Spring Always Comes

It has been a very long time since I have consistently blogged. It is not because I do not enjoy blogging--I actually relish the opportunity to think things out and express them without a million interruptions such as "but Mom, you don't understand!" (I am thinking moms never do.) The truth of it is that I have not blogged because life is hard and how does one share that? We are told at least once weekly that we are "living the dream", that we are "so blessed!", that we are "an inspiration" and I suppose that this is all true--actually, I know that this is all true. I also know the other side of the truth, that this life can be gloriously, exquisitely beautiful and precious and that it can also be grindingly, brutally hard. We have been spending the last six months or so in the desolation of the hard.

We had a drought that caused hay and feed prices to double, bringing our young business to it's knees. We had a wildfire that upended everything for an evacuation and caused milk production to drop to barely over a quarter of our lowest production point of previous years--over two months earlier than our usual production drop. This brought us to a point of making barely a quarter of what we needed weekly just to pay the most basic bills. We started seeing unexplained animal losses. Mind you these animals are not bought at an auction or leased or one of thousands--each animal on the farm (with very few exceptions) were born here as was their mother and grandmother. We know their personalities and their heritage going back generations and what we hope from them for generations forward. We have cuddled them, fed them and argued over names. To lose one, then another and nothing, nothing that we did made any difference, the experts that we consulted had no definitive answers, it seemed as if it would just continue unabated--it seemed to define the word impotence.

Then we lost a baby, what was to be our thirteenth child.

And then my husband lost his mind.

I chose those words with great care. I do not want to slide into histrionics nor do I want to make light of his experience, but in a very practical sense this is exactly what happened.

Tim has struggled with depression on and off for years. Anxiety and occasional panic have been no strangers, either, but for many years now both were well controlled by a combination of medication, faith and routines. The wave after wave of challenges were too much and the boat capsized. Although in the end the diagnoses would be unchanged--Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic and Depression--these were beasts of a totally different nature and in the end I saw my husband rendered totally nonfunctional. Every moment of every day was driven by panic as if he were being chased by a ravenous lion seeking to devour. Our days were consumed by trying to keep body and soul of business and family together while his were consumed by trying to escape the pursuing beasts. Our life was circumscribed by this illness in a way that is impossible to describe--we have had two family members fight their final fight in our home, doing months of hospice care and this had the same flavor of desperation. If our family could be seen as a boat, Tim was the anchor. We were now a ship tossed by every wave and driven by wind to uncharted and perilous waters.

It was a winter of desolation.

Slowly, oh-so-very slowly Spring crept in over the windowsill. The animal losses grinded to a halt. I slowly recovered from the miscarriage that had left me horribly anemic and weak. The panic gave way to anxiety, anxiety gave up it's death grip to yield to (only!) depression.

And then...

baby goats. For many the sudden rush of new life symbolizes Spring but for us this is true not symbolically but in a very practical, tangible manner. Baby goats mean more goats in milk which obviously, in a dairy, means more income. Beyond this it is a very clear promise of new life. We are reminded of those "generations to come", of not only the business that we are invested in, but the lives--human and goat--into which we have invested heart and soul. Having baby goats drives us to look forward, to make plans, propelling us out of the sense that we are powerless to do anything but try to survive. These little babies screaming for their bottles are the future of the dairy and hence, of our family.

So where are we now? Right now our ship is moored in a sheltering bay. We have left behind the deluge that threatened to sink us. The waters are calm and we look to the shore and see green things, good things of which to partake. The ship has been battered and is in much need of repair and the crew is in need of respite but for the moment we are at peace and looking forward.

I have many things that I want to share on this blog in the upcoming weeks--how it feels to be "living the life" and know mentally that you are supremely blessed even while being buffeted. About living with mental illness. (There, I said it. The "perfect" Christian family deals with mental illness.) About seeing your dreams shattered then put together differently than you expected that they would ever come together. Basically about life, with the gloves taken off.

And even if it is hard, I will still write about it because the only thing harder than "hard" is "hiding hard" and I am not sure that I have the energy for hiding anymore.