The Intimacy of Abundance

There are tiny prickles in the palms of my hands, millimetre-long slivers from a week of working with recycled wood. My hands aren’t hardened but they are willing, and the tool shed takes shape quickly under the direction of my timber-framer neighbour. It’s not for our farm, but for another, one I am helping to develop through the program I run in my day job at the local conservation organization. In this time of great uncertainty in all realms, our small communities are turning to regenerative agriculture and food sovereignty.

Back up the valley on my own beloved homestead, the garden is bubbling over with foliage, the crop of volunteer sunflowers standing to greet all who come by. Lughnasa, the harvest feast, is behind us. In these shortening days we eat most meals fresh from the garden, filling our bellies with nourishment and gratitude.

The plants we nursed through infancy in the kitchen window were repotted and planted out in soil made from layers of this place, from parts of us. Now in deep summer they offer back their fruits generously. We tend the wild little garden lovingly, a little desperately at times, trying to leave it to its own rhythms while nudging it into balance. My mother spends hours in this bountiful jungle, redirecting weeds, harvesting for the next meal and carefully, consciously building compost for gardens to come. When I am needing some sweetness, I sneak out to the raspberry patch alone and stuff my mouth with the soft red berries that ripen every day and seem to never want to stop. The prized garlic harvest dries under the porch, having been twice rescued from rain, and re-bunched, and re-hung. After work I am sweating in the greenhouse, twining tomato vines around their supports and pruning new branches to focus the energy into the fruits. A tomato, like a potato, like a squash, grows voraciously and without mind to ever stop. This miraculous offering of life. How many times has each morsel of food passed through our hands before it enters our mouths?

The eggs we eat every day seem like a bonus, some bounty unrelated to the time spent raising and feeding chickens, to the sight of our mismatched flocks wandering purposefully around the barnyard, over the porch, even in the house (one or two have discovered the joys of cat kibble); to the chicks raised by hand or hatched in the incubator, to the endless modifications to coops and pens, to the individual losses of promising or productive birds to the foxes and ravens, our tithe to the wild.

The goat, Birdy, who by her choice has never bred – and certainly never birthed – spontaneously, immaculately, fills up with milk. After discovering this anomaly I began to milk to relieve the pressure and stave off infection, and now every second day she offers half a litre, just enough for me. She calls me over on days she is full and I rest my cheek on her warm black side, pulling from her this shocking gift, calling forth this mana she makes from her own blood to feed me. She stands freely wherever we’ve met in the barnyard for this ritual, tipping her belly for better access and chewing her cud. She sometimes curls back to smell my hair, lick my face, or asks to inspect the milk in the jar. She has quickly taught me my craft, how she prefers to be milked. Our two bodies fall into connection and we rest in this strange and beautiful togetherness for the moments it takes. As I sip the warm, sweet, frothy milk from the top of the jar to fit more in, I am overwhelmed by the bizarre beauty, the impossible intimacy. Briefly, I encounter the Great Mother in Birdy (named for Brigid, goddess of fertility and fire, and patron Saint of Ireland – like the Mother Mary, and Birdy the goat, a virgin).

And then suddenly we are once again a goat and a girl, with separate plans for the rest of the day.

Of course, to raise, kill, process and eat meat is quite possibly the most intimate experience of all. Beautiful beasts whose births we attend, whose little selves we greet every day… To know a being their entire life and then to end it, to hold the grief and tumult to one side while the most profound gratitude sweeps in, to take the flesh of a being for nourishment – I realize I still can’t express the fullness of it, the process this has wrought in me, and why I find it so sacred and mundane and relentlessly real. To face death, and in return to discover life; to realize this is the most basic way all life sustains itself, from the forgotten microscopic to the gigantic legends – we take life to live, and we give life when we die. All of us, no exception; plant, animal, bacteria, fungus – all being are sentient and sacred, and all beings will be consumed and disintegrate. And to be conscious, daily, of this inevitable turning is a precious gift in a disconnected world.

And so, and so. We eat to live and we live to eat. We learn every year, every day. We give thanks.

Comments (8):

  1. Ted Crosfield

    Sep 9, 2019 at 6:43 pm

    Exquisite writing! Heart and soul touching! Thank you!

    • admin

      Sep 10, 2019 at 3:39 pm

      Thanks Ted 🙂 when are you coming to visit?

  2. sheelah

    Sep 12, 2019 at 4:18 am

    goodgawdamightyGirl. how is it that reading your life, in just english words, ,, how is it that words can feel like an eternal round of seasons, from the dawn of creation to the end of time…how living life and giving life and a virgin mary goat and warm lush-Us tomatoes are the Holy Mother of All,,,, I have just experienced a hundred thousand lifetimes in 5 minutes of you. thank you,, star-filled galaxies of thank you, for Be-ing and living, and writing and singing.. thank you xooxxoxoxo

    • admin

      Sep 12, 2019 at 2:38 pm

      Well that’s only the second best option to having you over and feeding you up! Grateful as always for your heartful connection across the cosmosphere ❤

  3. Jini

    Sep 12, 2019 at 8:06 am

    This felt profound, wondrous and oh so much hard work! I think I would need to be a forest gardener or some other method that doesn’t require such tending and does just fine if I forget. Anyway just lovely and the glimpse is wonderful. And Birdy, well, guess she’s pretty much a Saint or Deva or somesuch!

    • admin

      Sep 12, 2019 at 2:37 pm

      It is a lot of work, and we are of course trending in your direction towards supporting something that can mostly sustain itself. The garden this year offered potatoes and kale, squash and sunflowers as volunteers. It felt like one little step toward a self-planting garden and we welcomed the second willing generation. But the wild doesn’t always provide, which is why humans turned to tending things in the first place. So we’re always looking for that balance – and establishing things always takes such a lot of trial and error, and time. In any case you forget all the work when you eat!! Haha, it must be a survival function; if we remembered all the work we wouldn’t want to go on, but the moment it’s on the plate you’re like…wow, this amazing food just appeared here!! A lovely kind of amnesia.

  4. Windy Isaac Simons

    Sep 24, 2019 at 10:34 am

    Your writing makes me think, empathetically. – ( an FB friend of Sheelah Lalitha)

    • admin

      Sep 24, 2019 at 6:38 pm

      Thanks for dropping by, Windy 🙂


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Scroll Up