I just wanted to revisit this portrait I took a few  years ago. I feel far away from cows. I miss them. Why?

Improv class was a huge hit! Thanks Grandma!

There is a little spot on my leg. Its been there a few weeks and it itches. Probably, its the tiniest dot of poison ivy, healing slowly. Probably, its healing slowly because it keeps getting scratched. My mind took these facts a day ago and decided my whole leg was about to be covered with cancer. Shrieking hideous overwhelming death fear gut punched me. As it does from time to time. I've handled this fear (all fear) in a few different ways. Traditionally, just running with it until I could hardly function and then crawling into bed for what amounts to a nice juicy marinade in fear.

I've also practiced breathing through fear. I highly recommend cultivating some form of progressive relaxation practice through meditation. This is an indispensable tool for life. Add radical honesty, sharing how you feel with someone, weeping openly, and accepting comfort. (Hello Dear Husband, I'm waving at you with bottomless gratitude.) Meditation, sharing, weeping, and accepting comfort are all necessary. Each part is easier and harder than it seems--at least, for me. These methods are probably what allowed me to calm down enough to move to the next level of fear management.

A friend of mine pointed out something huge to me a few years ago. She pointed out that claiming to be Spiritual is an empty signifier. We're all good liberal folk of a certain generation, and we've all said this thing, right? "Oh, I don't believe in God. But I am a spiritual person." What does that mean? It could mean anything. Which means it doesn't mean much at all. I've been chewing on that idea for a long while. If you believe in some kind of spirit and you can't say you believe in God, what does that mean?

I crawled into my bed of fear, put my head on a pillow of fear, and pulled the fear covers to my chin. I have a routine dermatology appointment in two weeks, to check on exactly these kinds of spots. Too soon to bother rescheduling. Yet, I knew I was looking at two long weeks, likely morphing into zombie-fear-wife/mother. Fuck that. I thought of something Augusten Boroughs wrote: "Don't pay death twice." If you or someone you know actually is facing death, don't become Fear Zombie for a long time before anything bad even happens. Which is basically paying death twice, giving your whole life to fear and death.

Laying in bed, I said a prayer and I handed the situation over to God. I have no control over most things in life, anyway. So I'm letting go of fear. I'll practice trust, gratitude, and responsible choices instead. I said my prayer, gave it all to God, and had a restful deep peaceful sleep. I woke to a happy productive day yesterday. I loved my children, baby quail, grocery day (which is always good--I even got to see the fat brown eyed toddler), my husband, and my life. It was a while before I even remembered how frightened I'd been the day before.

Which, right?! I have a great life. Even if I were to get horribly sick, I wouldn't want to waste any days as a Fear Zombie. And isn't Fear Zombie Life basically worshiping at the alter of fear? I've heard midwives, Buddhists, Christians, and even a shaman underscore the importance of knowing who you are praying to. Don't pray randomly. Don't pray to emptiness. Don't unwittingly pray to your own ego. And for damn sure, don't pray to fear.

This is a little raw milk feeder I rigged up for the quail chicks. A peanut butter lid, rocks, milk. It seems to work well. Today they learned they like raw milk. Of course they do.

So, you may be wondering why we have a bunch a quail chicks in the bathtub at our house. A few months ago it came to my attention that my neighbors have been unhappy with my free-ranging hens for a long time. I should say, a few neighbors have been unhappy. As the hens ranged for six years and I never heard one single complaint until a new person moved onto our street, I have a good idea who called the law. Who calls the law about chickens? We can infer that person was not pleased. Asking around, I heard from one other neighbor who was unhappy because my hens were mussing his sidewalk mulch.

I'm in a new phase of my life. I'm trying to look very closely at what is, rather than what I wish to see, dropping the veil, acceptance, working with reality--what have you. Which is why, when I understood neighbors were unhappy, I folded immediately. The neighbor who called the law, felt my hens, if they passed through her yard, made her dogs too barkie. The other neighbor suffered a mussed sidewalk in silence. As completely absurd as these complaints sound to me, despite all the work my hens have done on our street eliminating ticks, small snakes, and black widows, I listened closely. People were unhappy. Yes, also short sighted and shallow, but that has nothing to do with me. They were unhappy and I was to blame. My hens were gone from my property in less than 8 hours, after I was made aware of unhappiness. I responded completely and swiftly.

I grew up listening to Bob White Quail call around our house. Bob White are indigenous to this area. They are native ground birds that eat ticks and spiders and probably small snakes. I love their size. I love their song. I love hearing them at dusk and dawn. See where this is going? My daughter has accused me of Passive Aggressive Quailing. But there is nothing passive aggressive about it. I am on a mission to repopulate my neighborhood with Bob White Quail. I can't have free-ranging chickens. But God put free-ranging Bob White here before Europeans. Now I'm going to put them back. Apparently, putting them back works. You can raise them, set them free, and hear successive generations calling for years. Bob White.

Our goat pen is being fully expanded and retrofit with a proper goat barn. Goats will have a tin roof, deep shelter, a dry place to be milked, and safe food storage. Their fence will be lined with chicken wire and next spring I will hatch proper chickens for the goat yard. We will have eggs again. But with any luck, we will have the very dear and sweet Bob White, as well.

More than half the chicks have hatched. I would know the exact number because I did count the empty shells as I removed them. But then another chick hatched, then another half way. Revising numbers is asking a bit too much of my mind this morning. Maybe 28? Was that 25? Let's just say, more than a covey.

One chick has hatched!
Its stumbling around in there like a drunk sailor. Its almost as if we've set Godzilla free and she's smashing into all the other eggs, knocking them around. Hey in there! No smashing around! Gentle stumbling, please.