Since I turned 30, three of my close friends have lost parents. The latest was this morning, a heart attack. This friendship is about 20 years old. We know each other inside and out. She didn't need to say more than hello for me to hear the rift in her heart, and I started to cry. I didn't know what to say. We're too young. We're not prepared for this. We haven't learned to accept unwelcome changes.

I read an article this afternoon that seemed to speak to our experiences of untimely loss, an answer to her repeated plea, "I need my dad." Rabbi Noah Weinberg often said, "When I'm gone, you'll grow up." When our parents die, we have no choice but to stand on our own feet. There's no more leaning against someone, no fall back, no one to tell us how to fix our mistakes or keep us from faltering. This article, written by R. Shraga Simmons for Aish.com, states: "The Talmud says... 'The entire world was created just for me.' We each must be willing to stand up and declare: 'I accept full responsibility for my life.'" But that's hard.

It feels like a secret club, not unlike puberty. Those friends who have already experienced the reaving of self and family that is the loss of matriarch or patriarch are inextricably changed. Those who have not yet run that gauntlet wonder what lies on the other side, but have no wish to find out first hand. The last vestiges of childhood are stripped away: there is no Easter bunny, Santa Claus, or Tooth Fairy, because the most legendary being of all has gone the way of every hamster, fish, and cat we laid to rest in a shoebox. The source of wonder, comfort, and knowledge; the filler of stockings and kisser of boo-boos; the cool hand on a fevered head and bleary-eyed guardian at the kitchen table after curfew.

Losing a parent carries with it extra burdens of grief. We have to parent ourselves. Others look to us for the guidance and unconditional acceptance we've lost. Stepping into Wisdom is painful; when others look up to us we can feel resentment toward our elders for leaving us before we've learned what we think we lack and toward youth for putting us in a position to feel our loss so keenly. We take on the onus of Knowing. It becomes suddenly, terrifyingly clear that those who went before were no more certain of the answers than we are. That's the secret no one tells you: everyone is winging it, all the time.

 Stand up, my friend. He's still there, he will always be there inside you. You're not supposed to know what to do right now. All you have to do is breathe and grieve. In time, you'll hear his voice, and you will know exactly what to do. Right now, know that I love you. Know that you're not alone. We're all growing up together.

If you run an internet search for "this one thing", you'll come across scores of lay sermons about the 1991 film City Slickers. If you haven't seen it, the following exchange occurs between Jack Palance and Billy Crystal:

Curly: Do you know what the secret of life is?

[holds up one finger]

Curly: This.

Mitch: Your finger?

Curly: One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and the rest don't mean sh!$.

Mitch: But what is the "one thing?"

Curly: [smiles] That's what you have to find out.

Most of these rants, essays, and articles have advice on how to find the meaning of life, how to know when you've got it, and what to do after that. I'm gonna toss my hat in the ring from a different perspective.

You were born with a unique perspective, personality, and mission to fulfill. You are an entire world of possibilities. You have a piece of the puzzle without which we cannot complete the Big Picture. As the adage goes, you are indeed unique, just like everyone else.

As the years go by and I am privileged to work with various animals, I'm struck by how self-possessed they are. I've had one dog who was truly a basket case; he'd been put in a leadership role and he was by nature a submissive dog. Frustrated, confused, and inept, he acted out to the point that the only attention he got was negative. When he was placed with the right family in a laid back, multi-dog environment, he changed completely. No longer burdened by what he assumed he had to do, he exuded joy, confidence, and personality.

You can read about my love of Thoroughbreds in older posts. To sum up, watching them run is as close as I can get to religious ecstasy. As I've said before, they know exactly what they were put on earth to do, and they are doing it.

Zeke embodies the same message of spirit. Like the US Postal Service,

“Neither rain nor snow, nor sleet nor dark of night shall stay [this] courier from the swift completion of [his] appointed rounds.” They ought to have added, 'nor broken pelvis'. While neither neighbors, nor I, nor ChIla, nor Nick, nor Dr. Cecil were able to coerce Zeke to stand, duty compelled him to limp around the perimeter of his ducks and sheep. Five days after breaking his pelvis, Zeke insisted on limping out to "help" me move the horses and sheep. I walked slowly and insisted the horses walk as well. He downed himself several times and lay happily in the pasture for awhile after chores were done. He's now underneath the couch, whining because no one is doing anything.

Keeping Zeke still enough to heal is already a Herculean feat! His mother comes from cattle lines; he is a 47.8lb herding machine, bred to take a beating from a 1,000lb steer, shake it off, and get the job done. For most domestic dogs, the desire to please overrides their personal interests. For Zeke, The Flock supercedes obedience, pain, weather, food...everything but me leaving. His dedication borders on neurosis, a dangerous myopia that requires finesse in handling.

Zeke doesn't have to ponder his "one thing". I'm certain that if I asked him what the meaning of life is, he'd laugh and respond that there is no meaning, only living. Most animals would concur. Why, then, do we expend so much energy on the question? We take a speciesist approach to life, believing that we're superior, and in acting from that place we lose the ability to see the One Thing that matters.

You don't need me to tell you what it is. You already know. The One Thing is what surfaces in the moments that drop you to your knees, be it in prayer, thanksgiving, anguish, sorrow, supplication, or relief. When impending loss or peril focus your mind, your purpose or mission appears before you. It was always there, clouded by what you thought you had to do to make a living or be acceptable. You don't need anyone to tell you how to find who you are. You simply have to turn off the outside noise and tune into yourself. Then act with courage.

The title "Uber Alles" is German for "over all". Your "one thing" is what drives you. It's what you are, not what you do. For me, the following applies:
*What do I do when I don't have to? (Not what I think I would do. These are opportunities I've taken action on when it wasn't easy or required.)
*What do I think positively about first thing in the morning and last thing at night? (I used to wake up and go to bed loathing myself and dreading the coming day. Now, like Zeke, I wake up eager to face 16hr days with uncertain challenges, rewards, and outcomes.)
*What do I love that I have talked myself out of? (I talked myself out of auditioning at IUS 4 times before I finally committed.)
*What am I undeniably good at?
*What value(s) creep into everything I do?

It's not that simple. If it were, everyone would be doing it and we'd all be happy. Right? I know I'm not there yet.
But it is that simple, when and if we allow it to be. When we allow us to be. I'm getting closer. I have moments when I feel absolutely sure of myself, even if I make a mistake. I'm working on stringing those moments together. Zeke is showing me how.

What matters uber alles?

This isn't a picture of the Waltons. It's a photo from my birthday party last year. These are my neighbors (most of them, Mary is missing and two houses on the same street aren't included). These people have changed my life, my bandages, my perspective, and my occupation. Together we've gone through births and deaths and darn near everything in between. At some point in our relationships we have laughed, cried, cheered, yelled, and been at least partially naked. The people in this picture are my framily. But they started out as neighbors.

Growing up, my family wasn't close to the people next door. In large part, this was because the places on either side were rentals and the neighbors changed every few years. More than that, I grew up in a family that valued privacy and circumspection. We were polite, we took a casserole over when someone had an illness or a baby, but we didn't barbecue together or hang out around town. We kept to ourselves. That's not to say we didn't have family friends, people whose houses we did go to and who we invited to ours. We simply didn't have that much in common with the families on our street.

I've lived in the country before, had other farms, lived in military housing with the river in front and an eagle sanctuary behind. I enjoy solitude, as long as there's a house close enough to limp to in an emergency. I like being able to walk from the shower to the laundry room naked if I need to. I like laying out without wondering if a creeper is staring at me. I like living my own life free of other people's commentary.

Humans tend to project our foibles, feelings, needs, and worldviews onto everyone and everything around us (i.e. rampant anthropomorphism). I'm no different. Being comfortable in my own very large space, I assume that others desire the same polite bubble. I don't engage unless the distance closes enough to warrant eye contact or speech. Unfortunately, aside from the customary wave, that also makes me the type of neighbor you never hear from unless something is wrong.

Today I read a Facebook post that began, "What happened to neighbors being neighbors?" Well, let me tell you. Fear. Fear has stifled every humane impulse we as a society used to feel, and technology has isolated us to the point that we can barely communicate face-to-face. Our advancements are hindering our social behaviors.  Now sometimes we're right to be afraid! People in the country, especially 'round these parts, own guns. You don't just march up and knock on a door. If you're not met with a gun I guarantee you'll be met by a dog, and you can take your chances on which end to believe. There's no threat in that, it's a plain fact of living where dogs have a job of keeping predators and strangers at bay.

We'd seen several large gatherings at a house set way back from the road. They owned a fancy Mustang and a garish yellow pickup. Rumor had it they were rich. We were afraid to walk down the long driveway for fear we'd be hit by rock salt or bird shot, so we went years without seeing their faces. Says Nick: "[One day] I looked up from toiling and said 'that guy looks like someone I could have a beer with' so I went and said hi." It turned out they had plenty in common: a love of Star Wars, IT, Ford Mustangs, and home brewing. Shortly thereafter, a professional fence went up, run in sheds appeared, and Wampa Stomp was born. I decided Bullet needed to get used to the alpacas, so I tacked him up and walked him across the street. He was standing nose to nose with the boys when Chuck and Ila stepped out from the shed. We exchanged pleasantries...and Bullet began to fart. It went on for a very long time; the horse was nonplussed, I was embarrassed, and Chuck and Ila's eyebrows slowly ascended their foreheads. When he finally finished I said weakly, "Yeah...he, uh...does that." The lovely couple continued to chat with me and it became clear that we had things in common as well! Ila offered to teach me how to knit, and I took her up on it.

That was it. A simple conversation. A skill passed on. Mutual interests found. We became friends. As Chuck says, "Togetherness ensued."

Later it would come to light that they had in fact been afraid to talk to us, believing we might be related to some people they'd rather not know.

At the end of the road, Marty amused himself with technology and serving as a one-man neighborhood watch. He checked in at my house on Foursquare often enough to be mayor for a time, and he liked Chuck on Facebook. Chuck went, "He likes Star Wars, Kiss, and Walking Dead? And he lives on our street?! Who IS this guy and why have I not met him???" Chuck, Ila, Kathy, and Marty officially met at Wampa Stomp's Shearing Day. A month later, we met at Ballyhoo's Shearing Day. If Marty is great, Kathy is Fabulous, and Daphne, their daughter, is amazing. Kathy has an infectious laugh, wonderful taste, a giant heart, and garden gnomes named after Shakespeare. It was clear that first afternoon that we would all be together a very long time, and they have been family ever since.

This picture was taken after I helped Chuck and Ila with a dying emu and a dead cria, after I house sat with a torn up foot, after Ila successfully taught me knit and I got sheep again. It's after Nick and Chuck exchanged home brewing secrets, several seasons into Walking Dead, after Daphne crossed "catching a fish" off her summer Bucket List. But it's before we met Mary.  I have made important friends on or around my birthday a few times in my life. They always play a special role in my development or support. Mary, I think, is no different.

Mary bought the house just up from Kathy and Marty's last summer. After approving her Facebook page, ChIla and I took her a welcome basket, but she wasn't home when we stopped by. Consequently, we didn't meet Mary and her dog Maggie in person until sundown the day of my birthday party. It was immediately apparent that she was one of us. First, we didn't already have a redhead. Second, her dog had a glow light collar (technology). Third, said dog is a cadaver search dog (weird hobby). Lastly, Mary is a deep well of mystery, surrounded by stories, wrapped in knowledge, running around her house naked (outside). How could we not love her?!

We are Woolbury.

We are the luckiest people in the world. We are a community in every sense, drawn to a place where we can share our interests, our minds, and our lives. If family is made by the endurance of love, of common goals, of people who intrinsically know when to push and when to give space, then we are most certainly a family. Our neighbor-ism goes beyond borrowing a cup of flour (thanks Ila) or helping each other tend to livestock. As a fiber community we have woven a security blanket that ties us to each other at all times. If there's a crisis, we are there. If there's a party, we are all asleep the day after. If there's an issue, we're all on the same side. You mess with one, you mess with all. And whenever someone responds, he or she acts on behalf of and with the support of the community as a whole. When a Woolburian knocks on your door, you're gonna get a hug worth 9 people. These women have thrown themselves to the ground for me. These men have shed blood. And I've been sexually assaulted by an alpaca for them. *Giggle* At the end of the day though, it's not about what we've done. There is no score card. It's about living with folks who "get" you, who understand. It's nice being in walking distance of parties I can wear my pajamas to. It's refreshing to know that my community will never discriminate against me based upon religion, race, politics, creed, interests, gender, livelihood, or things I say when I am hangry. The same love, responsibility, acceptance, and expectations apply to us all.

I'll close with a statement from Kathy: "I love living in the boonies. Not too many people within spitting distance, land, and lots of gorgeous starlit nights.
I was expecting to be left alone by neighbors (what could I have in common with them?!) and only have Kevin Dowell harass us on a regular basis.
Imagine my pleasant surprise when Honey and a neighbor found each other on Foursquare and realized they were like, separated at birth. Now, a little over a year later, we have formed our own crazy amazing family. Gorgeous women have taught me how to knit, had me wrangle sheep, tried to have me assassinate their turkeys, and made me less intimidated when it comes to farm crap. Handsome men have cooked me buffalo, elk and deer and toasted me in Irish.
In a year, we have celebrated birthdays, holidays, and nothing. We have cried on shoulders and been the shoulders that were cried on.
In short, (or long) I am so blessed to have all of these people in my life and I love them all."

Welcome to Woolbury. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.... We've got stars. They live in the houses all around me. A beautiful day in the neighborI love my neighbors.

I try to separate religion from farm posts. It's not easy when my farm is based around one of, if not the oldest profession. Let's face it, as soon as Adam and Eve were kicked out of Eden/proto-man settled in one place, they were raising flocks for fiber, milk and meat. My sheepdog is named Ezekiel and my crook is called Moses. I lead a Biblical life.

Ballyhoo had a week of epic proportions, fit for Charleton Heston and his technicolor beard. It involved a lot of letting go, and I'm not good at that. Having let the bees go, Zeke and I went to The Woolery and bought an Ashford Traveler. I can now take fiber from the sheep all the way through spinning my own yarn to knitting an item! SO EXCITING! More on that later.....

I also went to Lexington after half a dozen ducks. While these ducks were very lovingly cared for, they are much happier free ranging on a farm than living in the backyard of a subdivision. Except they're terrified of the sheep. They'll grow out of it. Donald and Jem couldn't be happier.

In other poultry changes, the turkeys are gone, sold to a man with a Blue Slate hen. I hope they have a good life. They weren't happy in my chicken coop and I wasn't happy with them out. Peace had to be restored. In their stead, Mary gave me 4 beautiful chickens. That makes half a dozen hens for the rooster, a good flock.

Leeloo appears to be pregnant after all. She was sheared so late that she didn't have enough fleece to support a pregnancy through the very long, brutal winter. I didn't remove the rams until April. She had us guessing on Shearing Day, and she appears rounder with a growing udder. Perhaps Kathy will get her Multipass after all! It will be nice to have little lambs as the current ones get weaned.

I've decided not to show fleeces this year in favor of getting the whole lot processed as soon as possible. Lovely Joan at Fiber Frenzy is waiting for yarn and I would like a room of my house free of stacked bags of skirted fleeces! Besides, now that I spin I'm dying to get my hands on more roving! The neck wool and felted chunks are destined to become cat beds, my latest artistic endeavour. All things have a purpose.

I have to write a career paper for my Summer Session I class. How do I write about everything I do? What do I do? I am mother, shepherdess, nurse, ad man, designer, manual labor, landscaper, fiber processor, cook, maid, archivist, salesman, purchaser, teacher.... I've been feeling a sweet and unexpected amount of recognition lately; it's almost a relief, really. On Saturday I was spinning publicly; it garnered more interest than any other fiber activity I've demonstrated! A lady passed by with her two young children and uttered possibly the sweetest sentence ever directed at me: "She's an artist. This is her craft."

Thank you, stranger, for recognizing what I do and why.

There are so many moments that I could write about: fishing with Mary, Mac trying to bite me in the face, Tucker not eating, having to let someone go at the shop, a bad week at school, the Americana Worldfest. But all I want to relate, and I'm not sure I can find the words, is the correlation in my weekend between Kaddish and Mi Sheberach.

Kaddish is a prayer said twice in Jewish services; once as a congregation, and again at the end with a minyan, a group of 10 or more. While it is the prayer said at burials and on the anniversary of deaths, the actual words of the Kaddish prayer are those of hope, appeals for peace, and praise for the Maker of The Universe. The Mourner's Kaddish must be said with a group so that those who are reeling from loss do not have to stand alone. The foundation of Judaism is community. There's no such thing as a Lone Wolf. When sheep feel troubled they stay in the center of the flock. There's safety in numbers; it's difficult to falter when you stand shoulder to shoulder with those who understand how you feel. Likewise in their darkest moments, mourners stand in the midst of empathy and ask God, the Creator of All and the True Judge, to bring peace to all the earth. Peace, when all they feel is turmoil. It seems cruel, but it's a kind of tough love. Judaism has very important processes in place to make sure that mourners are given space to grieve, but are never removed from life. 'You are here,' it says, 'you will continue. The pain will ease. Keep moving forward, through each gate the structure provides, and come back to life.'

Last week marked the one year anniversary, or yarzheit, of someone who was very dear to me. I have lost enough to recognize the cycle of grief, to prepare for the waves that inevitably hit with the wisdom of knowing that they will pass. It's better not to fight. I experienced my moments of sorrow, comforted others who share the same loss, and tried to honor that person's memory by continuing her good work. It wasn't enough. I needed to say Kaddish. All things combined to keep from service on Friday night, but I made it for the last 10 minutes! I made it in time to read a little and to hear the voices around me in unison, buoying me up, calling me out of the emotional tar....

I believe in first seeing to my animals, so I let the dogs out immediately instead of going to the bathroom myself. I can't remember what made me follow them outside. I stood on the porch in the dark, watching lightning bugs and listening to the dogs rustle in the grass. The neighbors raced up in their minivan, roaring into their driveway like a checkered flag awaited.
"Rrrawrp!"
My three dogs were outside. Their dogs were outside, barking at their goats. I listened for more noise, confused. The neighbors were out of their van, looking underneath.
No.
I could see Champagne and Tucker.
"Zeke?"
"Is he over there?" they called.
"No," I yelled back. Pause. "You didn't hit him, did you?"
"We think so," came the reply.
I turned the flashlight on and swept the front yard. Zeke came running up. Relief washed over me. Then he collapsed at my feet on the front porch. I quickly put Champagne and Tucker in the house. So dark. So late! I didn't want to drive anywhere. Where would I go? 10pm on a Friday? Our regular vet would be open at 8am. Surely he could wait. Could he wait?

Nobody slept that night, except Zeke in a Vicodin-fueled exhaustion. He could stand. He could put weight on his legs. But he wouldn't stand, and he couldn't walk without falling over. His feet, chin, and testicles had abrasions (later we'd find a giant patch of road rash on his hip), but all in all he looked okay. No swelling in the abdomen, no change in breathing, gums and conjuntivi normal, tail tone and range of motion in all limbs normal. On the way to the vet I vascillated between confidence that x-rays were merely a precaution and the nauseating terror that he would have to be put down. I started saying Mi Sheberach.

Mi Sheberach is prayed once per service. It is an appeal to God for complete healing - body, mind, and spirit - for those we know and also for those who have no one to pray for them. We are all suffering from something all the time. I'm reminded of that every time I pray, and this helps me to be more empathetic in my dealings with others. (Not always. I am human.) God made me. God made Zeke. I care for Zeke, and regardless of how the Almighty feels about animals, God cares about me, ergo I can pray for Zeke and God will listen.

That said, I have some personal issues with this particular prayer. I've lost a lot of people for whom I prayed, and it hurts. I know prayer is not a guarantee, and I'm not the Boss of Wellness. It just sucks when the answer is no, especially when you're asking on someone else's behalf! Aren't altruistic deeds supposed to be rewarded? Then again, is it altruistic to pray for someone to heal because their release from this plane of existence (and the suffering that accompanies it) will hurt me?

Back to Zeke.

Border Collies are not good at slowing down. I think lying still is more painful to Zeke than his broken pelvis. He's become the kid who breaks his leg just as school lets out - no sheep for the rest of the summer, no hikes, no puppy class for at least a month. He can't even chase the cats! Turns out he doesn't have to. Widget hovers over him like a doting nursemaid, a perpetual crease in his brow. He's licked Zeke's hips, followed him around, complained to us when Zeke whines, and I've caught him lying against Zeke's side more than once. Turns out the old fussbudget really does care.

For his part, Zeke hasn't missed a meal. He did miss one night in bed with me, he can't count his ducks, and he needs help standing up. He's getting better already. He's learned to pee, limp, get up and down the steps, and roll over. Yesterday he impressed Auntie Mary by going fishing in the pond with us. I wish he would take a page out of Hope's book and lie in the grass where he can observe without moving. It's not in his nature. Zeke is a team player, a doer, a loyal worker with true grit. And he has a lot of fans praying for him, sending him good wishes and "pink bubble thoughts". They seem to be working beautifully.

Since Champagne was diagnosed her diet has become 80/20 home-cooked food. This evening I stopped by the grocery for more chicken (this week is chicken, wheat germ, molasses, green beans, sweet potato, and squash) and the weekend caught up to me. I couldn't help crying. Tucker hasn't been eating, Champagne's tumor is growing. I know they are both old and much of my emotional energy goes to processing their upcoming, devastating, inevitable demise. As I do that work I have been comforting myself that at least I'll have Zeke. To almost lose him, on a week that I am grieving a tremendous loss, knowing what lies ahead.... I needed to say Kaddish to express the tangle of emotions in my heart. I needed Mi Sheberach not just for Zeke but for myself. My life is in a state of rather wonderful flux. I'm finding what works and I'm finding it easier to recognize and let go of things that don't. Fabulous opportunities are presenting themselves. I'm blessed to be surrounded by a network of incredible people (and if you're reading this, you're included). I am busy every day from dawn til far past dusk with things I love, and that is truly miraculous. Still it remains that change is incredibly uncomfortable and loss, while inevitable, never gets any easier.

As I write this the cancer dog sleeps with her head on my thigh, the convalescent sleeps on my left foot, and the geriatric giant is licking the carpet. "Bless those in need of healing with refuah shlema". Healing does come. I know this. It's not always the way we asked for, and sometimes we are left behind to heal on the inside when those we love depart for better things. "May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us".

Peace that stills the young injured pup, peace between Mac and all living things, peace for a young possum who lost his mother. Peace for Leeloo when she delivers, for the new birds in their respective flocks, in my neighborhood and peace in my friends' hearts. Peace for Tucker's body and mind, peace that slows Champagne slipping away. Peace for me when it's time to let her go. And peace for all of you.

Amen.