Me and Failure? We're tight like this.

I'm thinking of writing a book called Crystal's Homestead Disaster Manual. What do you think?

In a long line of Things That Have Gone Wrong, including failing my semester exam yesterday, another rabbit died this morning. Or sometime last night. Hard to tell with rigor set in and voided bowels strewn around the cage.

I am trying very, very, very, very hard not to get depressed or cry over this. But the long running streak of failure has my head full of doubt over whether this is the right path for me. I'm questioning everything.

"I failed one small section of my exam which I can retake tomorrow" turns into "maybe I'm not a smart enough person to be college educated. Why do I need a degree anyway I'm a stay at home mom?" 

"My little rabbit that never really seemed to grow like the other doe I got at the same time, just unexpectedly died." morphs to "Rabbits hate me. If I can't keep a rabbit alive more than a few weeks maybe I should just scrap the whole homesteading thing and sell off the remaining three to homes where people have a harder time killing things."

The small fig tree covered in ripening fruit I bought yesterday after my FAILURE notice in a bout of I-need-instant-gratification-to-make-me-feel-like-less-of-a-loser is now a mocking reminder of my own fig I bought two years ago that has yet to produce anything.

I can go on and tell you all the crappy things that are going around right now like how we're all getting sick, how my car now is having problems, how my new spinning wheel is crooked and either defective or I've somehow bent it and I can't really use it...but I really don't want to get even more depressive than I already am.

I'm trying, truly, to see the good that's around me but it's so very hard. I try and focus on something to help lift me up and I just get more frustrated and more overwhelmed. I'm locked in my confused head with a sore heart and am struggling to pull myself up out of this ditch I've dug. If anyone has words of wisdom or sage advice, I'd love to hear it. Even just a "wow, that is shitty." or a virtual pat on the back would be so very much appreciated.

Teaching Children about Death

The loss of Flora is still being felt though my heart feels more bruised today than hemorrhaging. Loss will happen, as long as I treat the animals with respect and the best care I can give I think I'll be okay with that on a farm. But breaking the news (which somehow got out right before bedtime) to a housefull of young children is a difficult thing.

Their world collapses when there is death.

The almost eight year old understands a bit more than the almost seven, she in turn understands it better than the five, the three year old doesn't get it at all really. Our faith -Unitarian Universalism- is based on the fact that individuals have the unimpeded ability to choose their own belief system. They can choose who and what and how to pray, worship and rejoice. The problem is my kids haven't chosen yet.

My personal belief is that there is something after. I just can't live day to day thinking that when I die there will be nothing left. Death frightens me because I'm old enough to know that might not be true. My understanding of Rob's belief is that there is nothing after. You die, there is no more. I needed to help my kids with their grief, letting them come to their own conclusions but children need the tangible when they're too young to decide for themselves what the intangible is like.

Guiding my kids through their grieving process was a treacherous decision making ordeal rife with emotional and spiritual landmines. I let them take ahold of my belief to fill the void of their own, letting them grasp a Heaven. We talked about Flora and Grampa George (the only other they know that has died) and where they are, what they might be doing and how they are feeling. I taught them how to pray, sending prayers -wishes of our hearts- to those we loved and lost.

I let them guide the small beliefs of mine I gave to them as truths having them decide what things are like in this mysterious place they can't see or feel or touch. It was difficult knowing that the things I said last night could become their reality and shape their religious beliefs more than I wanted. It was harder still to guide them all together, each putting their own spin on the small truths I gave, without them belittling or discouraging another while they walked a parallel but different path. I tried to teach them respect for the beliefs of their siblings. I tried to let them understand there wasn't any other way for Flora except death. I tried to invoke their inner respect and compassion by explaining how hurt Flora was and how keeping her with us was wrong. I tried to be compassionate and tender as I cradled them in their mourning, letting their whole-body wrenching sobs wash over me, comforting me in my own grief. I tried and I hope I succeeded.  

I could have taken the easy road and given them a hard set of truths about the afterlife, ones that couldn't be questioned or dismantled by the unending curiosity of youth. I could have lied and never told them she had passed, just maybe went to live elsewhere. There are a million things I could have done and probably some mistakes made in the things I did do but I tried to stay true to my religion by not forcing my beliefs onto them but giving them a jumping board to discover their own.

It will be a wonderous thing to experience, when these little ones become adults, to see where their spiritual paths lead them. I know, being a parent and guiding these small beings, takes me further down my own path. And, while it's sad and hard sometimes, it's still a miraculous thing to behold.

There has been a death

Desperate tears cloud my vision as I write to you today. Two hours ago, Flora, one of the new baby Angora bunnies was put to sleep. I don't understand how things went so wrong so fast. And went so terribly wrong they couldn't be rectified except in death.

So much died with her today. So much more than that tiny pound of fluff we called Flora. So many of my hopes and dreams went with her. She was It. My first doe. The one that I would breed and who would kindle and who's kits would become the official start of our rabbitry. The rabbitry that would help us pay for the bunnies and perhaps put a little money into the farm. The one I was planning to make business cards for, advertising wool and kit sales.

But she was sick. We (the vet and I) don't know what happened or why. They wouldn't do an autopsy, there was no reason to do more tests, she wasn't pulling through. Her heart rate was down terribly low, she had some nasal discharge and a distended belly, the x-ray showed her backed up from her esophogas to her intestines, her temp was low and she wasn't eating, drinking or going to the bathroom. It was time to let her go.

I spent a few minutes saying good bye. I plucked a little of her fur as a rememberance. Maybe someday I'll spin it into a special something. They treated her with respect and compassion and took her away.
I take what I can from her passage. I learned a little more about how rabbits tick so maybe next time I can identify a problem before it becomes fatal. It will take time for me to grieve and get the nerve up to buy another young rabbit. Right now, I'm skittish, checking obsessively on my two bucks with a skeptical, morbid eye. I'm afraid and sad.


It was hard, even knowing her so little a time. I feel the agonizing weight of failure and regret pushing me down with the heartache of her loss. But part of farm life is farm death.

We're not a farm yet, I know. But we will be someday. Animals will get sick or hurt, they will die in birth and of old age. Some will even be chosen to die by our own hands. It's not easy. It's not meant to be. A part of me wants to grow thicker skin, be better able to handle the death of our animals, be professional and sever my feelings cleanly. Having an enlightened sense of the circle of life and our places in the universe.
 
The rest of me hopes I never do. That I greet each death with my sorrow and tears, giving my offering of grief to the life that is no more. That the sanctity of that life remains close to my heart and felt with each raggedy breath I take as I cry.
 
Only time will tell which I will become. I don't think one is better than the other, they both just are. As life is. As death will always be.