A hole where once there was a being of great heart and love. Where once there was the most beautiful girl in the world, now there is . . . nothing.

Seeing the other horses just makes the pain worse. They are all so different. Every animal has its own distinct personality, nature, issues, body, coat, hair, eyes etc. So I will never see or feel anything like Baby again as long as I live on this earth. Never wind that forelock around my fingers, tut tut over the incredible tangles in her mane and spend the time unravelling them. Never stand behind her with her tail at heart height and lean in to her, scratching down her flanks as she leaned back against me swaying in ecstasy. No other horse will ever be exactly the same height and width and weight and soul. No other horse will ever be the perfect fit for me like she was.

Baby had the most beautiful broad back, a joy to sit astride. She had perfect feet – dainty ballerina hooves despite her tendency to run to fat. She was a big, buxom, full hearted brown mama. Full of love.

Every feeling is indelibly imprinted in my hands – the warmth and softness as I stroked her face, neck, shoulder, belly, back and bum. The thick silk ropes of her tail. The fluffy fronds inside her ears, the velvet of her muzzle . . . the unconditional love and understanding in those beautiful brown eyes.

The peace in my heart and restless mind when I was in her presence. The simple joys of carrying water and hay, shovelling sweet smelling manure and whispering sweet nothings into ever alert ears. She has taught me everything I know about horses, she helped me understand the frustration my mother felt with me, she showed me how to look beyond the traditional givens of horsemanship and to listen to the wisdom of the horse. She opened my heart, gave me something to live for in the darkest of times, gave me a purpose, gave me a reason and led me to my dream farm, home, life.

Nothing that I have and hold dear now would have happened without Baby in my life. She changed it irrevocably. She shaped it, moulded it. She gave it meaning and life. Oh, God, I miss her so much.

Big Daisy is my succour, she lets me sob into her neck while she is placidly chewing her cud. They have the same warmth, gentle love and tolerance. Someone asked me how did I feel when I was with Baby and I answered ‘peace’ but more time to think made me realise that it was more than that. I felt love, I felt loved. I felt secure in that unconditional love. I was known and seen and loved regardless by a being with more heart and love than a hundred humans put together. She and I had known and shared and grown together. For a quarter of my life here on earth she was my friend, foe, comforter, confidante and great love.

Ultimately she taught me that the greatest gift we can give each other, share together, is time . . .

Big, beautiful Baby, I love you so, darling, miss you so, thank you for everything, please come back . .