E T T Y - Q U E T T E

It wasn't supposed to be, really. I intended for Vanĕk the coonhound to play the roles of a small host of seder participants, but he woofed down one big piece of matzah and decided to limit his participation to reclining on the couch and watching out for Eliyahu. It is the first night of Passover, and I am alone. Not  getting invited to a seder is perfectly understandable. Firstly, I'm not really anyone's family. And, secondly, who wants to invite someone like me? "She'll come for a short while, sit there silently, and then find a pretext to leave early." That's me, and that's what they say--on a good day. It's awkward for everyone. "She's always so serious, and so depressed." That's me. If this all sounds a lot like self-pity, well, there is that, yes. "Poor-me-ism" is a definite part of my condition. I could/should have held a seder of my own, found someone else who had nowhere to go. There's always enough t...

At this time of year 8 o' clock is already night. But the moon is full, and the snow sparkles underfoot, so it is easy to see the way from the house up to barn. It is also very cold, as often on a clear night, and my boots make that dry crunchy sound, as if the white stuff were brittle and about to break.The horses know it's time to come in for dinner, sweet feed with some carrots, and lush second-cut hay, so they are waiting at their paddock gates across from the barn. Just inside the barn, Augustine and Barney, the barn cats, are expecting my arrival curled up into each other on the old office chair beside the desk at which we do our record keeping. They are always first to get fed, because trying to get work done with two hungry felines trying to trip you up is a challenge. Barney gets the lion's share of everything. He has been with us for years, a black and white presence waddling about the farm. The impression of "roundness" is enahnced by the fact that h...

Winter. The main farm tasks are keeping the horses fed, supplied with water, and provided   with dry, warm stalls overnight . Although planning for the new gardening season is already starting, there is still time for remembering other gardens, other gardeners. My parents always kept a small kitchen garden.   As did their parents before.   And everyone else around, too.    Our garden was at the back of the property, adjoining the lane that separated the farms and homes from the fields of wheat and sugar beet. It had a fence and a gate which was always kept latched, despite the fact that all the other villagers grew their own carrots and lettuce, and would hardly be prowling around trying to snatch some of ours. We grew basics: tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, herbs. Whatever you might toss in a salad. And then some strawberries, corn, and potatoes. The corn and potatoes didn’t fit in the garden, so they occupied a small open patch next to it. I remember...

This is Murphy. Murphy the Mutt. We got her from a shelter in February 2006. Murphy was my first dog. My very first pet. I was 48 years old. That is kind of sad. In a pathetic sort of way. I remember walking into the room that looked like a prison corridor in the movies, rows of cells with bars along one side. All the dogs were barking, except one. She just sat there, looking at us with veiled curiosity. Two days later we brought her home. The old farm house was still being renovated, and we slept on the floor in the living room while as-yet-nameless dog wandered the house looking for an escape route. I was afraid she might attack and eat me in my sleep. Did I mention that she was my first pet, and that I knew absolutely nothing about dogs? I still don't know much about dogs, but I know that this particular dog and I are very much alike. We share some deep structure of soul or life experience, and when she dies a piece of me will go with her to lie in the ground behind...

It is time to mulch the garlic with straw. I planted it late, mid-Novemebr almost, but I know it will be there come spring, and in July the scapes will rise from the ground again, first straining straight up, then relaxing a little into curls, coiling like garden hoses or snakes charmed out of their baskets by the sound of a flute. The straw keeps the bulbs warm over the winter, as they lie seemingly dormant a few inches below the surface. In truth, they are very much alive, sleeping perhaps, but gathering strength for the work to be done in the new year. In general, it seems a mistake to consider the winter months a time when nothing is happening in nature. Everything is happening. Spring leaves and flowers are only the final result of all the preparation that goes on under the snow. It feels appropriate that the Jewish New Year should begin in the fall, when the second cut hay is brought in, when the vegetables are ripe, and the maple trees stand like torches in the field, for...

Ah, what a chatterbox I am! I have had nothing to say for over three years.... Animals have gone from the farm, new ones have come and made the place home. It is we humans who seem like visitors only. Vegetables have grown, many have been overgrown and lost, as the weeds always seem to grow just a little faster. Perhaps some words are like that too. They leap from between our lips too quickly, without fore-thought. The not-so-good, the unkind words jump ahead of all others, and suddenly the situation has changed, and the kind and good words have no room left to emerge and bear fruit. And thoughts, the thoughts of sinking slowly into sadness, the fight, the ideals getting quiet, becoming just a mumble, and then falling silent, too. Self-negating thoughts, thoughts that can be denied by other thoughts even before they are fully there, that deny themselves, that think themselves to extinction. The first snow has fallen on the farm. Everything is waiting for the big sleep. Perhaps ...

A few days ago I fell down a flight of stairs. No broken bones. The time is not now, it seems; the work is not done -- much as its nature is in doubt. "True speech actually grows from the midst of silence," says Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe. I wonder about that. If we stop speaking, will truth grow like some marvelous tumor and then burst forth as something large and uncontainable? It is clear that we speak too much, that our Babelian babble covers up more of the truth than it reveals. But sometimes we also recognize truth when we hear it out loud, our speaking almost like a rehearsal of sorts ... until we find ourselves uttering the one statement that rings true above all others. Small delights: Put zucchini by the side of the road with a sign and a jar yesterday. Earned about $8, which got converted into ice cream, a lovely trade-off on a hot day. The miniature horses left yesterday. I hope they will have a good new home. Almost August. Still dry and hot. Must dig deeper for...

Mid-summer: Suddenly, after the frenetic activity of May and June (all things growing like mad, people rushing, projects started, projects finished), there is a slowness settling in: The grass hardly needs cutting, the horses move sedately in the heat, line-ups are shorter, the daily email flood subsides as people take holidays. It is good that way, because one gets tired. Yes, the kitchen counter is filled with plastic tubs holding red currants and raspberries waiting to be converted into jam and cake and jelly .... But the fact that I linger to talk and reflect, that too is a luxury of mid-summer. I am reading the new Mussar book by Alan Morinis, and have promised to begin working seriously on my character traits. There is that edge that sometimes creeps into my relations ... what is its source, why is not love the first response instead of something remembered too late, when I'm already angry or upset? Only the wars and violence among people don't slow down. Some days ...

Much time has passed since this blog was started. Animals have come and gone. A small hors died in our arms. We have learned to grow vegetables. We have planted a vineyard. Life gets away from us too much of the time. Work keeps us too busy. But we still try. July on the farm: it is very dry this summer, and the grass is quite parched. The hay grows too slowly. But the mosquitoes are less numerous. The zucchini have gone from flower to being ... well zucchini! Take your eye off for a minute and they have doubled in size. Appetizers, main courses, and dessert tend to involve zucchini right now. I am reading Vaclav Havel's To the Castle and Back. It is strangely mesmerizing in its "order." I still do not know what it is about this man's "voice" that is so haunting. Also reading the new Mussar Book by Alan Morinis called Everyday Holiness. Or trying to. In truth, there is little time for reading. Mostly, it's work and weeding, and more weeding. And feeding ...

Living here and now, or in another time and place. Every place is a Westerbork, the last place before an Auschwitz, which is the very last place. It is up to us to make this place beautiful, tranquil, to be like the palm of a hand that holds all living things safe and regards them with kindness, and treats them with love. The task is to bear no anger, to have no Ego that might; it is to learn what lies beyond the separatenesses of geography and faith and looks and opinion. It is up to us to be a place of light and joy, to be an invitation, a place God will want to call home. And from where only goodness will go out....