The Let Go
We had to cut the handrails off the stairs that led onto the dairy porch in order to remove the pasteurizer today. Jeremy unscrewed the hand rails themselves then glanced at me with a silent, “I’m sorry,” as the teeth of the saw sliced through the posts. What we spent so many years building, so easily unscrewed, unhinged, ripped apart. And all in an effort to remove the behemoth piece of stainless steel and electronic equipment that comprises a pasteurizer: the backbone of a dairy business. If you don’t think I was screaming internally with a mixture of joy and sorrow, watching those pieces fall onto the grass, then perhaps you’ve never experienced the act of turning yourself inside out for something only to finally admit that your world doesn’t function when you’re inside out.
The removal of the pasteurizer marks the official OFFICIAL end of the commercial dairy era of this lifetime. And my feelings surrounding the finale are finally peaceful. But complicated.
Would you expect anything else?
It’s been several years since I’ve written in this space for many reasons. Time was the main factor. It’s simply faster to post a picture on Instagram with text to accompany whatever fleeting thought I’m thinking. And while that is an absolutely sufficient way to communicate, we all know that social media has changed, our reach is uncertain, the platform has become – frankly – gross, and the process feels lazy. The blog was our primary documentation of the beginning of this farm back when it was just a twinkle in our eye, and Jeremy has spent the winter skimming old posts, laughing hysterically at some, and sending links to me of others. It’s good to remember the road traveled. But sometimes it’s actually necessary to remember once the road seems to have smudged from sight and previous flames of joy have fizzled to pathetic sparks.
My god have we come a long way. It’s a story I can’t tell in every social media post and certainly not when I lead an event – the type of limitation that frustrates the HELL out of me when new faces arrive on the farm. People who have absolutely no knowledge of our roots and they, kindly, ask: “So what are you guys doing with all these goats? Did you buy this place with all of them?” They smile, wide-eyed, curiosity 100% genuine, and I want to simply place a hand on their shoulder and transfer our history via osmosis. Because it’s too much to tell and too much to digest in a 2 sentence explanation which means: maybe they’ll never know. I’m learning to let go of the part where it matters to me that they do know. Because I KNOW. The story is carved in the lines in my face, tattooed on my heart, is the tremor of my hands, the emotional scars I wear like a badge of honor.
I have let go of a lot, over the past year. I let go of the dream which felt easier once it occurred to me that it was a goal achieved beautifully. I let go of anger (OK, well I’m LETTING go of this one) surrounding the messy transfer of the business to people with whom I spent over a year cultivating a tedious agreement that lasted mere months. (I’m happy to waste a lot of things – but time ain’t one of them.)
But I HAVE let go of the actual business. I set it free back into the abyss of the universe and tried (try try try) to learn from the experience – exactly what works for my mental health and the full functioning of our family. The transition has felt, at times, purpose-less and definitely a whole lot less sexy than cheese making. But then again: have you ever operated a farmstead commercial dairy? It’s possibly the least sexy endeavor one might pursue. I hope that wasn’t a spoiler for anyone in the wings vibrating with excitement about starting their own ‘lil commercial dairy. (Actually just this evening I was contacted with a 3 sentence request: “I have some goats. I want to sell milk. How do I do that legally?” HA! I just sent the link to the state laws and said “good luck.” I stopped myself from typing, “…also – just don’t.”)
And to the dairy who purchased my equipment I say the same thing – GOOD LUCK! Although they have vast experience. The sort I never had going into this. The type that will probably allow them to weather the storms.
Today was monumental. Although a physical, massive weight was lifted from the floor of my make room once the pasteurizer passed through the doors and out into the sunshine for the first time in almost a decade, the emotional weight of its leaving was far greater. I accomplished some ethereal beauty with that vat, the kind that used to keep me up at night dreaming. It was the vessel for so many hundreds of gallons of milk and hundreds of pounds of cheese over the years. What a gift to have it live on in another dairy here in TX.
If energy is never destroyed then the stainless walls of that vat are inscribed with the love I poured into it: for this crooked parcel of land, for a dream that was never as good in reality, and for those goats. Oh my god for those goats.
They are the one thing I will never, ever, never let go.
Thanks for joining me here in this space again after so many years. Let’s see where the farm takes us next.
