E T T Y - Q U E T T E

PR1245 .B5 Got it? Kindred soul! I've been wondering how many years or months I've spent in libraries. I have always loved them; they seemed a shortcut to life, a way to know without having to feel. All life, all wisdom, all poetry catalogued. A short walk from Beowolf to Virgina Woolf to the Big bad Wolf, God and devil in the same row. With my own mind ever in chaos, butcher knives waiting silently in the kitchen drawer for the right time to call out, and bridges and tall buildings whispering like sirens in the wind, library catalogues seemed like a calm mind. Rows and rows of small drawers with index cards be-typed by cataloguers, with subject categories from the most general to the specific--a world ordered and predictable and safe. My favourite has always been the LCC, the Library of Congress classification system. Even though it is more enumerative than epistmological, its attractiveness lies in that it does not seek to reach beyond what is human. With my universit...

I sit in the dogbed; the dog, presumably, is sitting in mine. I am glad he understands quid pro quo. Fortified wine slides from the water glass down my throat, sticky and sweet. From the Bose on the sideboard the Master of Song speaks like a prophet. He has been to the future, gone through the bright light, turned left at the next intersection. Gone home. Snowflakes the size of matzah balls float by the window. Having landed, they soften the edges of the world: the barn, the house, the road past the house and the barn. Immortal Leonard sings of death as though it were the Beloved, and he the one waiting for an embrace from his Shechinah. The tune is Baroque, and I imagine lady ghosts dancing in costume, pulled gently right and left by his magnetic voice. La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. I am happy. Some happiness comes when ambition goes, when there is nothing left but an old body sitting in the dogbed on a day just like this.

I am not much of a list-writer, mostly because when I do write lists, I write on pieces of paper that are almost invariably lost as soon as the ink hits the paper, only to reappear years later in some coat pocket or the bottom of my purse, crumpled and thin, the words worn off from rubbing against camera, wallet, other bits of paper, pens, loose change, scotch tape, lock deicer: "..pinach," DOG FOO," -email Ka..." Bits of long ago that have lost all meaning, their lingering sense of urgency now a bit of an embarrassment. Still, a list is a reassuring thing. It suggests order, a plan, a person with a plan, someone who's in charge, and on the sixth day..... I have not studied the issue sufficiently, but I suspect that most of us write more lists when we feel least in control of our world. Just the creation of the list, putting those sequential numbers one below the other, or letting those bullets give weight to the words that follow feels therapeutic. I am ...

And so I begin again. Again, I begin again. I do not know if every beginning has the same point of departure, or if there is some distance, however minimal, between these points. All I know is that I must begin again, and that I must hope. Could it be that this in itself is part of my soul curriculum? If so, what middah is so woefully out of kilter that I must be confronted with it at every step, at the beginning of the beginning--or even before? If this kind of failure, a failure that it is the warp to the woof of the process of seeking growth, adjustment, becoming-whole, points at one challenge, it is ANAVAH, humility. Like many, I always assumed that those of us who are shy, lack social skill (not to say, graces!!), live in constant self-doubt and with the firm conviction of our inadequacy, are somehow immune from the qualities at the other end of the continuum: hubris, self-aggrandizement, arrogance. But it is not so. In fact, were it not for those feelings of haughtiness, ...

If I had a cigarette, today I would smoke it. I haven't smoked in many years, but I'd show you what a grieving woman can do with a pack of tobacco and some papers!! All I have is a bottle of sherry. All I had was a bottle of sherry. For so many decades you sang for me. Sang my sadness and my loneliness and my despair. Now, what shall I do with these feelings? I loved you when I was 16, and I have loved you every day since. (As have millions of other women, of course) I am almost old now, and you have left me. How could you! How could you. Hineini, Mr. Cohen, didn't you hear me shouting, take me along! You probably never knew that we were born on the same day, you and I, the man with the golden voice and the woman who can't sing. I knew your friend Irving Layton, and you'll be having a laugh with him soon. Say hello for me. So much darkness. I will cut my hair. I will never be afraid again. I will stand tall. I will speak my mind. Hell, I will sing, my Lo...

It is the very middle of May, an unseasonably cold and blustery day. From time to time snowflakes and apple blossoms ride tandem on the wind. But a dog must have its walk. So coonhound-named-after-a-central-European-president and I take a short drive to where the woods start, and then march along between forests and fields, trying to enjoy each other's company, even as I wish myself back indoors, and he searches for the most perfect spot to have a leisurely poo. As we get near where the road makes a sharp bend and a footpath emerges from the forest, a man is coming out of the woods and heading for his car, which sits parked at the side of the road. I judge him to be in his late thirties or early forties, and whatever it is about him, whether his average build or his unremarkable attire, he seems exactly the kind of man who would be out in the woods on a day like this walking his dog, So I am not surprised to find that he is in fact preceded by what I take to be a very smal...

We finally decided to paint the old farm house. It had some sort of stucco on it that was rough with little pinkish and beige sharp-edged pebbles I'd always disliked. The stucco had never been painted, and although it probably wasn't as old as the house itself (which was built around 1900), it was definitely old. In the 1970s a one-storey addition was built on, pointing the way further up the drive toward the old bank barn. It too had never been painted and was an unsightly brick.    We had sort of done what we could with the place, put in new windows, added a deck. But we had never considered just painting it. Until now. But what colour? In Ontario all houses, though they are wood-framed, have either a brick or a stone exterior, and they come in every shade of beige or mud brown imaginable. It is a strange thing that even the few houses with stucco or aluminum siding on them are beige or mud brown. In Nova Scotia or Newfoundland, as in many other p...

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....