Learning to live with Change

It’s been a long, long time since I have written here.  I couldn’t bear to replace Phee’s gorgeous pic.  It meant admitting that he was gone.  It meant moving on.  And how do you do that?  How do you accept that your best friend is no more?  How do you face the world when someone you love so deeply and wholeheartedly isn’t there any more?

Phee had been my partner in all things for 12 years.  He went almost everywhere with me.  He slept on my bed, curled at my back or feet.  He snuggled under the duvet every morning when I drank my tea.  He ruined countless sheets and duvet covers with muddy paw prints.  He welcomed me at the gate every night when I came home from work or town.  He loved me.  Unconditionally.  No matter what.

And when he died it seemed like a part of me died too.  Because only he had shared all those years before Ged with me.  Moving to Australia, Tamworth, Kangaroo Valley.  He was not just a part of my life, but a part of me.  The better part.  With animals we can truly be ourselves – raw, unfiltered and vulnerable.  He saw my insecurities, grief and loneliness and comforted me.  He shared my soul story and healing.  He was a pivot around who my life turned.  He tethered me to the planet when the darkness threatened to consume me.

He, Baby, Tom, Tinkerbell and I were family.  Now only Tinkerbell is left (and she is cranky, not cuddly!) and I am alone.

Not really.  But the fabric of my family as was has been ripped apart and there is a deep loneliness in that.  Daisy gone too.  When I go for walks now I don’t have the joy of looking for her and seeing her head raise at my call.  I miss laying myself against her flank and smoothing and stroking the short silky nape of her skin.  She brought me so much comfort,  joy and peace.  I miss her so much.

No one who has gone can ever be replaced.  We are all unique.  But over time I have begun to understand that we can love another, love again.  Time is truly the great healer.  That and the tears that have to be shed so the heart can open once more.

Grief is such a long and lonely journey.  It seems incredible that the world can keep turning, that the sun gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night when the one we love is gone.  And yet, the world is still a beautiful place – birds sing, flowers bloom, life goes on.

And one day, we will be gone too.  I think a lot about that now.  Where to be buried or burnt.  How I want my body touched and prepared and by who.  And now, after 50 years of intermittently not wanting to be here, now I don’t want to die (there’s irony for you!)  I don’t want to say goodbye to the people and land I love, as well as this amazing planet.

But I’m applying to have a burial ground where Baby died and was burnt, where Phee used to sit and wait as I sobbed for her.  Where Daisy often hung out with Baby.  I will go there when my body is spent.

In the meantime, I have things to do, books to write, a legacy to leave.  Something that lasts so my life’s experiences have some meaning.

And others to love.  It has taken me a long time to truly open my heart to Goldie and Mudji.  To realise that loving them is not a betrayal of Phoenix.  On the contrary, it is a celebration that his legacy goes on.  And that all that he taught me about love has been embodied.  That will make him happy.

Life Lesson

It’s been almost two years since my beloved horse, Baby, was released from her pain by Ged and his gun.  Almost two years of grieving.  Brought to my knees by the physical pain of loss, feeling like my heart has been torn in two, flung to the ground by tsunamis of tears and aching, shaking misery at never touching or holding or seeing her again.

I have knelt on my yoga mat with her halter clutched to my chest and wept oceans of tears for my friend, my mother, my comforter, my saviour, my rock.  She was all those things to me.  Just to walk alongside her with her lead rope in my hand, chatting or silent, brought me incalculable happiness.  I didn’t spend enough time with her.  I didn’t make time to spend with her.  I was too busy with renovating the house, falling in love, all the work involved in getting married on the farm, improving the farm, looking after all the other animals, having a baby, being tied to the house and Ben . . .

Poor Baby didn’t get a look in.  And yet when I did make time to take her swimming or stand in the river and wash her down, or give her a bath with shampoo and conditioner, I was filled with a simple happiness and joy.  Feelings that were so rare in all my post natal and menopausal depression.  Why didn’t I realise that I could create feelings of peace, contentment and light-heartedness simply by being with her, feeling her immense solidity and roundedness.  She was an anchor for me for 12 years, tethering me to the planet when my depression and despair urged me to leave it.

Whenever I drove or walked past her I would whistle and she would lift her head and whiffle at me.  So much said in that sound.  ‘Hi. I miss you.  I love you.  I see you.’ So much connection in that simple exchange of love.  Yet she wasn’t a great cuddler.  Normally walked away from me and was hard to catch.  Loved to turn her ass on me and have her put scratched while she swayed against my hands and body, loving the satisfaction of a human scratching post.  She would never let me kiss her soft sweet muzzle.  I would kiss her eyelids and stand forehead to forehead with her.  And I loved to fondle her hairy tipped ears.  I knew every inch of her so well, I can still visualise her beautiful hooves, knees, legs (she had great legs!) soft, warm, rounded coat and body.  The strands of silver in her mane at the wither, the thick tangles in her tail to be combed out with patience and great love.  The wild little plaits in her mane that she and nature created that I would tease out, loving standing with her – another opportunity to just BE with her, forgetting all the ‘to do’ lists for once.

I have been a slave to those lists for so long.  As if achievement brings happiness, when all it does is bring the next ‘to do’ closer.  I haven’t stopped to smell the roses or take time to rest or play for years.  Those are things she has taught me in her passing.  I guess she had to leave to teach me that.  Now I take time for Second Chance who really is Baby come back to me.  She loves to stand and smooch with me and loves me to kiss her muzzle and stand nose to nose, breath to breath, just being, breathing, communing.  As with Baby we stand third eye to third eye, sharing spiritual space.  Chancy lets me drip tears and snot on her as I still weep for Baby and in gratitude that she came back to me in this new form.  This new bay with her pretty, dainty, feet and floating movement.

I have learned so much from Baby and her passing and I have changed.  I have slowed down, become much less impatient, more willing to stop and spend time, more understanding that the lists are endless and always will be and we can only do one thing at a time, and do it well.  And that taking time to play and be with the ones we love is not wasted time, but the most precious time of all.  That is not DOING but BEING that we will be remembered for.

Yes, I want to make my mark on the world, but I have realised that if I can love and be loved, if I can shape and grow a healthy, happy, engaged and engaging child with a conscience.  If I can act with integrity, follow my heart and dreams as well as crossing things off the list, I will be happier and mentally healthier, as well as improving the lives around me.  In fact, by slowing down, breathing and be more present, I and everyone around me are happier.

I am so much happier recently.  I have never known such peace, happiness and contentment.  I have rediscovered music, singing and dancing. I have had time to be outside engaging in hard physical labour and am loving the peace of mind and stillness that brings.  I am more relaxed, less tense, and more aware of what makes me tense and beginning to love myself enough to avoid those things and situations (self sabotage is still pretty strong in me though!).  I am growing older and growing up.

And as I pondered my new-found happiness the other day as I talked to Baby, sitting on the beautiful cedar block Ged carved to mark her resting place, I realised that maybe the ultimate gift she gave me was in her passing.

She gave me the gift of grief.  An opportunity to clear out a lifetime’s pain and sorrow by howling out my pain and heartbreak.  Grief brings all loss to the surface.  It allows us the opportunity to spring clean our damaged souls.  All the heartache and heartbreak I have sobbed for has cleaned me out, cleared out the backlog, detritus and junk creating that eternal melancholy in my mind.  Now I can be happy.

The ultimate gift, the ultimate sacrifice, by she who knew me better than anyone, who came to save and ground me, without whom I never would have found this farm and land which soothes and heals me as well as provides the home I have looked for all my life.  She, who I have known in so many lifetimes, left me in order to heal me.  Thank you, Baby, I will never forget you, will always miss you and will always be grateful for the many and myriad lessons you have taught me – both in life and in death.

Another Rite of Passage

My parents have sold their house and moved out.  Not the home we all lived in as children – there were far too many of those.  As army brats we moved around a lot.  My parents bought, renovated and sold some stunning homes but we were only in them for a few years, and of course we had our fair share of army ‘quarters’ or basic brick boxes.  And then we had two long term homes.  Shore House where we spent our pre teen and teenage years, in beautiful Bosham.  This was the last house we all lived in as a family before maturity (or lack of it!) scattered us to the four winds, careers, countries and relationships.

18 years ago my parents bought Home Farm House.  I wasn’t there for the purchase or the move – but that’s pretty normal!  Many’s the time we’ve come home for school holidays, half term or an exeat weekend to a new home!  I well remember taking two school friends to Five Trees and spending much of the weekend throwing buckets of hot soapy water on a floor and chipping the plaster off to reveal the 16th Century flagstones beneath.

When I went to Boarding School for the first time the beautiful Hill House, where we were all so happy, was packed up and sold.  I lost my leased horse, paddock, room to roam on Frensham Common where I learned to ride and ice skate.  I lost my freedom, my childhood, my home in one fell swoop.

It was a few years before my parents bought Five Trees and I had some sense of belonging to a place again.  There were only 9 months or so of exeat weekends at my cousins’ house but it was long enough for me to feel like a displaced person and for that to last lifelong.

It would be twenty years before I owned my childhood longed for horse.  And 30 before I finally had the land and freedom I had craved ever since that early loss.  But even with my own home and farm, animals and horses, losing the parental home has me feeling bereft.

In everyone’s lives there are essential rites of passage – adolescence, deaths, marriage, births, menopause, the sale of the family home, parental deaths.  As my parents let go of that beautiful house, pack up their belongings, disseminate their possessions to charity shops and newly rented accommodation while they try and find their perfect new home, we are all feeling the momentousness of the move.

Home Farm House was a home – it was a lovely warm, welcoming house, with beautiful garden and outlook – the product my parents’ hard work.  I have wept for its loss while hoping it brings great joy and happiness to its new owners.  I was devastated not to be able to get back to the UK for a last hurrah with the whole family in situ together for the final time.

But now that the boxes are packed and everything my parents own is gone and I can see from afar that it is just a house.  It is all that they have and all that they are that make it a home.  A home embodies the energy of the people who inhabit it – it exhibits their souls.  So though my parents have critical eyes and voice their judgements freely, from the love in their home, the sheen on the warm mahogany tables, gleaming floors and welcoming kitchen heart of the home, they demonstrate their warm and loving hearts beneath the masks they have adopted and worn so well.

Those hearts and collection of furniture, paintings and household items go with them.  We will always have a home away from home wherever they are, as long as they live.

Those feelings of devastating loss are just a practice run for when they die.  It is impossible to imagine the hole they will leave in our lives.  Not to have them on the planet anymore – knowing us, loving us, judging us, correcting us, critiquing us, sending us parcels, treating us and our children to new clothes, trips, toys etc.

As much as a home is place of safety and rest for the heart, it is the hearts of the inhabitants that makes a house a home.

Back on the Vegetarian Bandwagon

When we killed our first two pigs towards the end of last year, despite my tears at their demise, I launched myself off the vegetarian bandwagon I’ve been driving for over 20 years.  Boots and all I landed firmly on the side of the carnivores as I feasted on the fat of the land – literally.  While the boys were savouring the meat of the bacon, I was supping on the fat.  We were like that old childhood rhyme – ‘Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.  Between them both, they licked the platter clean.’

Even while my tongue and tastebuds were revelling in the taste and sensations in my mouth, and my belly was full at last, my mind and soul were wrestling with the implications of my newly formed enthusiasm for flesh.

I read ‘The Omnivore’s Dilemma’ and more as I tried to make sense of this physical need to be satiated with the flesh of another, while the soul abhors the loss of life integral to the process from paddock to plate.

On the farm, life and death is often very arbitrary – just like human life.  Animals can be here one day and gone the next – flood, snake bite, wild dogs, weakness, paralysis tick etc. Witnessing the cruelty of nature made me think that our considered culling was pretty tame by comparison, notwithstanding the fear the animals feel as they load and leave this land that they have always known and loved as home.  As they leave their families and friends to destinations unknown and uncertain.

I love these animals, each and every one, and their grief is heartbreaking as they go.  Yes, they have had wonderful peaceful, joyous lives, foraging as nature intended and they wouldn’t have been born and had the experience if it weren’t for the human need and love of meat.

I’m not condemning anyone else’s choices.  We will still be raising animals for sale, slaughter and feeding my two carnivorous boys.

But maybe the wholesale slaughter of my beautiful sheep by the wild dogs, or tempting the pigs into the trailer for their final journey to the abattoir, or the freezers full to the brim of dead pig at the moment, or looking at this year’s crop of calves and how beautiful and full of life they are, has turned me from my thirst for flesh, back to the the peaceful serenity of veg.

Maybe I’m just sick to my stomach of the swathe of deaths we’ve witnessed over the last few months.  Never say never, I might be tempted by the smell of bacon in the future, but for now I am clambering wearily back onto the vegetarian bandwagon.

These animals are my friends, and I don’t want to eat my friends . . .

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 . . .

A very Lucky Day for the Love Family

A very Lucky day for the Love family

On Wednesdays Benno goes to swimming lessons and we go to town for the weekly shop – animal feed, essentials and fruit for the 3 foot fruit bat! Normally we are running late, but last week we were even early, despite Tinkerbell having escaped from her starvation paddock and spending time putting her back where she belonged.

We have two new Swedish wwoofers and they were in the car with Ben and I too. We were all set for our big sojourn in the city. A little sleepy but fine. About 25klms after we got off the dirt and onto the highway there was a bang and that unmistakeable noise of a flat tire. The car swerved violently and skidded and I managed to steer it down in the grass gutter and along the side of the rock wall for about 20 metres before the car was spat out onto the highway and the impetus flipped it onto the passenger side. We traversed the highway on our side for approximately 50 metres at a 45 degree angle and ended up trapped by the guard rail on the opposite side of the road.

Ben was crying and saying ‘I don’t like it, I don’t like it, make it stop’. I kept repeating like a mantra ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, we’ll be ok’. Like a prayer.

I turned the car off and turned around to look at him and talk to him and try and reassure him. We were all suspended by our seatbelts. I spotted the sunroof, so trepidatiously I turned the car back on and flipped the switch which slid the sunroof all the way back. A man was there and he reached in and got Ben out. Next was Lovisa in the front passenger seat. Then Elin in the back. Finally me. With my right foot glued to the brake and hands clenched on the steering wheel, it took a minute to work out how to extricate myself without falling on my head.

Everyone was fine. The girls and Ben were crying and I immediately started removing everything from the car. I don’t know why except that I always seem to need to be doing especially when my heart is racing and adrenalin coursing through my system. I think I thought that the police would be there immediately and we would be taken away, or the car would explode or something. I may not have a TV but clearly in my life I have seen too many movies who paint a very different picture of reality!

I still feel guilty that I didn’t just grab onto Ben and hold him until we had to be prised apart. The tyre was still intact, no blowout, but the tread had sheared off the tyre just like a retread. It wasn’t a retread though, I’ve never put retreads on any car I’ve owned.

We were so lucky. Lucky that nothing was coming the other way. Lucky we didn’t have someone up our arse. Lucky that the guard rail, which only started 3 metres before, was there to save us. Lucky that there were people to help us. Lucky that people stopped to slow down traffic and keep us safe as we sat on the side of the road for an hour waiting for the police and a lift away from the scene. Lucky that neither of the passenger windows or the windscreen smashed. Lucky that the car was so strong and didn’t crush or crumple. Lucky that we had the sunscreen so we could get out so easily. Lucky, so lucky to be alive.

There was another story on the road that day and thanks to any number of angels looking out for us, and protecting us, and our lives were saved.

Suddenly everything and everyone is beautiful and I realise just how precious this life, this body, is. And I can’t even express the fear and horror of what could have happened to Ben.

Suffice it to say that I am changed by that split second on the road that day. By what might have been. By what is. I was derailed and I am picking myself up, dusting myself off, saying a sad goodbye to my beautiful car and my previous way of being and walking into my future with a different attitude. Living in the present. Phew!

The Circle of Life

Our first live twins

The reality of life on the farm is a constant experience of life and death. As natural as each other – essential even, but as great is the gift of every addition to our lives, so stark is the loss of those taken away.

Stardust dropped a perfect baby girl when Pamela last came to visit so we called her Pashe (pasha) in honour of the two extraordinary women who have shared their ‘paca passion with us and provided us with most of our flock.

Then our first lamb appeared.  Another girl birthed on the river bed under the house so we could watch from the window.  Ben is our eagle eyed spotter for birds, birthing, and anything that changes the gestalt!  We were so proud but no longer had she landed than the alpacas told us that a dog was about one morning so Ged got his rifle, sighted and shot it.  But the lambie was gone.

Next we had another little girl lamb born and both Mother and us were so careful and protective and locked them up at night for several days and watched like hawks – so far, so good.

Then Tinkerbell finally unpacked a little white boy on a grey and cold day.  We wiped him down and warmed him up with the homemade rug because he was shivering so much.  We left them alone to get on with the beginnings of life until we realised that Think was off foraging and the poor little lad was still unable to stand.  And when we got him up we could see that his legs were all wonky.  Still, we managed to get him under Tink for a couple of colostrum feeds before she flatly refused to do more.  Her vulva was very stretched and she was clearly very sore so we left her to do her own thing and recover while we took over the bottle feeding.  Firefly slept by the fire inside for the first two nights of his life, then I rugged him up and rigged up the old playpen on a deep bed of straw on the verandah and he slept there for ten days or so.  During the day he was mainly just lying in the sun, healing, and getting up for his bottle.

We even had to take him to Port Macquarie one day because if you’re bottle feeding a baby you can’t leave them at home!  He got passed around from pillar to post and surprised a few beach goers.  I took him to the vet for splinting but after a few days a friend noticed that it was rubbing so we took it all off and then tried a few different configurations before finally those bendy legs started to take weight, Firefly took heart and his Mum had hope.  Then he was back on the boob, off the bottle, and standing on his own four feet (finally!)

We had our first twin lambs but the runt wouldn’t get on the boob despite our best efforts and my first ewe milking (easier than I thought!). We had them in the pen on straw but he wandered outside in the night and died. We should have brought him in the house and bottle fed him but we thought he would be ok with mum.

I have been watching the alpacas obsessively for weeks as we have so many babies due, but last weekend I took off for a couple of hours of chainsawing (the noise of the chainsaw is sweet music to my ears after weeks of 4 year old prattle!) and when I came back one of the alpacas that I didn’t even know was pregnant had birthed and the baby had died in the attempt. A lovely white girl . . . gone.

And every day when I go to feed my beautiful horse, Baby, I wonder will she still be alive? She is in so much pain and can barely walk but I just can’t give the instruction for Ged to pull the trigger until we have explored every avenue and tried everything to make her well. I just can’t picture my life without her in it. And as much as I believe in spirit, as much as I see beyond the veil to the other side, I just want to be able to touch her, feel her warmth, stroke her mane and look into her big, brown, beautiful eyes.

At the moment she resides ‘on the other side’ of the farm and she can’t come home because she can’t walk that far. I know in my heart and soul that when she is gone it will be the thus, she will be ‘on the other side’, exactly the same. She will be running in the Elysian fields, full of life. I just won’t be able to touch her except in my mind, memory and heart.

The longer I am here on the farm, the more ordinary conversational terms have great meaning – bite the bullet, stay of execution, the circle of life etc

Harry is in the freezer and on the table and even I, vegetarian for 20 something years, have enjoyed him. Hector is gone and just alive in my heart where I miss him still. Christmas will forever hold a very special place in my heart and a feeling that we failed him. They live on, these lost ones, that we have loved, however briefly. And maybe, just maybe, we are being trained to prepare for death, to cease to be scared of it, to accept its inevitability, and even, one day, embrace it.

Standing up and protecting children from abuse – published on ABC’s The Drum

View on The Drum website

I was sexually abused when I was three. Apparently I became a very difficult child – I was full of anger, rebellious, and determined to hurt or destroy myself, my family, and all that I loved.

My only peace came when I was with horses. I never told anyone; in fact, I blocked the memory completely and only uncovered it after over 15 years of soul searching and personal growth work as I endeavoured to recover from my addictions and self-destruction.

I have been addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, speed, cocaine and marijuana. I have played with ecstasy, cocaine and heroin.

I have attempted suicide many times. I have struggled with depression all my life. I have self-harmed. I have been anorexic for most of my life, bulimic for some, and I still have difficulty nurturing myself with nutritious food at healthy intervals.

I have core beliefs that I am bad, not worthy, not good enough, and unlovable. I am working hard to change these as my healing is still a work in progress over 40 years later.

The sexual abuse of children takes them, in a moment, from innocence and light into darkness. It is an instant descent into hell. Trust is shattered; all that is good and bright is destroyed. Their picture of the world is distorted in the most gruesome way, and whether they are threatened not to tell or not, their innate sense of shame at an act which they instinctively know is wrong locks the secret away deep in their souls. They believe themselves to be not only different from the rest of the world, but bad, wrong, untouchable, and unclean.

Rather than turn their justifiable rage at their abusers, they direct it at themselves and those they love. Families are torn asunder at the force of the rage and the darkness that descends on a previously peaceful home. Perpetrators seem to somehow inject their own feelings of self-loathing into the victim, so that afterwards the perpetrator feels lighter, ‘better’. This is why they seek always to reoffend, grooming the next candidate for their acts of depravity.

Childhood ends afterwards. Innocence is stolen and once gone, can never be retrieved. We now know that the psychological scars are the same regardless of the nature of the abuse, although clearly repeated acts or those of a more serious nature burn the scars deeper into the psyche.

Whether the memories are repressed or constantly alive for the victim, they change all the programming in the brain and the victim is forever changed. What sort of life would I have had if I hadn’t been abused? Who could I have been?

I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m a survivor. I survived the abuse and its wrecking ball aftermath. But it never goes away. I grieve for the lost child almost every day. I am finally learning to play with my young child and to experience what a normal childhood might have been like. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. But I made it through.

Many don’t. The self-disgust leads them down paths of destruction and darkness and into chasms and abysses of despair which take their lives, whether accidentally or on purpose.

Sexual abuse permeates every social strata, every race, country, creed. It knows no boundaries. Sexual predators prey on children and parents’ trust and willingness to make friends and to believe the very best in people. They groom both parents and children to ensure there are opportunities for abuse to occur. Don’t be afraid of strangers, be afraid of the very people you trust most. And what sort of a way is that to live your life?

We all have a responsibility to the children among us to out these paedophiles from the crevices and corners of society in which they lurk. Unfortunately, allegations of sexual abuse by children are hard to prove because they are never witnessed and the child may not tell until long after the fact, which means forensic evidence is unrecoverable.

Pitting a child’s account against an adult who may well ‘present as normal’ in a court of law is fraught with difficulty. The Australian legal system needs to be changed to the European model where children’s rights are more protected and honoured within the court structure and the victims of child abuse protected from the harrowing ordeal of facing their perpetrator in court and having their testimony ripped apart by lawyers. That’s just another level of abuse.

The Catholic Community need to vote with their feet en masse and refuse to participate in the activities of a church which protects paedophiles. People power works. We must stand up as a community united and say we will not tolerate paedophiles. Children will be believed. Action will be taken. These heinous crimes will be punished.

Children are suffering the pain of child abuse right now, near you. Learn about it, do something about it. Be prepared to stand up and stop it. It stops being a dirty, shameful secret when it is out in the open.

It takes enormous courage to stand up and say ‘this happened to me’ but I refuse to be ashamed of something that is not my fault. We must be the generation and society that breaks the code of silence around child abuse. If we talk honestly and openly about it, victims will feel able to come forward, that society will support and help to heal them.

No other child should have to suffer as I did –  the act itself, and the lifelong pain. Unfortunately, they will, and they are. One in five children will be sexually assaulted before they are 18 years old.

Let’s come together and stamp out child abuse from all sections of society. If paedophiles know that their dirty secrets will not be protected, they will think twice before acting. Please stand up and speak out.

For more information visit Bravehearts, Victorian CASA, and Child Wise.

If you are struggling with depression you can get help from Beyond Blue. Go to beyond.org.au or call 1300 22 4636.

If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, call Lifeline on 13 11 14.