Losing the plot. Finding a new one.

“When she transformed into a butterfly, 

the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. 

They wanted her to change back into what she always had been. 

But she had wings.”

~ The Poetry of Oneness

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I'm doing here. Not in terms of my day-to-day functionality -- I have a 'to do' list two pages long that keeps me on track there. But the bigger picture, zoom out/wider lens framing. More existential stuff. The kind of thinking that happens when your world gets turned upside down and you're faced with the question, "Now what?" The kind of thinking that happens when you're trying to write a book and you're faced (every damn day) with the question, "What's my story?"

I moved to the farm six years ago because I wanted to extricate myself from the dominant culture that is killing our planet and ourselves through reckless production and senseless consumption. To create space where I could live a life of meaning and connection. To take the path less chosen. Inspire others to do the same. I wanted to make a difference. To be able to look into the eyes of my kids and their kids (if that comes to pass) and say, "I tried."

But is that enough?

We live in a culture that craves quick fixes and easy solutions. To ask the big questions, make life-changing decisions, to fight against the overwhelming pressure to conform is exhausting. And at times terrifying.

It's easier not to recognize the gravity of our situation. The fact that much of our western civilization is built on a regime of unsustainable growth and appropriation of "others." And the very corporations and governments that perpetuate this madness offer top 10 lists and simple solutions to save the planet and preserve our comfortable existence. Absolve ourselves from personal responsibility. Keep up with the status quo. Defend our smartphones, SUVs and cruise ships to exotic locales.

As Derrick Jensen says, we've all been greenwashed:

"One way this culture gets people is with the delusion -- "If I just consume less and less, I won't be contributing to the death of this planet. If I wear out my recycled shoes and skip showers, then I won't be part of this destruction." But the salmon don't care about your purity and your lifestyles choices, they care if there are dams and fish farms… So when they tell you to take a shorter shower, it's prestidigitation. It's a magic trick -- sleight of hand. They're trying to make you think, "If I take a shorter shower I can make things OK."

He also writes about our cultural refusal to confront reality: "We're facing the death of the planet and nobody's panicking?... There's a line in a book by Eduardo Galeano that, "The legislature voted that reality doesn't exist." Congress is debating climate change this year. They're going to vote that reality doesn't exist. The narcissism in this culture kills me. It kills everyone."

It would be much easier to give up, sell out, move back. This piece of earth has provided me with a place to grow roots, but at times those roots feel like anchors. The work is relentless. There is always something that needs doing, fixing, tending. There are personal ramifications to this life. I lost a 20-year relationship, in part, over my beliefs, my differences. Divergent paths. There are times (most days) when I feel strong and powerful for choosing to stay, to keep fighting for this life, and there are other days when I feel utterly alone. Disconnected. And yet the idea of leaving is soul destroying.

The person I've become is inextricably woven into the fabric of this place. I no longer feel that the farm belongs to me, but I belong to the farm. It is my refuge and my prison. It has seeped into my very being. I am its caretaker and its mistress. There are times I yearn to escape this place and yet when I'm gone I realize how much I need it. I have purpose here.

But again I ask, is that enough? Or perhaps the true question is, am I doing enough?

I grow vegetables and plant trees and raise animals in a way that respects and celebrates their innate beingness. I do so to rage against the industrial machine that poisons our water, our earth, our air and our sense of humanity. But I do this work quietly. And because of that these actions can seem so inconsequential. 

Am I, too, suffering from the delusional belief that this will make things OK?

I've created a place of refuge from the world but one that is small and separate from the community that I long to connect with. This place is becoming an expression -- an extension -- of me but it could be so much more than that. But that takes letting people in, opening myself up, becoming vulnerable.

Admitting that I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm doing it anyway.

My relationship to this place and my role in it is constantly shifting and evolving. I came here as a borderline militant vegan and now (though still vegetarian) I raise animals for meat. I ask so many questions, both practical and ethical, and offer so few answers. I read work that I wrote when I first moved here and I blush at the naivieté. The rose-coloured glasses. But have I allowed wisdom and experience to become stand-ins for hunger and conviction, corralled possibility into something more safe and manageable?

And as for my writing:  the world is such a messy, complex place and I abhor being yet another voice that offers simple solutions. And so I let my thoughts steep, like my daily pots of strong tea, waiting for some definitive answer that never comes. Too often I bite my tongue, swallow my words, leave things unsaid. Succumb to fear. Not fear of difference or stepping out from the crowd, but fear of being judged for being wrong. Or much worse, a hypocrite. There is still a large chasm between my intentions and my actions. Who am I to tell people to wake the fuck up, get over yourselves and do something real?

Then again, who am I not to be? I am a person who feels and experiences this life deeply. Passionately. I fall head over heels, lead with my heart first, then with my head. When I fall, I fall hard. Desperately so. But when I take risks and allow myself to let go of the fear and the conditioning and the criticism for being "too much" (or conversely "not enough") I can feel my wings stretching. Then I fly.

Some good news for a change

The blog has been pretty bleak lately -- for good reason, sure -- but still. And as a writer friend told me it's good to give readers hope, give them a sense of why I'm still here, why I'm still breathing. Wise words indeed.

So at the risk of tooting my own horn, I'm going to share a comment from my last post. Said Mama Pea: "Holy moly, you are such a fantastic writer!! The sky's the limit regarding this talent of yours. Write like crazy during this period of your life. It will pass quickly, and looking back you'll realize you have heaps of fodder for an awesome book that will help others."

Well, guess what? That book is in the works. Right now.

University of King's College, Halifax, NS

 My marriage imploded in late April and a few weeks later I was accepted into the inaugural Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program in creative nonfiction at the University of King's College in Halifax, Nova Scotia. (At moments like this it's hard not to condescend into hacknied cliches about 'as one door closes, another one opens.' But I digress.)

It's a two-year low residency program, so I spend six weeks in intensive residencies (two weeks in Halifax last August, one in Toronto in January, another two weeks in Halifax next August and a week in new York in January 2015) and graduate with a degree, polished book proposal and a large chunk of manuscript.

I'd been thinking about getting a post-grad degree for a few years now. I looked into other writing programs, but none of them were quite right. I consume fiction -- novels, stories, poems --  but I wanted to write nonfiction. True life. That which is stranger than fiction. I've been a freelance writer for 12 years but I've plateaued, become static and stuck. I wanted to push the edges of my words.

I wanted to write a book. About food, farming, family. My delicious and messy life.

And I'm scared shitless. Writing doesn't come easy to me. I've heard people talk about their fingers or pens being guided by an unknown force, many call it their muse, and I've been blessed by that visit maybe a handful of times. When I reread work that I've written when I'm in that space and time, I'm touched by the visceral power of my own words and images. And the rest of the time -- well, I struggle to find the words to adequately capture the way I feel, the vastness of my experience in this crazy life. I've tried to quit writing before but I can't. And so, a book.

Writing this book demands that I dig deep, pull back the veil from my memory, wipe away the crud and the bullshit, the constructions and the myths, and just write true. Whatever that is. It means letting go of what's past and clearing the way for what's to come. It means cracking myself -- my heart, my mind -- wide open. But that's how the light gets in. It means writing about a failed dream, but also exploring the wonder and possibility of a new one.

So I'm doing it. Under the tutelage of smart and storied professors, a gifted and generous mentor and with the love and support of a cohort of new friends on their own writerly journey. One page at a time. 

Meeting our meat

The first time I read Peter Singer’s book “Animal Liberation” was the last time I ate a chicken wing, or any other animal flesh for that matter.  Previously ignorant to the horrors of intensively managed factory farming and the cruelties of industrialized animal husbandry, I decided then I could no longer support a system that was predicated on the suffering of animals. It was my introduction to eating as a political act – and that was over 15 years ago. 

My husband, however, is not vegetarian, so when our children, now 11 and 8, were born, we decided to raise them as omnivores. Still more vegetarian than not (as I do most of the cooking), they are given free-choice of what to eat. I struggled with this for a long time; I’d eschewed animal flesh for a reason that I felt passionately about, but I didn’t want to “wrong” my children’s father (or other family members) in their eyes, which I felt I’d essentially do if I promoted a strict and exclusive vegetarian diet. And while I certainly wouldn’t call them particularly enthusiastic carnivores, they do like their meat.

To reconcile this inner conflict I decided if my children are to eat meat, I want them to know where it comes from -- the flesh-and-blood animal, one with a face and personality, not the shrink-wrapped package of cuts from the grocery store. And that means connecting their food with a farmer. Except for a ornery, make that nasty, goat that we butchered for the freezer a few years ago, I’ve been buying meat from local farms that raise their animals humanely. I could feel good, or at least better, about the meat they were eating. The meat is more expensive, sure, but it's not like we need to eat meat every day. (Remember the specialness of the Sunday evening roast?)

And then I got the turkeys. 

As small farms in Canada can only raise 50 turkeys a year outside of the supply managed system (and as quota is extremely expensive, most small farmers can only afford to raise non-quota birds) eaters (in my area, at least) usually need to pre-order their Thanksgiving and/or Christmas bird in February direct from the farmer. I’m just not that organized, so most years I'd end up buying a grocery store turkey. But the year before last, as I rubbed it with seasoned butter thinking about the life it had before arriving in my kitchen – the stress and overcrowding, the crippling leg conditions brought on by growing oversized (and more profitable) white breast meat, the fear, the pain – I decided it seemed an inappropriate and hypocritical way to celebrate the seasons of gratitude and giving.

So last spring I decided to try raising our own Ridley Bronze turkeys. During the 23 weeks they lived on the farm I can honestly say they had an amazing life with long days spent roaming in the sunshine, scratching for bugs and pecking at greens. The day that they went to the abattoir was a sad one, but when the time came to prepare the Christmas bird, I did so with heart-felt gratitude, knowing that I had given this animal the very best life possible. And while I still didn’t eat any of the meat (at the moment I’m just not interested in eating animal flesh, no matter how it’s raised), my family (including my dad and husband, who both love meat) raved that it was simply the best, tastiest, most delicious turkey they had ever tasted.  I don’t think the bugs and sunshine can take all the credit.

Shortly afterwards I started re-reading Barbara Kingsolver’s book “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” and I came upon this passage:

“I can’t claim I felt emotionally neutral as I took these creatures [baby turkeys] in my hands, my fingers registering downy softness and a vulnerable heartbeat. I felt maternal, while at the same time looking straight down the pipe towards the purpose of this enterprise. These babies were not pets. I know this is a controversial point, but in our family we’d decided if we meant to eat anything, meat included, we’d be more responsible tenants of our food chain if we could participate in the steps that bring it to the table…. You can leave the killing to others and pretend it never happened, or you can look it in the eye and know it. I would never presume to make that call for anyone else, but for ourselves we’d settled on giving our food a good life until it was good on the table.”  

As Kingsolver’s book has inspired countless people to take steps away from today’s industrialized, processed-food pipeline, it inspired me to take a broader look at the meat consumed in our home and my place in putting it there. 

This coincided with a revaluation of how I’ve been managing the farm and a realization that I can no longer afford to keep the barnyard animals simply for the sake of loving them. They needed to provide some sort of “function” and/or further my steps towards a more self-reliant life. For example, the chickens fit the bill as they provide eggs, but the donkeys -- while I loved Cinder and Leeroy dearly, I sold them last fall because I couldn’t justify keeping them as I didn’t yet have a large flock that needed protecting and the cost of hay was skyrocketing. Besides they really liked eating the barn.

While I could “participate in the steps that bring [meat] to the table” (to quote Kingsolver) by buying meat from farms I trust, it felt a bit like I was passing the buck, this “leaving the killing to others.” More importantly, I love raising animals. But could I raise them knowing I was going to kill them? 

Then I read Catherine Friend’s book “The Compassionate Carnivore.” In a chapter where she asks the question if raising an animal and taking it to the butcher is such a hard thing to do, why raise animals for meat at all? Her answer comes in three parts: one, she loves meat and believes that raising meat is a responsibility she can fulfill; secondly, not all land is suitable for growing crops, but can grow grass, and while humans can’t digest grass, animals can. 

But it’s her third reason that reached out and grabbed my heart: “The third reason might strike people as the oddest, but I continue to farm because I love animals. The irony of this isn’t lost on me. You’d think people who raise animals then actually eat them must not like animals very much, but most of the time the exact opposite is true. It’s why we do what we do. But unless a landowner can afford to keep animals around just to look at (this is called a hobby farm, by the way), the rest of us animal lovers must find a way for the animals to earn their keep and contribute to the economic health of the farm.” 

This reasoning jives with a recent conversation I had with a farmer who explained how raising heritage animals for consumption is the best way to, in fact, preserve their genetic heritage. While few farmers could afford to keep them in sanctuary-type facilities (though I am in no way criticizing or dismissing farm sanctuaries), raising rare and endangered livestock for meat builds consumer demand; the more demand, the less rare they become. (It’s called the principle of eater-based conservation.)

Putting aside the ethics of whether we should eat animals (though even that is something I still have to reckon with, and books such as Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson’s “The Pig who Sang to the Moon: The Emotional World of Farm Animals” certainly muddies the waters on that front), I’ve decided this year to raise part of the meat that will make its way to the family table. I’ve arranged to purchase two Katahdin meat sheep (a spring lamb to butcher this fall, plus a pregnant ewe that will lamb this May), two Berkshire weaners, eight Ridley Bronze turkeys and about dozen meat chickens. We’ll keep enough meat for ourselves, but I’ll also be selling some to help offset the costs. (Note: In Canada, it's illegal to sell on-farm butchered meat. All meat for human consumption must be taken to a provincially- or federally-licensed abattoir.)

Over the next year I plan to explore this notion of “ethically-raised meat” by visiting and speaking with other farmers, butchers, abattoir owners, chefs, food security experts, ethicists, hunters, among others, and writing about that, while shadowing (and hopefully, illuminating) that research with my own narrative of experience here on the farm.

People who know me and my long-standing vegetarianism are a bit surprised, even skeptical, by my plan for this year. And to be honest, I have reservations about how difficult it will be when butchering day comes. But as a writer, mother and someone who cares deeply about both food and animals, it seems the most honest way to truly understand the arguments around ethical meat and whether, given our current food and farming systems, it’s even possible and sustainable on a small, let alone a larger, scale. 

Field writes, “When people find out I farm and raise animals for meat, many smile, shake their heads, and throw their hands up in mock horror. “Just don’t remind me that meat’s an animal. I don’t want to know that.”

“Why not?” the farmer in me splutters as I think, Don’t we owe the animals that much? “

 Yes. Yes, we do.

Taking steps

I was supposed to go to a soil workshop today but work got in the way of my plans. I was looking forward to the opportunity to learn from an expert speaker and tour an innovative organic farm. But it was 1-½ hours away (one way), and such a visit would take too much out of my day.

My mind started wandering down the path of disappointment, but then I stopped. While the workshop would have been interesting and useful, is it something I really need to do right now? Would this knowledge inform that tasks that need to be accomplished today, or even this season? Then I started thinking about how often I prop myself up, even distract myself, with research. I look outside for information -- I turn to books, workshops, experts who can tell me what to do and how to do it -- while I have the best teacher right here: the land itself.

It has so much to teach me and while conventional learning is vitally important, experiential learning -- digging in the dirt, nurturing, growing, being there -- is where the magic happens. But sometimes that kind of learning scares me -- what if I'm missing something, what if I make a mistake, what if I fail?

But really all life is like that. You can prepare all you want for a certain task, a job, or even parenthood, but it's in the doing where you reach the highs and shoulder the lows. That's where the living takes place.

And that takes trust, a certain leap of faith, and ultimately, a letting go of the results because despite our best actions and intentions, what happens after the work is done is completely out of our hands.

While I feel safe in my smallness, doing my reading and research until I have learned enough, know enough, about whatever work I'm doing -- whether it's how to grow vegetables in my particular soil, or how I can do the work I love and support my family financially at the same time -- none of that is enough.

It's about taking a step in a direction, learning from that step, and then taking another one -- perhaps in the same direction, or possibly a different one. Failure doesn't come from action; it comes from inaction, from getting stuck, from staying small.

Wendell Berry wrote, “It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

Well, my mind is certainly baffled, but I can continue to feed the discomfort around not knowing what to do, or I can simply start doing. Participating in life makes one complete. And I don't need a workshop to tell me how to do that.

Why small farms matter

I just finished writing my "Editor's Message" for a farming publication that I, uh, edit, and I thought I'd share it here simply because I think the message is important. I also think that everyone should go see this new film...

* * *

I recently saw a new documentary "To Make a Farm” by filmmaker Steve Suderman. It follows five young people through a year growing food and raising animals on their small-scale CSA farms.

It’s a beautiful feel-good film and I was moved, uplifted and inspired by the passion, dedication and drive of these new(ish) farmers to grow food, steward the land and connect with their communities despite challenges that would test the most seasoned farmers.

After the film there was a brief Q&A with Suderman and two local farmers. While the consensus was that the film was both cinematically beautiful and inspiring, a few audience members dismissed these farmers as “romantic idealists” -- while it was great that these “city folk” wanted to move to the country, farm and save the world, could it make a difference on such a small scale? Was it realistic? Was it enough?

I didn’t respond at the time but on the drive home I ruminated about what I wish I’d said. And here it is:

Passion and idealism drive many people to their profession, be it doctors who want to save lives or lawyers who want to right wrongs or teachers who want to enrich children’s minds -- why must it be different for farmers?

While coming from a long line of farmers, or growing up on a farm, has its advantages, I don’t think either is a prerequisite for farming. Farming isn’t a birthright, it’s a choice, and the fact that city folk are deliberately choosing this life is something to be celebrated. In fact, it’s young farmers who are essential to the future of agriculture. Even if idealism brought them to the land, it’s clear-sighted realism about the benefits (and costs) of this life that enables them to stay there.

Yes, small-scale farming is physically demanding. It’s work that tests the body, mind and spirit. But as Wendell Berry writes, “We must learn to think of human energy, our energy, not as something to be saved, but as something to be used and to be enjoyed in use. We must understand that our strength is, first of all, strength of body, and that this strength cannot thrive except in useful, decent, satisfying, comely work.”

Farming is filled with risk and uncertainty, but it’s also transformative and joyful. (Ed note: I referred readers to two stories in the magazine that don't have much relevance here, so this sentence was actually much more interesting and relevant that it sounds.)

I’m not saying small farms are the solution to the complex challenges we face related to agriculture and food production, but they are one solution -- and one that shouldn’t be dismissed solely on scale.

So to those skeptics in the movie theatre, I’d say that for the local communities that are savouring the food grown by these farmers, for the land and animals that thrive under their care, and for the future farmers who are inspired to follow a similar path, “It’s enough.”

photo credit: Tarrah Young of Green Being Farm

Away from home

I do a lot of living at home -- it's where I work, raise children, grow food and feed my spirit -- so it’s always a little unsettling when I leave for longer than a day. But it's good for me, too. While I marvel every day that I actually get to live on this land, and I'm grateful for all the small stuff -- the intense winter quiet, the nurturing warmth and hypnotic glow from the wood stove, the star spackled sky -- it can be hard to keep up with a never-ending list of chores and to-dos and must-do-nows.

So when an obligation or an opportunity takes me away from home, Lucas tells me to enjoy it, embrace it, take the break and to simply "have fun." And I do. But it doesn't take long before I start feeling the tug towards home. This place is under my skin; it's a part of me and who I am. It is my present and my future.

But this most recent three days away has connected me with a part of my past. A great friend and colleague, who's an instructor at a big university in southwestern Ontario, asked me to guest lecture at one of her classes. It was great fun speaking to (and with) young people about being a professional writer and editor and these teaching visits (this is my second) help me refocus on my own writing projects.

Standing in front of a classroom was both strange and intensely familiar. Even though the world of academia is many, many miles away from my current reality, it's also a part of me, rooted in very early memories of visits to the place my dad worked.

While other kids' dads might have been business people or teachers, my dad was a scientist, with his own lab, at a university. I was always proud of that and of how interesting his workplace was, with its odd smells and strange equipment. It seemed like he was part of an exclusive club, and in many ways he probably was. Then later, after a rocky start, I spent several stimulating years at university pursuing my own studies, first with my undergrad then a post-grad. It's a world I could have made a life in, but I followed a different path.

University is a nice place to visit and I'd welcome more opportunities like today's in the future, but I'm happy to be going back to my chosen life on the farm with its to-do lists and big big sky. Besides, it's a full moon tonight and she's just not the same with a city skyline at her feet.

So after one more girlie gab over a dawn-lit breakfast, I'll be leaving tomorrow to start my long journey home. But first I'll be making a pit stop, or actually, a farm stop. As I don't often get out to the "west end" of the province, which is home to a large and active ecological agriculture community, I'll be stopping at farm-based workshop on home dairying. I'm excited. Learning hands-on about making yoghurt, cheese and butter, as well as raising a family cow, will help bring us one yummy step closer to my goal of food self-sufficiency.

And while it's commonplace to bring back trip souvenirs, I assured Lucas I won't be bringing back a house cow. Then again, I didn't make any promises about a sheep or goat.

The bookish farmer

I am a writer and writers love to write... until they're in the throes of a writer's block so gruesome that the act of crafting (or simply stringing together) a lyrical (or just plain cohesive) sentence is akin to weeding a half-acre field of mature crabgrass with a dull fork while blindfolded -- slow, demoralizing and incredibly tedious.

So while struggling with my own words, I've been delighting in the narratives of others -- thanks to publishing house Thomas Allen & Son Ltd. that has offered me the opportunity to review titles from their various catalogues.

I love reviewing farm, gardening and food-related books -- not only does it help kickstart my own creativity, but I get to learn about subjects held close to my heart. And sometimes the "what not to do" is as cherished as the "how-tos"; at the very least it helps me feel less of a tool as I regale our own blunders and boondoggles!

First up will be "Maple Syrup: From Sap to Syrup -- The History, Lore, and How-to Behind this Sweet Treat" by Tim Herd.


It's a beautiful book and I'm looking forward to sharing its story. Stay tuned!

And rest assured, I haven't given up on writing about our own madcap homesteading adventure. While the last few months have been silly busy with off-farm work (well, I guess when I work at home I'm not technically off-farm, but I've been spending way more time on the computer than on the land), I'm (still) trying to create a better balance between paid work and soul work. That's another story that I look forward to sharing with you.

Still here

Hi, folks. Sorry to be out of touch for so long. I started a new job last week and it's been crazy. I'm still working from home and it's part-time but as with all new jobs, it's taking up a lot of hours. Of course I'm still juggling kids home for summer vacation, farm animals, the garden, chores etc. and when faced with the choice between blogging and sleep, my bed wins every time!

But I so miss blogging and sharing and reading about everyone else's adventures, so I'll be back soon.

In the meantime, here's a snapshot of the view from my madcap life right now.


What, doesn't everyone have a treefrog crawling around their office window?

Bruised but not beaten

I’m feeling a bit bruised today. I’ve blogged before about the Simpler Living column that I write for Bankrate Canada – well, earlier today I discovered an older column I’d written last November had been picked up by MSN Money.

The title: “Moving to the country: a big mistake?”

Hmm. That’s not the original headline. It was “Simpler Living: A year in review” as it was a reflection on our first year on the farm and some of the lessons we learned. (If you’re interested, read it here.)

Anyways, I was pleasantly surprised to read several comments from people who had either made the same move or grew up in the country.

Then there was one reader, "barnyard betty", who left six -- yes six! -- comments. Here’s just a sample of what he had to say:

“Boy am I ever glad that you decided to do what you did. Unfortunately it's folks like you that have succeeded in destroying the way of life that we had, one that you so dearly desire.

Having being born and raised in a rural farm setting, it was in my blood to be the kind of person that most city dwellers seem to dream about being.

Unfortunately, because of the greed and unwillingness of those of you that would rather escape the "urban prisons" that you have created, you have decided to call the country your new found paradise, driving us out.

Well, I have news for you, you will never be accepted totally in your lifetime plainly because you serve no real need to be there.”

Apparently, we are the cause of soaring land prices, wildlife habitat disruption, a shrinking water table, a too big horse population, the break-up of useable farmland, the introduction of a redundant urban culture and an entire municipal infrastructure gone out of whack. Oh, we also drive our neighbours crazy asking stupid questions that would be common sense because we never realized that we have to learn how to live wherever we move to.

The positive side, said this commenter/ranter/flamer, is that most folks such as us return to the city after only five years. But that only opens the doors to “second rounders,” who are worse than the first, whose only goal in life is to mow grass.

The bottom line is: we serve no purpose and we’re wasting valuable real estate, robbing someone of the opportunity to use our land for what it is for - farming.

“Do I hate her,” writes barnyard betty. “No. Do I dispise [sic] was she’s doing? Absolutely!”

Ouch.

Being a writer, I know my words are fair game. After eight years of doing this, I’ve yet to develop a thick skin. So even though rants on the Internet are commonplace and criticisms like this come with the territory, this one really pissed me off.

So I fought back in the most diplomatic way I could: I wrote a comment back.

“I'm chiming in a bit late to this discussion but... to all of you who made constructive comments, thank you. We've been on our farm for almost two years now and yes, it has been an adventure. We knew before moving here that it would be a big adjustment and a lot of work but there is a difference between knowing and experiencing. Still we're "cutting it" just fine.

@barnyardbetty -- to be honest, I am shocked and saddened by your comments. To say that, "folks like you have succeeded in destroying the way of life that we had" is both ignorant and inaccurate. You don't know me. You know nothing about me. If you did, you'd know that I am not that person that you have described, nor are many folks who move to the country for more than just the "idyllic lifestyle".

My family and are deeply committed to the ecological preservation of our land and the land surrounding it; we practice water conservation and live a responsible lifestyle that is light on the earth. We are deeply committed to our farm and our long-term future here. We also don't have television, we help our neighbours whenever we can (and then do so in return because they 'get' what we're doing here) and I am not the Starbucks-drinking, antiquing kind. I'm the one helping our goat deliver triplets in the middle of the night or assisting our vet with castrations or our farrier with hoof trimming or mucking out the barn by hand or sweating it out in our huge vegetable garden.

We moved from suburbia where prime farmland was being paved over for development -- where's your venom for developers? Farmers are being driven out of work because of cheap imported food -- am I responsible for that? No.

Besides, what gives you the right to judge who is and who is not worthy to live in the country, who serves a real need? Yes, I was born and raised in the city and I have made a decision to live my life and raise my children in the country. Blood has nothing to do with it. It's about respect for our new home and community, and I have plenty of that. And by the way -- my husband now works in town. Seems to me he's been accepted there just fine.

Yes, we bought an existing farm -- one that had fallen into disrepair and neglect over the years. We are bringing it back INTO production so no, we're not robbing anyone of a farming opportunity. It's a slow road because we are not some self-made "tycoon".

And your rants about the horse industry? Take it elsewhere.

If this is your truth, I'm sorry for you. Your misdirected comments are full of condescension, intolerance and hate and there is no place for that anywhere, whether you live in the country or not.”

Why am I sharing this? I’m not sure. I don’t really want to give more exposure to this anonymous hate mongerer. (It’s really easy to spew shit when you’re behind a keyboard, isn’t it?)

Maybe because this is a place where I can set the record “straight.” Or at least put forth our side of the story: that we’re doing our best here.

Then again, perhaps it’s just to say, “Bugger off, barnyard betty!”

A walk in the woods

Mother, O Mother, come sweep out the barn,
Pull weeds from the garden, or clean up the yard.
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose farm is so shocking?

She's out in the woods, blissfully walking.

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And I'm out in the woods, finding flowers -- it's true.

I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo

Look, Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?

We're skipping with stones and searching for frogs

Shh, there's a turtle asleep near that log.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow

But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down barn chores; weeds go to sleep!

I'm out with my baby and babies don't keep.

(Adapted from "Babies Don't Keep" by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton)

Simpler Living Column -- A year in review

"A year ago this month, I wrote my first Simpler Living column. In it, I described how we'd moved from a semi in suburbia to a 71-acre farm in a small village in eastern Ontario.

Our dream was to slow down and get away from the hectic pace of life we found ourselves in. Truth be told, during that first year, we only managed to exchange one kind of hectic for another...."

To read more, please go here.

Want more? Here's a complete list of earlier installments of "Simpler Living" written for Bankrate Canada:

October 2009: Preserving the harvest for year-round enjoyment

September 2009: Foraging for wild edibles in your own backyard

August 2009: Gardening is a labour of love whose rewards is a harvest of vegetables and knowledge

July 2009: Save money and get healthy by cooking more vegetarian meals

June 2009: Raising kids on the lean and green

May 2009: Reducing the amount of garbage you produce is good for the pocketbook and the planet

April 2009: When life gives you leftovers, make compost

March 2009: The appeal of raising backyard chickens is growing across cities in Canada

February 2009: The perils of seed catalogues

January 2009: Once you learn to make do with less, it's hard to remember why you needed more

December 2008: Preparing for our first winter, homesteading-style.

Simpler Living column: Raising kids on the lean and green

While I haven't been blogging lately, I have been writing my "Simpler Living" column for Bankrate Canada.

Here's the latest installment on raising kids on the lean and green.

"One of the reasons we moved to our farm last summer was to lead a greener, simpler life. We wanted to provide that kind of life for our children, but as most parents know, life with kids is anything but simple. It's also not cheap.

According to the Canadian Council on Social Development, it costs approximately $167,000 to raise a child to age 18. The biggest expenses, after child care and shelter, are food, clothing and recreation.

We're trying to reduce our grocery bills by keeping a vegetable garden, starting a fruit orchard and tending to a motley crew of egg-laying chickens and ducks. When fall comes, we'll preserve as much of the harvest as we can and fill our pantry and freezer with our own sun-kissed goodness. We stock up when items go on sale, buy in season, bake when we can and choose home cooking over convenience meals.

So if these actions help address the major expenses, what about clothing and recreation?"

To read more, please click here.

Simpler Living column, part three

When I submitted February's Simpler Living column to my editor on Tuesday, I realized that I'd never posted January's installment about making do with less.

"One of the reasons we moved to the country was to get away from the buzz of modern suburban life. Even though we knew the dangers of living next to the Joneses, there was always that pressure to keep up or, even worse, get ahead. But that usually meant spending money, and it had us stretched to our limits.

We wanted off the consumer merry-go-round. We wanted to spend less and live more." (Read more here.)

Truth be told, I probably forgot because we've been pretty busy lately trying to figure out how to make more. Money, that is. While it's true that we've cut down our variable spending quite a bit since moving here, there are still nasty things like mortgage payments and property taxes.

Making a living, while living our life, remains our biggest challenge and while we've got loads of possibilities, this darned "global economic downturn" isn't helping much.

So between that and dealing with various kid infections and the inevitable fallout (turns out we've done a great job teaching our kids to share: unfortunately that means sharing nasty little microbes and viruses -- with us) I haven't been blogging much lately.

So sorry, folks. Just bear with me a bit longer.

In the meantime, click here for the previous month's installment of Simpler Living.

Blogging at GRIT

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm now blogging at GRIT.com. Once a week, I'll be writing about our latest adventures here on the farm.

I'm really excited about it and I'm actually pretty humbled too -- that someone there thinks we've got a story worth sharing.

(I hope I haven't come off like a braggart or anything as I'm quite new at this self-promotion thing. I'm generally terrible at publicizing my work even though it's not a very useful quality when you freelance for a living.)

If you haven't discovered GRIT already, I highly recommend it -- online or in print. You'll find tons of amazing stuff on everything related to rural living and simply celebrating country life.

And as you can see by the above screen shot, the folks there obviously have impeccable taste on what it takes to be a great "cover model."

Yep, that's our Henry!

Bright lights, big city

Image courtesy of www.torontostockphotos.com

I'm off to the big city tomorrow. It's my first weekend away since we moved here. That's not entirely true -- I've left the farm to visit family and friends but I've always had the kids with me.

But this time I'm going solo. And I'm really looking forward to it.

Don't get me wrong -- I truly love this place. But I'm spending the weekend with some girlfriends who I've known since God was a boy. I went to grade school with three of them, and junior kindergarten with one of them.

What amazes me most is that regardless of the different paths life has take us and all the moves, jobs, marriages, births, illnesses and stresses we've collectively gone through, we've stayed friends. I guess you just can't replace that kind of history.

There's only one downside: I've got to head into the Big Smoke to see them. And I'm pretty grumpy about it.

I know, I know -- Toronto is one of the most multicultural places in the world, it's a place of opportunity, a leading economic centre and home to an amazing array museums, schools, diverse neighbourhoods -- I know the spiel firsthand. I spent my first 17 years living there (and another two years in my twenties when I went back to school.)

But now I find there's too many cars/people/shops/houses/noises/smells/messes/stresses.

Just Too Much.

So how did this city girl go all country? To be honest, I'm still trying to figure that out. (I think my dad is too.) But for one thing, I know I've always been passionate about wide open spaces and the outdoors.

And I've got the artwork to prove it.

Just before our move, I found this undated poem. Given the meticulous writing, I'm assuming it was in primary school, perhaps grade five or six, before my handwriting went completely to hell and morphed into the scrawling mess it is now.

If you can't read, it goes like this:

I said in my heart, "I can't stand the indoors. I need some freedom to run and play. I'm going outside where the leaves are deep and feel the cold breeze on my face all day." Summer is gone and fall is here. The leaves are falling to the ground. Children are out to romp in the sun. It's the best time of year around. The End. By Fiona C."

I'm the first to admit it's a good thing I left my poetry to my grade school self but the essential sentiments, about the outdoors and freedom, remain true to this day.

As adults, I think we've got to remember the things that made us really happy as kids. I mean that blissful, fully-present-in-the-moment, absolutely-exuberant kind of happy. And yet it's too easy to forget what was once important. I know I almost did.

After university (the first time), armed with a degree in international development and history (a major and minor, both of which I loved), I wasn't sure what to do next. But the boy I was completely enamoured with at the time (and still am) knew he wanted to go back to college. So I said since I wasn't sure I was ready to join CUSO or go gallivanting overseas just now, if he went to school, I'd work.

A friend of ours heard that I was looking for a good paying job and his firm was hiring. So I applied and got my first real job. I even had a fancy title: Tax Group Coordinator.

Yep, I worked in an accounting firm where the stereotypes were all true. It lasted three months. Looking back, I'm surprised I made it that long.

One day I was kvetching to a friend, the one that I've known since kindergarten, about my miserable dilemma and she said that if I was serious about quitting, her firm was hiring. It'd be a two hour commute, each way (one hour drive, one hour train) but it was good pay and great opportunity. Plus, we'd get to work together.

I applied and got my second real job, this time as an assistant at a investment firm. Can't you just picture it? Nylon stockings, heels, suits -- the works. I looked all grown-up. I figured I was well on my way to becoming a capital "P" professional. And I was good at my job. So much so that within six months the biggest producer (= most successful advisor) in the branch wanted me on his team.

Here I go, I thought -- I'm moving up. This is the way it's supposed to be, right?

I lasted an entire year with him-- and again, I can't believe I made it that long. Even then, fresh out of university, I knew something was wrong when the person I worked for had a picture of his house on his desk instead of his family. He'd brag about his $4,000 suits and tailor-made dress shirts and yet he'd asked me to lie to his kids when they called and asked when daddy was coming home.

Then one night, after working late again, I had to take a bus part way home as the trains were no longer running. I started talking with the man sitting next to me. He was young (probably early 30s), immaculately dressed and a corporate lawyer with one of the big Bay Street firms.

He was a capital "P" professional with the wife and two kids, a designer house with a matching designer dog -- and he was absolutely miserable. He told me he hated his job -- the long hours, how different the practice of law was from the theory, how cut-throat and competitive it all was -- but he was trapped by "golden handcuffs," he said. That was the first time I'd heard that phrase and I remember thinking, I never want to be like that.

Then along came an opportunity to move to another branch, closer to home, with an advisor who I really liked and respected. He had a great sense of humour, he was fun and he believed in a good work-life balance. It meant I'd no longer get to work with my kindergarten bud -- the one part of my job that I loved -- but it was a chance at happiness I couldn't pass up. I thought maybe working for a better boss would be the difference and that I could make this "good" life work for me.

So I moved to the new branch, worked closer to home (by then, we'd gotten married, that boy and I, and we decided to split the commute) and I met some new fabulous girlfriends. I'd take walks by the lake at lunchtime or on rainy days, I'd visit the library. My boss, an Ironman finisher several times over, even inspired me to take up running.

And yet, I was still miserable. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was it, this is what I'd be doing the rest of my life? I had a great boss, a "good" job with a bright future (I'd just been offered a big raise and a promotion) and yet it wasn't enough. Not for me.

Now, I'm not trying to trash the world I worked in. I have many dear friends in the investment business who are lovely people, good citizens and all that, and they're still very, very good at their jobs. It's just I couldn't find my happiness there. And when you spend 50 hours a week (or more) in a place, it was too high a price for me to pay.

"You can do anything," my boss would always tell me.

So, I quit. And this time, it was my turn to go back to school. Journalism school, of all things. I'd always love to learn, to read and to write. I joked I had the attention span of a gnat and that I could never commit to a single profession because I was interested in too many things. Writing gave me a chance to explore my world and perhaps bring a deeper understanding to my place in it.

I replaced a secure job, good pay, great benefits and a bright future to with a freelance writing life characterized by insecurity, poor pay, no benefits and an uncertain future. (Hmm, seeing the cold hard truth of my decision, I can't believe Lucas didn't try and shake some sense into me. But he didn't, and I thank him for it.)

If you met me for the first time today, you'd never dream that I'd once been climbing the corporate ladder. The only clue is that I still do some writing for business publications (but more often than not, there's some kind of 'green' slant to them.)

I've traded my heels for wellie boots and my suits for smelly coveralls. I still go for walks at lunchtime but the destination has become the barn, not the lake or library. And my benefits and bonuses are no longer monetary -- but I've been able to stay home with our kids. I'd trade dental coverage for that privilege any day.

The neat thing is, once you leave "security" for "insecurity", any subsequent exits -- like when Lucas quit his job and went freelance too -- seem a little less scary. I think that's partly why we're here today.

So while this is by no means the first time that I've gone back to the big city since I left at 17, it's the first time I've been back since we moved to the farm.

It's a chance to come full circle, to go back to the place where I came from that was once home, spend 24 hours with a group of ladies that I love and say goodbye to it at the end of the weekend.

For I know by the time Sunday afternoon comes, I'll be sorely missing not just my kids, but the clear skies, the fresh air, the wide open spaces and the freedom of the countryside.

And when you ache to return to a place, you know that place has become home.

So to quote John Denver, who's much better at poetry than I ever was:

Well I wouldn’t trade my life for diamonds and jewels
I never was one of them money hungry fools
I'd rather have my fiddle and my farmin’ tools
Thank God I’m a country boy

Yeah, city folk drivin’ in a black limousine
A lotta sad people thinkin’ that’s mighty keen
Son, let me tell ya now exactly what I mean
Thank God I’m a country boy

Thank god, I'm a country girl!

Winter prep, homesteading-style: part two

As promised, here are some photos to accompany my Simpler Living column on "Preparing for winter: Homesteading-style".

This was the first sign that we should take our winter preparation kinda seriously. Our house inspector found not one, but two electrical panels in our kitchen. The second is, of course, for the generator. Right.


I'd done some research for an article on generators but it was different shopping for our own. We had to walk the fine line between buying something with sufficient capacity to cover our basic needs in a power outage (fridge, well pump, some lights... we can camp out in front of the wood stove, right?) and spending way too much money on a piece of machinery that sits and gathers dust. (Hopefully. Not likely.)

We settled-on a 5,500 watt gas-powered model. I would have preferred diesel, so we could eventually convert it to bio diesel, but we had a budget to stick to. And to be honest, this model was on sale. We haven't hooked it up yet (we just got the right cable for it yesterday) but we're planning on a test-run before the lights go out for real.

This is our external wood furnace that sits about 100 feet away from the house. It works by circulating heated water, via insulated underground pipes, to a water-to-air heat exchanger in our basement. The exchanger is in turn connected to a conventional forced-air furnace that is controlled by a regular thermostat.

Eventually, we hope to use solar to power the furnace (and everything else) but for now, it's an on-grid system.

This is a somewhat blurry peek into our wood shed. We had to buy wood this year, which was an unexpected expense, but as we moved in July, we didn't have enough time to gather enough from our property AND unpack, settle in and figure out what the hell we were doing.

It's a mix of hard and soft wood in various sizes. Everyone and their uncle had advice on what to use so like most things out here, we're figuring it out as we go. The pile goes back several rows so I'm hoping we'll have enough to last until spring. If not, our 71-acre property is half woodlot and there's enough dead-fall to keep us warm for years. It's just a matter of collecting, cutting and seasoning it. That's all.

This is my favourite piece of "furniture" in our house. It's an old Elmira "Sweet Heart" wood stove. It's not original to the house (which is about 100-years-old) but it was installed by the former owners. There is nothing like cooking with or savouring the warmth of a wood stove. Simply delicious.

While there are ducts on the first floor of the house, which circulate heat from the external wood furnace, they are not connected to the second floor at all. There are only three small bedrooms and a two-piece bathroom upstairs (our "full" four-piece bathroom is on the main floor, off the kitchen -- makes for interesting visits with guests!) but it can get chilly up there.

And yet, it's amazing how efficiently this "peak-a-boo" flap above our fridge works to draw warm air from the wood stove up the stairs.

It's also amazing how handy this is for keeping an eye on the kids.

Finally, we knew once we moved to the country, our little hand-held snow shovel just wasn't going to cut it. Many farmers around here use their tractors to plough, but all we had was our little ATV. Despite its size, it's incredibly powerful (and maneuverable) and we haven't had to call in the army yet (yes, that's a jab at you Toronto folks out there!)

We use the same ATV for hauling wood out of the woods during the other three seasons and occasionally, for a little country entertainment.

Yes, that's Lucas pulling the kids behind the ATV in a snow scoop*. Good times... uh huh.

I recently read somewhere that winter in the city is to be endured while winter in the country is to be experienced. That really resonated with me, for some reason. Most years I've grumbled about the snow and the cold and the slush but this year, it's different.

Now that we've taken steps to protect our family from the storm, there are many times when I look out the window when it's snowing and actually smile. Yes, carrying buckets of water back and forth to the barn in a snowstorm has its own challenges and trying to keep the chickens' water defrosted can be tedious. And sure, I still worry about Lucas (and others) driving.

But in the end, it all comes down appreciating the little things -- a blazing full moon on a crisp winter night, walking through our woods when the trees are covered in a twinkling blanket of white magic, sipping hot chocolate after making snow angels with the kids or watching Gallagher roll in deep powder snow.

All treasured moments of sheer bliss, plain and simple. Little moments that have helped me rediscover the wonder and magic of the season.

So as long as we have a stocked pantry, a roaring fire and we don't have to drive anywhere, I say, "let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Happy Winter Solstice, everyone!

* No children were harmed in the making of this blog post.