It rains on Saturdays, too.

This morning, NPR ran a story about hospice care. They talked about the phenomenon of "life review", in which hospice patients and their loved ones feel the need to go over the details of their lives, telling their story from the beginning, over and over. Like someone staring death in the face, I find myself doing a daily life review lately. I go over the details in my head, starting in childhood and working forward. What decisions would I like to change, if I had the power to do so? How could I have done better, if I knew then what I know now? How did I get where I am, and become the person I am today? Do I even know who that person is?

The sad fact is, I don't. I have some vague idea of who he is not, but not of who he is. I know what he has done wrong, but not what he has done right. I have some idea of what he does not want for his life, but what he does want - what I want - is still largely a mystery.

Do we ever reach a point where we know, beyond a doubt, what we want to be when we grow up? When we can identify with clarity what will make us happy and fulfilled going forward? When we love ourselves, and those we have gathered around us, and all the holes in ours hearts are filled? How can we know? How can I know?

The chickens are scratching and pecking around the yard, as they always do. I am still watching, and wondering. Every day my questions seem bigger, and this little patch of earth seems smaller.

Rainy days and Mondays

What is it about this place that highlights my aloneness in such blatant and uncomfortable ways? I've always considered myself to be a bit of a loner. Though I enjoy the company of friends and family, I highly value my privacy, and need to have a quiet place to retreat to when interactions become overwhelming. A room, an activity, or even just the quiet space in my own mind - time alone has always been essential to my emotional wellbeing. So why is it that here, in this place of beautiful solitude, surrounded by the majesty of nature devoid of humanity, I am so lonely I can hardly cope? What does it say about me that I need my solitude to be punctuated by the neighbor's dog barking, a car driving by, or a housemate puttering in the next room?

The chickens give me some small relief, at least. Their gentle clucking and occasional spats feel like the barely heard chatter of aunts in the kitchen, bickering over the best way to bake a pie. But caring for Junebug increases my feeling of being apart from the world. She is not yet old enough to be a real person with whom real conversation can take place. She is my love, my sweetest love, but as yet is a bundle of needs and cries and tasks to be done. Years from now I hope she and I will sit down for tea and the sharing of our deepest selves, but for now our morning ritual of Cheerios (her) and coffee (me) is less than satisfying on an emotional level.

Where is the balance in a life like this? I can turn on the radio for a human voice, but the voices never ask me about my day, or offer a shoulder when I need to cry. I could call someone, but battery power is as precious as their time, and I hate to waste either on my trifling need for company. I could walk to town, but it is miles away, and Junebug's need for the comfort of home trumps my need to watch the locals tramp through the gas station market, going about their business with not a friendly glance for the blue-haired queer boy in the corner.

Was this part of my homesteading dream? Was it in the package all along, and I studiously ignored it in the hope that I would find a community waiting with open and accepting arms? Where is there to go from here but back to my window, coffee in hand, lips silent, chickens clucking softly in the yard with no idea that I am gazing at them with open envy.

The stuff of dreams.

Before we moved here, when we were living in a large city, I dreamed of days like this. Though the ground is still covered with snow, the weather is the warm and moist like early spring should be. It's warm enough here that I have left the front door hanging open, letting the scent of sun and budding trees and frosty mid fill the house. Classical guitar is pouring out of my radio. Junebug is standing at the open door, laughing at nothing in the way that toddlers do, and occasionally tossing toys onto the porch. In the distance, the chickens (who have started producing eggs, at long last) are clucking softly. The rooster is clucking right along with the, throwing in a hearty crow now and then for emphasis. Spring has arrived, bringing  change and life and joy back to the land.

In just over a week, my own changes will begin in earnest. My medical evaluation is happening, really happening, after all these years. As the farm grows into its potential, so will I. I am excited. I am nervous. I an anxious to throw myself into the arms of.this beautiful year, and give it all I have to give.

Little things

We have heat! On our second try (the first was too big) we have bought and installed a wall mounted propane heater (well, Mutt installed it), and it is wonderful! All we have to do is set it at 60, and let it work. The house stays warm all night, so I don't have to spend hours huddled by the woodstove in the morning, trying to get the fire going and the house warm. In the evenings, Mutt doesn't have to spend his few free hours hauling and chopping wood. Junebug doesn't have to stay bundled up all the time, which always made it so much harder for her to play (you try to hold a crayon while wearing mittens).  Every bit of progress here makes such a big difference.

It's funny, though - I have conflicting feelings. Some of our reasons for coming here were to reduce our bills, provide for our own needs, and wean off fossil fuels. Our new heater is lovely, but it sends us backwards on all three goals. Is the convenience worth the trade-off? The heater is in, so the choice has been made, but I'm still not sure.

Spring Awakening

Though you'd never guess based on our land, spring is just around the corner. With it comes the awakening of our all the flora and fauna that share our home. The ground is still covered with snow, and the nights are well below freezing, but our wild neighbors are stirring, preparing for their re-entry into the world. Another spring, another year of hard work.

Finishing the house will be our main project this year. The winter has been hard on us, with some cold nights and difficult hikes. We have learned what needs to be done before cold weather returns, and will be spending the summer doing it. Insulation, wiring, lights, flooring, walls, heat, driveway and road building, and kitchen installation are just a small part of our summer projects. It's going to be a busy year, and it will all end up here. Stay tuned for more photos than anyone really wants to look through.

Want.

Over the last few months, many things have changed at the homestead. With the influx of loan money, we made improvements that we had barely dreamed of making.  We now have a proper chicken coop, a fridge and oven, a roof on our porch, a tractor to plow our road - and that's just the tip of the iceberg.  Our quality of life has improved drastically. But we're beginning to see the curse in our blessing, because with each improvement comes the wanting.

The wanting, I realize, is a human problem. We're far from the only ones to suffer from this sickness. In fact, it's so common in this country that we have Black Friday to show us just how sick it has made us. The want is so bad, we will harm others in our pursuit of TVs and iPads.  Harming another person for an electronic device is the ultimate sign of a sickness of spirit. Our suffering is not at that level, but it does show itself from time to time.

As soon as we can buy (          ) and (          ), we tell ourselves, things will be better.  As soon as we own (         ), our life will be complete. But what about finding joy in the moment?  What about counting our blessings, of which there are many?  What happens if we never have (          ), or that it has to wait for a while?  How do we retrain ourselves to live in our moment, instead of constantly wanting what we imagine is on the horizon?  If we never reach the horizon, will we never have been happy?  If we get there and discover that it doesn't look the way we expected or wished, can we adapt  and find happiness in our changed reality?  Can we put off instant gratification, in favor of the lasting joy that comes from patience and gratitude?  How do we learn this, when our nature and culture teach us only The Wanting?

The transgender story

When I was a little girl I hated wearing dresses, and would cry whenever someone forced me to wear one. I only wanted to play sports and cars with the little boys, and would insist that I was a boy like them.  When I was an adolescent, I realized I was a lesbian, a very butch lesbian, and couldn't have imagined wanting to be with a man. I have only ever liked wearing men's clothing. The idea of skirts and makeup and pink makes me want to turn my tail and run in the manliest way possible. This is my story.

Except that it isn't.  But it's the story that people want to hear.  It's the story that is so ingrained in society's view of what trans people are that many of us have to tell it to our therapists, our doctors, our partners, ourselves.  It's the accepted story of being a "real" trans person.  It's the _____ trapped in a _____'s body story.  And in many cases, deviating from this story can have dire consequences.

 In a few weeks, I start the required therapy to earn my T letter (a topic that I will address in more detail in another post), and to get it I will have to tell my story.  But which one should I tell?  Do I dare risk opening myself up to criticism, and the possibility that my transition will be held hostage by someone who can't possibly understand my reality as a gay fem trans man?  Do I act out the scripted part in order to earn the right to self-determination?  My kingdom for cis privilege!

While I mull over that, here's something for you to mull over.