When it rains
Right now I’m moving slowly, just for a very little while. In my place Jeremy has managed the farm, the bottle feedings, the bucket cleanings, the egg collecting, the bowl filling, the leading, locking, unlocking, and the milking. All of the milking. And yesterday evening, when I tiptoed into what I thought was an empty barn, a part of the farm I’m not supposed to venture into for the next several days, when I found Bee curled in a corner with one baby (four days early) and with another one stuck and unconscious, when I bent down (not supposed to do that) to pull the baby (not supposed to do that), Jeremy moved me aside and pulled her safely – the last baby of the season. Hung her upside down to clear her lungs, peeled off his shirt without thinking and used it to dry them both, just minutes ahead of a pummeling hailstorm. The five of us (me, Jer, Bee, two baby girls) huddled together in the barn listening to the storm approach and then crescendo with hail pelting, furious, off metal, so thick and heavy it turned the pasture white in minutes. It passed five minutes later. Sun broke through cobalt clouds. A blue bird tweeted as it flitted through the trees. If Texas weather can somehow serve as a metaphor for life, then I’d say yesterday’s storm nailed our current situation exactly. Timing? Perfect.
This was the kind of week that probably deserves its own essay about gratitude and sacrifice and strength and blah blah blah. Mostly I want to say thank you to everyone who helped out, sent over happy thoughts, and who (Jer – I’m looking at you, buddy) reminded me repeatedly that everything would be ok and that YES the world does, in fact, keep turning even if I have to lie on the couch for a little while. It makes me all snively. So do these pictures which, I think, capture the beauty of what March 2014 looks like out here: a constellation of complication, every image connected to some minor drama, stress, frustration, or fear. Things I wish could all somehow happen a little sooner, or a little later but – in the end – I really can’t control.
Which makes the timing? Perfect.