First snow

Yesterday was the first "big" snowfall of the year. Later than some years, earlier than others. But the chronology doesn't matter. Just that it's here now. It was only about 6" of accumulation but enough to cause the school board to cancel buses. Enough to coat the land with white frosting and dust the trees with icing sugar. Enough.

The kids were thrilled -- snow day! Sledding and hot chocolate and warming cold toes by the fire. And me -- rumbles of dread and panic began burbling inside my chest. Winter is no long coming, it's here. While the snow absolves me from many farm responsibilities and covers a multitude of sins and unfinished projects, winter also makes other day-to-day tasks harder. But it's not the practicalities that fill me with anxiety -- it's the unexpected, the unknown, the whats, the when. Will the power go out this year and if so how will I get the generator out of the garage? What if the barn pipes freeze like last year? What if the winch on the plow breaks again or if it stops running all together? When will I run out of wood/hay/money?

How will I manage the darkness?

I tell my kids there are no such things are monsters, but that's not entirely true. Those are the monsters that haunt my mind and leave me tense, short tempered and fearful. The monsters that fill my thoughts with their disparaging words, their put downs, their judgements, their 'you don't deserve this' and 'you can't handle it.'  

And yet.

Today I walked to the barn under a canopy of peacock blue sky, sunlight captured in the snow. Dancing. Like fairylights. I breathed in the cold air tinged with a tease of woodsmoke. The taking of breath. Breathtaking. I could hear the goats and sheep bleating, the pigs barking (more incessant than oinking), the chickens clucking for their breakfast. In this morning my chest ached with beauty. And possibility. And purpose.

Sometimes I wish my soul was drawn towards an easier path. Living on a farm can be hard; doing it alone can be terrifying.

And yet.

I recently found photos from before the move, when we lived in suburbia in a small semi-detached house that we bought because it was in the right neighbourhood with a small shady garden that grew hostas and patchy grass. I recognized the place but it was like looking at a stranger. I am so different from that woman who went to bed at night gazing out at the neighbour's rooftop wondering, is this all there is?

Stronger. Tougher. Harder. Smaller. Fuller.

The seeds of growing self-reliance, of finding meaning, of realizing a purpose, were there, but dormant. It took moving to the farm for the seeds to grow. Not all seeds flourish; some fail to germinate, others grow weak and spindly, and there are those that die from disease or neglect or for no reason at all.  

I grieve for the woman in the photos who thought that moving to the farm would be a dream come true. In many ways it was, still is. But that dream came at a cost. Fairy tales never talk about what happens when happily ever after ends. But I never wanted to be like Cinderella anyway.

So for now, this day, I think of the healing power of winter. A time for rejuvenation, reflection, next steps. Author and poet Brian Brett wrote that farming is a profession of hope. There is always next season. Forgiveness for last year's mistakes. Another chance. A fresh start.

The seeds are waiting.

Weathering life's storms

The radio announcers said that a major ice storm was coming. It was expected to land in my area last Thursday, bringing with it freezing rain, ice and hail. Thursday came and went and there was nothing, save for clear skies and a gentle breeze. Not even a sprinkle of spring rain. Friends several hours west of me reported icy conditions, but I thought the storm would die out before it made its way east.

Friday morning, 5:30 a.m., I woke to the sound of pellets smashing against my bedroom window, the bottom screen already encrusted with opaque ice. Standing on my tiptoes to peer through the upper window pane, I could just see in the dim early morning light the tree branches, the bird house and the clothesline, all perfectly encased in glass.

By 8:00 a.m. I was outside doing chores and splooshing through ankle-deep puddles of slushy ice. The trees -- cedars, tamaracks, white birches and pines -- bowed in deference to the storm, their thin backs hunched like very old men. "It won't get too bad," I thought. And still the icy rain fell.

I came inside just as the power flickered on and off and back on again. And still I clung to my convenient belief that everything would be fine. But by 10:30 a.m., the wind had picked up and I could hear ice shards crashing to the ground, shattering. Then from deep in the woods I heard shots like those fired from a muzzle-loaded gun. Trees falling.

I made sure all the animals were safely in the barn before shutting it up tight. Back in the house I told the kids (home as buses had been cancelled) to stay away from the trees. Better yet, stay inside. Still I ignored the nervous gnaw in my stomach and held firm to the belief that things wouldn't go bad. Minutes later, the power went out for good and the house fell completely silent.

We've been through this before -- twice in 2011 when windstorms knocked out power to 150,000+ homes. Back then I said, no, vowed, that next time I'd be better prepared. And yet as soon as the power and my comfortable life returned, my plan of preventative action was shelved. I didn't stockpile food or water, nor set up a permanent location for the generator, which is too heavy for me to move on my own.

I've written articles about emergency and disaster preparedness and I'm the first to say (preach?) that planning makes the actual emergency far less stressful than ignoring it and hoping for the best. But Google "ignore disaster warnings" and you'll find 8.2 million hits and hundreds of examples of people who fail to heed warnings of floods, storms or other major natural events. While sociologists have various theories on our propensity to ignore warnings -- sometimes it's because people feel they have no other choice (say when their home is situated on a flood plain) or because they believe things won't get bad -- I think I ignored the warnings because I simply didn't want one more thing to deal with.

Lately I feel like I've just been keeping the floodgates under control and one more drop of rain will cause them to break and a torrential cascade of water to flow. Lucas is away this month and while I know that he'll be back in May, he'll be going away again. As I've said before, his path takes him away from the farm and while I don't yet know what that means for me, or us, I know I'll be facing more challenges on my own. While it's easy for me to fall prey to "I'm such a victim" and feel sorry for myself, I want better for myself and my kids. I want to show them that I am self reliant and strong and I can manage, even when faced with a raging storm.

For three days I vacillated between moments of explosive frustration and surreal calm that descended in unexpected moments, like when I found myself gazing upon my daughter happily colouring under a halo of beeswax candles, or when my son came to me with a hug saying, "It could have been a lot worse, mum... this is actually a really great weekend." He was right.

My children helped me see the beauty in the candlelight, the profound quiet, the absolute darkness, and inspired me with their sense of fun and adventure. They felt safe and secure, despite the storm both outside and within me. I helped create that. And so while this past weekend gave me a practical life lesson (again) that it's up to me to better plan for the next inevitable power outage, more importantly I learned that I'm strong enough to get my family through this and future storms.

Wilderness experts say that it's not necessarily your training that gets you through a survival situation, but how you handle it -- do you stay calm or crack under the pressure of it all? As one expert put it, having survival skills is important, but having the will to survive is essential. Stress can crush or create a person, bringing out strengths and willpower he or she never knew existed.

Today there is once again clear skies and a gentle (now warm) breeze, and except for the downed trees that litter the farm's landscape there is little evidence of the storm. Nature doesn't hold on to her anger, and every day is fresh and new. That, too, is a good life lesson.

The aftermath

After passing four days in the company of beeswax candles and our generator, we got our power back. When one of the forestry workers from the hydro company came to our door late on Saturday with the news, I almost jumped up and kissed his weary cheek. (As he was leaving he said to Lucas that he always liked working in rural areas. When folks say, 'thank you' they really mean it!)

After that first storm (and subsequent power outage) in late April, this one seemed like a bad case of deja vu, just worse. Not only did our house grow quiet and dark, but our phone went down and then our well pump, albeit only for one morning. Not to mention that our truck had broken down earlier in the week.

We lost one of two beautiful basswoods; the larger one, which once stood like a sentry outside our barn.

As we first discovered the downed tree in the darkness, we had no idea how bad the damage was.

I'd say this is a textbook definition of a "close call."

The goats made the most of it, bellying up to the basswood buffet:


A maple that once stood in the corner of the kitchen garden was sheared almost in two, taking with it a few beautiful blooming honey locusts, as well as a whole corner section of fencing.

The outhouse didn't fare too well either, nor did a section of the roof on our driveshed.

We lost several trees on the perimeter of the hayfield and the woods look like Mother Nature threw one hell of a temper tantrum.

Dozens of trees were stripped of their boughs like a banana is peeled of its skin.

Despite the chaos and disorder, I've learned much from this latest storm, besides what foods to have in stock and how many gas cans to keep filled.

Many of these lessons I "knew" before, but it's always good to be reminded:

• Life is messy. No matter how much I try to control, prevent and avoid, stuff happens.

• It doesn't stop happening: Just because we had a bad storm last month (literally or figuratively), that doesn't excuse us from having another one this month, or the next.

• We're not "owed" any breaks and Mother Nature doesn't play by our rules, grant us our wishes or fulfill our needs. We can choose to resist or accept this -- go with the current or press upstream -- but regardless it doesn't make any difference; the river will continue to flow.

• Whatever happens isn't good or bad -- it just is. It's easy (really easy) for me to despair and stress and create all sorts of grief and anguish for myself and my family, but really, what good does that do?

• I can choose to focus on the loss or I can be grateful for the gains. Yes, it's challenging to be out of power and continue to function (work especially) but we're lucky to have a generator and I do love experiencing the night by the glow of candlelight. Sure, it's sad our favourite barnyard tree fell, but perhaps it'll give space for its twin to flourish. While the woods look like a battlefield, the great trees that fell have made room for the saplings to stretch their branches and grow. And while it's a huge amount of effort in an already time-strapped life to gather, cut and stack all these downed trees, it's good work that makes our bodies strong and the wood will provide heat for our family this winter. And the fencing that came down? We were looking to move that anyway. (I'm still looking for the silver lining on the driveshed roof...)

• As long as my family is safe, nothing else matters. Nothing.

Earlier this week, my yoga teacher said that living a joyful life means "doing what you love, and loving what you do." That doesn't mean life always goes according to plan or that I can always do the things that make my heart sing, but it does mean appreciating the good in that which I must do.

Translation: I can focus on all the never-ending, tiring work that this sometimes messy life creates or I can choose to savour its fullness and the amazing opportunities that I am so very blessed to experience. And as any teacher will tell you, practice makes perfect.

P.S. Re: my "Down and out, again" post -- Thanks for all your well wishes, good karma and kind thoughts. I appreciate it so very much.

Down and out, again

Amidst a sizzling day of record-setting temperatures, another wicked storm ripped through our farm yesterday; two, in fact. The first knocked out our power around 3 p.m. while the second touched down around 7:30 p.m., bringing with it hail, gale-force winds and intense lightning strikes.

We're safe, thankfully, but this time the damage is more widespread. I know I should be cultivating some sense of gratitude and appreciation for coming through unscathed but instead I'm feeling battered and raw, just like our downed trees. The incessant roar of our generator is making me agitated and grumpy. With over 110,000 people still without power, we're told it'll be Saturday before we're up and running again. I'll be back then, if I don't run away and join the circus first...

Blown away

Yesterday was poised to be another productive day on the farm. The sky was a brilliant blue and the clouds were like white cotton candy -- a perfect day for working in the kitchen garden. As I sat at my desk, finishing up the day's editing work, I noticed the wind picking up. It started out gentle at first, playful, but as the dark clouds rolled in, it became menacing and then violent.

At first, small things were blown over -- a few bird houses, a chair, the kids' swing hanging from their favourite tree -- and then I began to worry about the tree itself as it whipped back and forth like it was made of rubber. The wind was unrelenting as it hammered away at our metal roof, screeching like a howling banshee. I took a step outside and from deep in the woods, I could hear the trees snapping like matchsticks. The power flickered on and off and then at 10:30 a.m. it went off for good. The house was eerily silent, save for the screaming of the wind.

By 11:30 a.m. the wind had died down enough that I thought it safe to venture outside. At the edge of the woods, I could see bud-tipped branches torn and lying on the ground, trees cut in two, and even one cedar knocked completely on its side, roots still clinging to the earth that once grounded it. I started walking down the hill towards the ponds and I noticed one of the hydro lines that bisect our property looked "wrong" -- it was sagging lower than its twin.

Returning to the house, I put Henry on a leash and walked out towards the road. It was covered with branches and the tops of several trees, but it was passable. I turned on to the main road and walked to the nearby power transformer. There was the other end of the saggy power line, severed and blowing in the wind.

What I didn't know at the time was that this windstorm, with 100 km/hour gusts, darkened hundreds of thousands of homes across Ontario. More than 65 utility poles were snapped and the damage was widespread. Of course, this was nothing compared to Wednesday's tornadoes that ravaged six southern states, killing hundreds of people.

I returned to a still and quiet house, put Henry inside and went back out to the road to clear away the debris. Even though the wind was but a breeze now, the creak and occasional snap of the trees made me nervous. It was humbling, that feeling. We have such hubris to think that humans can govern Nature, that we are "in control," when in an instant, all our structures, our brilliant engineering, our lives, can be taken away.

As the day progressed, I grew more impatient and agitated. We'd been without power before, but never for this long. While I'd reported the outage to the utility company, and subsequently my discovery of the severed lines, the hotline was no longer answering calls or providing any updates on when service would be restored. The generator, which is stored in the garage, is too heavy for me to move. I started worrying about the contents of the fridge, the absence of running water, the rising water levels in our basement sump.

I told myself that this really wasn't a big deal: Lucas would set up the generator when he got home, which would power the well pump, the fridge, the kitchen lights and one outlet that we could use to plug in the sump pump. It wasn't minus 30 degrees out, so we didn't need to worry about heat or frozen pipes -- and even if it did get chilly, we had the wood stove in the kitchen. When the kids got home, I planned on telling them that this would be an adventure -- just like in the pioneer days. It would be fun!

Instead, by the time they returned home, I was grumpy, stressed out and short tempered. There was nothing fun about this.

Because I work from home, I feel obliged to be accessible between the hours of 8:00 am and 6:00 pm. I felt like I needed to do "something" productive, so I trundled the kids into the van, dog in tow, and drove halfway to town where I could park at the side of the road and access the Internet via my phone. As we turned onto the main road, I noticed the line was still severed, with no utility vehicles in sight.

I responded to a number of work emails, read a few news releases that detailed the extent of the damage and then called Lucas. I'd asked him to bring home some food basics -- bread, yogurt, fruit, etc. -- because I hadn't done any baking or food prep before the power went out. He told me he hadn't yet had a chance to get to the grocery store but he'd be home in 10 minutes and we'd figure something out. I burst into tears.

I felt so ridiculously incompetent, powerless and unprepared -- something as minor as a power outage had thrown me into a major tailspin. I was embarrassed and disappointed by my reaction. I don’t think it was the power outage, per se, that affected me so much; it was one more stress on top of everything else -- we're low on wood, we're low on hay, I'm behind on the garden, gas prices are way up (along with everything else), and now this; or moreso, it was the reminder of how much we still have to learn that seemed like another bump along the road to "simpler living."

24 hours later and we're still without power. It could come back today, but mostly likely it'll be several days -- who knows. Given the amount of widespread damage (most recent update: 45,000 people restored, 130,000 still without), the utility company has to fix the areas that affect the greatest number of people first. I get that.

I also get that being without power offers opportunity. On my way home from yoga last night, I drove through pockets of the countryside that were still and quiet in absolute darkness. Such beauty! Then as I turned into our driveway, I could see tiny flickers of light in the windows and a lantern that Lucas had left me on the front step. Walking into the house, I was met with the rich smell of beeswax and the dance of dozens of candles -- a simple and loving gesture from a man who knew I needed some comfort.

In the light of the day, I can be pragmatic about this experience and the many lessons learned: that a power outage can happen at any time and it's not good enough to have an emergency preparedness plan in your head. While we were well stocked food-wise for the winter, I've let our reserves dwindle, which is a mistake. While I spend a lot of time learning about working towards greater self-reliance and sufficiency, there is much more that we can do. In the meantime, the generator is working well as a stop-gap measure, keeping our fridge humming and the (oh-so-cold!) water running. And compared to those people whose lives have been destroyed by violent acts of Nature, we're facing a minor inconvenience.

I know we'll be better prepared next time. I guess I just had a tough time embracing the "simple" life when right now it feels anything but simple.

Madcap Monday -- the Spring (?) edition

I heard them before I could see them. And then there they were -- three massive V formations that spanned the width of the bright azure sky. The Canadian geese were back. With a hearty 'whoop' I called out to Ella and we welcomed our friends home. It was a perfect way to usher in the Spring Solstice. That was yesterday.

This is today.

While yesterday the snow seemed to recede before our eyes and the kids played baseball in sneakers and sweaters, today they bundled into their snowsuits before heading down the driveway to catch the bus.

I was feeling discouraged and down by the unexpected snowfall, but then Ella turned to me and said, "Mama, it's so beautiful." Then Jack said, "It's so quiet, too." They were right.

We lifted our heads and caught snowflakes on the tips of our tongues. After the children boarded the bus, I turned and walked towards the barn and I could feel the ground soften and squelch beneath my feet. Now back at my desk, I can hear the birds singing.

The changing of the seasons is an exercise in respect, patience and in letting go. Despite all the control we humans try to exert on her, Mother Nature is a much greater force than any of us. Spring will arrive when she is ready, not according to a date on the calendar.

Spring is a time for new beginnings. For me, that means cultivating a greater sense of acceptance and patience in my everyday.

So on that note, I wish you all a happy (belated) Spring Equinox and a day filled with peace, light and abundance!

Calm after the storm?

Maybe not...

Baking up our own storm

It’s here. Weatherman said there was a big storm coming. It even has a name -- the “Groundhog Day Storm” -- and it’s expected to dump anywhere between 20 cm and 30 cm of snow in 24 hours. It's hitting hit hard and fast. Outside my window the flakes fall and swirl like those from a snow globe; the scene is achingly beautiful, but deceptively treacherous. Snow is blowing into huge drifts, smothering our farm with an icy blanket, finding its way into every crook and cranny. Snow’s tricky that way.

Since moving to the country, the weather has earned my respect for its sheer power, ruthlessness and beauty. A storm like this out here, in the middle of nowhere, is a call to action. We’ve got the pantry stocked, a pile of my dad's homemade beeswax candles at the ready, the barn is battened down and in case the power goes out, the generator is on standby with several jerry cans of fuel.

The whole farm crew is home today – kids have a snow day and Lucas couldn’t get into work. It’s easy to get cabin fever when hankering down under one roof. Our solution? We’re baking up our own storm.

I’ve made some whole wheat date oatmeal cookies…


…and a loaf of Apple-Raisin Spice Bread.


Lucas whipped up his famous (infamous?) Gonky Balls….


… and he’s making some Portuguese corn bread rolls to accompany tonight's vegetarian chili. Comfort food makes everything better, doesn't it?


But the most fun was making these amazing and so simple Wheat Germ Scones.

Here's the recipe:

• 1/2 cup wheat germ, divided
• 1 1/2 cups flour
• 2 tablespoons packed brown sugar
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 6 tablespoons butter
• 1/3 cup currants
• 2 eggs
• 1/4 cup milk

1.) Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Reserve one tablespoon wheat germ. Combine remaining wheat germ, flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a large bowl.

2. Cut in butter with pastry blender (or two knives) until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in currants.

3.) Beat eggs in small bowl. Add milk; beat until well mixed. Reserve 2 tablespoons milk mixture. Add remaining mixture to flour; stir until mixture forms soft dough that leaves the side of the bowl.

4.) Turn out dough onto well-floured surface. Knead.


5.) Roll out dough into 9" by 6" rectangle. Cut down into six (3") squares. Cut each diagonally in half, making 12 triangles.

6.) Place triangles 2" apart on ungreased baking sheet. Brush triangles with reserved milk mixture and sprinkle with wheat germ.

7.) Bake 10 minutes until golden brown. Serve immediately with a dollop of butter. Eat three more in quick succession.


While our backs may ache from shovelling (our plough is in the shop -- brilliant timing, I know!), but we're sure to have full bellies from all this home-baked goodness!

For folks who have to work and travel today, a snowstorm like this can be a major inconvenience and even scary. But on days like this, where there is nowhere else to be but here, I feel such gratitude to have created our own refuge from the storm.

Snowstorm!