Apifera Farm: where animals and art collide. Home to Katherine Dunn/artist

Sometimes we need youth

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Fri, 17 May 2013 18:36:00 +0000

If you follow along here, you know I am committed to taking in old or challenged animals and that has not changed. But after 10 years of helping a multitude of Misfits, coupled with the deaths of my mother and The Old One Eyed Pug, something in me yearned for new life, young life.

I had always wanted a baby Pygmy goat. And now I have one - thanks to an Apifera supporter up in Washington who happened to have a surprise buckling or two. This little fellow is charming! And a real talker - although at 2 months old he was weaned but not separated from his mom so the chatter will most likely subside a bit as he settles in.

I like mixing the ages - if it works - I felt Old Rudy would be a good stall mate for the little fellow, and it seemed to work just fine last night. This morning, they ate together without any fuss. He is a pistol! I forgot how active and resilient they are to anything - leaping off rocks and up onto walls....curious, active, alive.

When I introduced him to the Misfits, he quickly learned who was in charge - The Head Troll - and he learned Stevie is very gentle [although he also learned boundaries with other's food] and he learned not to sneak up on The Pig! He has figured out that when I come out, good things usually happen, like treats and back scratches.

I haven't named him yet, but this morning I heard two words in my head - Little Moose. We'll see if that is the name that selected him.

But the story gets better.

You see, the day I called Martyn to tell him my mother died back on April 4th, he was at a job site working. As he tried to digest the sad news, a gust of wind blew in and around him, almost blowing him off balance, and he retold it to me later explaining he felt it was Kelly saying good bye. Martyn is not a talker of spirituality, so when he told me this story I was really moved by it. He went on to tell me that the wind led the way as he walked up the hill and then it was gone but the sun broke through. He came upon the owners baby pygmy goats. In the next days, I was reeling from my mother's death, and then had to bury The Old One Eyed Pug. I told Martyn I yearned to bring on a baby animal of some kind. In his mind, he thought of the baby pygmies he had just seen, but he didn't mention it. Unbeknowst to him, I'd also mentioned it to my friend, who said she'd let me buy one of her babies. So Martyn went and agreed to adopt one of his client's pygmies as a gift for me. When he found out I was bringing home a baby pygmy, he confessed, but told me he felt it was meant to be that I should have both babies and that my mother had a hand in it.

So on Sunday, we will drive east a bit to pick up another baby Pygmy. How's that for a continuing love story?

We celebrate the beauty of Matilda!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Wed, 15 May 2013 19:45:00 +0000

In all the chaos of the last month - losing my mother and then The One Eyed Pug - and then the show and travel off the farm - I neglected to share the birthday of one of Apifera's finest elders, Matilda.

Matilda came along after our first adopted senior donkey had to be euthanized due to liver and kidney failure after a life of neglect in Texas where he was abused and used as a roping donkey. He arrived urinating blood with a swollen sheath and only had 19 days with us, with multiple vet visits to determine what was going on. No blood panel had been done on him before he was brought here to show us how ill he was. So after we buried him, there was a huge hole in my heart.

And it was helped by the arrival of Matilda.

Everyone who meets her is affected by her soul which she wears outright in her eyes. She is gentle, but also no push over with her mini herd mates. She loves to be held and brushed, she still plays even though she is a bit wobbly on her feet. I love to watch her play with little Paco, her sometimes boyfriend, always friend and son...and poet.

Matilda is one of the first things I see as I drive down the rural road, as she stands in her brown and white spots up on Donkey Hill. Her ears are beacons for many a traveller to Apifera and hold memoirs of her past.

We adopted Matilda after she was rescued by Lavender Dreams Donkey Farm. If you'd like to offer support, find out more at the Misfit page.

Mothers, a pug and lilacs in the wind

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sat, 11 May 2013 19:00:00 +0000

This past weekend was so hot - Martyn gallantly tilled the veggie bed for me, but I only got the tomatoes in - I'm such a wuss in the heat.

But I was able to work in the shade and plant the three new roses in honor of my mother, each one has some of her ashes. She and my father loved roses and when I was growing up in Minnesota, they bravely planted them wherever we lived, which meant having to tip them into the compost and straw for winter survival.

I also placed some of her ashes with the pug who rests now under the lilacs. I like that I can go there and know his little pug body is just as I left it, I can remember it that way. Someone sent me some little prayer flags and I placed tokens n his grave. I think my mother might be bemused that she is placed in with an elderly one eyed pug but she loved him and used to sing "Where have you been Billy Boy, Billy Boy" to him.

Burial of ashes is for the living, I think. It helps us connect one more dot so we begin to reach a place of acceptance that a person we loved in body is now dust, and is physically gone. It is the beginning of our new relationship with that person.

My mom and I had a long standing game on Mother's Day about lilacs. In Minneapolis, there were lilacs everywhere, in parks, roadsides and neighbor's yards. I never had any lilac shrubs in all of the houses I lived in as an adult, so I would start plotting where I'd find my Mother Day lilacs - to steal- and give to her. She always said I'd get arrested some day, but I never did.

So now she has the graceful bows of the old lilacs here at Apifera, dark purple, light lilac, pink and white, all bending over her with the wind blowing wafts of scent around her memory. Looking north, one can see Old Matilda grazing, a mother of many. My mother's middle name was Matilda, something I didn't take lightly when the old donkey arrived here a couple of years ago.

I can hear my mother saying, "The old donkey has my name?" and laughing. She was raised on farm but I don't think naming your animals after loved ones was necessarily of fashion.

She is missed - as I know many mothers are today. But she is remembered for so many things by so many. When she died on April 4th, I did have moments where I thought I'd never be joyful again, I had never had a world without my mother, what could it possibly be like, I thought. It felt unsightly to me.

But here I am one of her two greatest legacies, and I am joyful about many things one month later. One is that I am independent and have an ability to inspire myself into new territories to imagine and grow and enjoy the gifts around me. One of those gifts is life itself, which she gave me.

Meet me at my solo show!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Thu, 09 May 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Saturday night I will be there to meet any of you that are able to get tot he Sacramento gallery show. I'm very excited for the excursion and am so grateful for my farm sitters and the Head Troll for watching over Apifera so I can attend.

Here is a PDF of the show which runs though the month and if you are interested in purchasing anything while it is running you can contact the gallery directly.

"Floating Amongst Muses"
Solo exhibit of artist Katherine Dunn
The Adamson Gallery
1021 R Street, Suite 15
Sacramento, CA 95811
916-492-2207
Artist in attendance Saturday night May 11th.

Mobile shedding units

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Tue, 07 May 2013 21:26:00 +0000

It is shedding season. The hair coats of the flock begin to fall in clumps, tufts and white or brown orbs. They seem to have different shedding personalities - some peel off their hair almost in giant pieces early on in the spring, others seem to walk around much longer with their thick coats and rub and roll to rid themselves of the extra heat.

All the fences and trees and any upright piece of furniture suitable for rubbing on are covered in their hair. It is one reason a sheep farmer can always find something to do - fence mending - on any given day. I like to help peel the hair clumbs out - some sheep like it, others don't. I only do it if it is almost pulled off - if one assists too early it can cause sun burn, especially on the white sheep of the flock.

So if you came to the farm this month, you might take pause and wonder - "Why is there so much white stuff floating around?"

It's just the layers of the flock, floating off to their next purpose - perhaps a bird's nest or soft bed for a rabbit.

Beauties in the garden

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 05 May 2013 18:24:00 +0000

The Euphorbia are exceptional this year - I suppose I might say that each year. As a former Minnesotan, I still am in awe like a Dorothy landing in OZ at the many plants we can grow here. Each spring these yellow giants emerge and you forget how big they get, how they watch you with their multiple eyes, sway in wind and create theatrical backdrops for the living.

And Huck continues on at age 8.5 to make me melt. His soft buttery ears and soulful gaze - always soaked in to my heart first, and then I feel I must capture it on film. I hope he never leaves, but he will, so each moment like this is relished. Miss Peach has added weight since I rescued her a year ago and she continues to be a one person cat. She tolerates the other cats, and seems to be warming up to BW, who constantly sticks his neck out to befriend her. In time, she has begun to allow him to sit with me while she is on my lap.

Today's ballet lesson

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Fri, 03 May 2013 18:00:00 +0000

The hens demonstrate their ballet positions each Friday morning, weather permitting.

Message from afar

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Wed, 01 May 2013 21:29:00 +0000

My father was notorious for writing little notes and mailing them - he had letter friends all over the world that he'd met on his business travels.

I was going through old papers looking for something and came upon a card he'd sent me after I'd moved to the farm. While these
past four weeks I've been open to the messages from my mother, here is one that was clearly from my father.

The barnyard is having some kind of parade today to honor of all working animals. The sheep did not participate, since they are busy working in the field. I have no time to partake, and they understand my head is slightly scattered. But that will settle soon.

The Annual Pig Suncreen Fund!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 21:41:00 +0000

It's that time of year - the sun is getting warmer and toasting up the little pig. She is once again having her annual sunscreen dive to help keep her little piggie body form toasting to a red pepper.

Visit this link to see photos of Rosie the pig when she loses her hair [an annual occurrence] which causes sunburn and chafing, and you can see how you can help.

Rosie the pig is one of Apifera's many barnyard "Misfits" - needy creatures adopted out of neglectful situations or from rescues. Read more about the Misfits here.

Today's grief counselor - Boone!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 21:28:00 +0000

I felt the need to take the winding forest road up to the top of the clearing - to see the vantage point from there.

It was a clear view and brought wonderful perspective. What a gift to have this countryside at the bottom of my hoof steps, with a red mane to watch blow and the smell of horse all around me.

Barnyard therapy

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 21:22:00 +0000

Stick creatures now appearing

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 21:08:00 +0000

While working in the sheep pasture, I found a stick that looked like a woman reaching out to me. I brought her to my studio and took her picture. I put her with some other stick creatures, two came from a friend many months ago.

Now I see there is something there in them, I realize now that one is a little child. They had been waiting to show me their true personas all these months.

I'm sure there are other stick creatures out there that I will come across in the days and weeks ahead.

Jane to Jane to Jane

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 22:16:00 +0000

I did this painting a month ago for the upcoming May show, "Ode to Jane", thinking at the time it was yet another ode to an Apifera creature that had passed, in this case one the three Barred Rock hens who were all named Jane.

"The Three Janes" eventually became the "The Two Janes" and now we have just "Jane", the last remaining Barred Rock.

My mother's given name is Jane and after her passing two weeks ago I looked back at this piece. I have many times experienced my art being way ahead of my consciousness - the art is entwined in the subconscious and it is already accepting what will happen. It was a nudge to me, the human, from me the spiritually awakened.

That's my experience anyway.

The One Eyed Pug is gone

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 20:31:00 +0000

Over fourteen years ago, I placed a six week old, one pound Pug into a small basket and put him in my car. I'd bought him from a farm in Delano, Minnesota and on that cold winter day the first thing I did before I even brought him home was to drive to the hospital to show my mother - she was recovering from hip surgery.
I tucked him in well thinking the nurses might not let me into the room with a puppy, but one saw his huge eyeballs on his little face and they all came running in delight.

Today I laid his fourteen year old body in the same basket, and wrapped his red night blanket around him. I had driven him to the vet this morning to help him on his way. His time had come. But it still took strength to face the fact that I was driving him to his final breath. I know I did the right thing - his coughing was no longer helped by steroids, his back end was weaker each day from his compressed spine and he couldn't settle. I felt he had reached a point where sleep was his only form of comfort, but it was harder for him to settle into sleep. He could no longer make it outside on time, and had little eyesight and hearing left.

I kept believing he still had quality of life, since his favorite things had always been napping, snorting around for crumbs and sleeping on my lap. While he still was excited for breakfast, I knew I was keeping him around for selfish reasons at this point. He could have had a stroke or heart attack with the constant coughing and breathing issues.

But oh, he is missed already. To say the house is quieter is an understatement. Anyone who knows a pug understands - his snoring and pug sounds were a constant - as were the continual gas emissions. When he was gone, he let out a little bit of gas, and we did get a smile out of that.

I have always cremated my dogs, but I wanted to hold his body and bury him at Apifera. Maybe it was helpful after losing my mother and not being able to see her body in the end, to have this little pug to hold and cry over. I buried him under the lilacs in the front gardens and I'll scatter some of my mother's ashes there when I get them. My mother loved Billy and she also loved lilacs - each Mother's Day I had a ritual in Minneapolis of finding lilacs on park land and cutting some for my mother. It was a great game, risking getting caught to find the best lilacs for her - she used to joke that some day I'd get arrested over it. So it is fitting to lay Billy under the lilacs. As a child in Minnesota we often lived near lilac groves and I would sit under them and pretend I was in a vast empire of my own, cradled under the scent of their boughs, creating stories and future farms in my little head.

I don't know why death can come in groupings. It is the end of an era for me in so many ways.

When I brought Billy home today I let Huck and Muddy see him before I buried him. Huck licked Billy's face over and over, something he did every morning or night, usually when the pug was sitting on my lap. It was tender and sweet. But the dogs did not weep. They were at my feet with tails a wagging ready for games, food or companionship.

Billy's cushion in the stdio by the fire was covered in an old burlap seed bag. I took it and wrapped it around him in his grave. I placed a small figurine of a fox terrier that looked just like our old friend Louie Louie. I don't have to worry about him now. He is on his way to his eyeball - that is what I told him years ago,

"Someday, you will meet up with your old eyeball. Until then, your eyeball is safe up there in the full moon."

So every full moon, I'll be looking up at him.

Oh Pug! I loved you so!

Matriarch of the field

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 18:44:00 +0000

Daisy turned ten this week. She and her mother Rosie came to Apifera in 2004 and started our flock, with the help of Joe Pye Weed. Rosie died in the Spring of Death in '09, but Daisy continues on as lead ewe, retired, slower, with one remaining tooth. She has always produced beautiful, friendly sheep and usually gives us buff browns and little white caps. Her last ewe was born on my birthday in 2011 and I named her Kappie to honor her white cap, but also to honor my grandmother who died the day I was born in 1958.

All these interconnected elements of one's life, swirl around at a fast pace and one day you look around and you are half way through the journey.

The farm is such a wonderful role model for me. I am so graced to have it, especially in hard times or transitions where one needs to hold on to something, anything. For the farm is always shifting too, the earth underneath grows or wanes from too much water or just the right amount, old trees eventually fall and their limbs provide more homes for rodents and birds or burn into the chimney and out into the night. While we are allowed to keep a field in fallow for a year, that field is really not resting.

And I choose to believe we never really rest either, we shed our skin like a snake and move on to the next stage. Each year more lambs come, their elders die off but I remember each one and can see their traits in their offspring. It's a continuous thread from the farm to steward.

Untethered

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 23:35:00 +0000

I did this piece a couple years ago and hung onto it for many reasons. I'm sending it off to Sundance this week with some others as they want more and after a time, some pieces just seem ready to be let go and live a new life with someone else.

As often happens, the piece has taken on new meanings for me since the death of my mother. I have often painted things that years later come to fruition, or help me realize my subconscious knew something was coming long before my conscious did.

While this piece was about floating, freedom, belief and more, today when I look at it I see the current state of affairs...a sense I am here, but seeing things from above, on my back, hanging on to the magic in life, one wing to help me fly and see the beauty in a world upside down where the clouds have now become trees.

Mothers amongst me

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 21:42:00 +0000

And the days go on without her. The flock surround me and walk before me and ahead of me as I shepherd them to their field to graze the day away. They are mothers to many and I to them and them to me. It is grounding to have the rhythm of the farm, the chores, the daily tasks that sometimes seem monotonous but in this early stage of grieving are the catalyst to get me up and going.

Thank you to so many who have written me notes and messages and sent letters already. I appreciate each one! I shout that out to you with all my heart!

"She whom we lose

and love

is no longer

where she was before.

She is now

wherever we are."

St. John Chrysostom

Mother in a tulip

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 23:32:00 +0000

My beautiful 87 year old mother died on Thursday.

My mother loved tulips. Years ago she gifted me a lot of tulip bulbs and I planted them up and down our drive. Each Spring I'd share their arrival with her in one of our morning phone chats. Over the year, the deer and time meant the bulbs became less and less each spring, and last spring there weren't any blooms. But the day after she died, I came upon a single white tulip amongst the muscari. It was her. The messages are everywhere that she is with me.

It is still a shock although I am finding writing and sharing with the many who knew and loved her has helped me to get to some closer acknowledgement that she is fact...dead.

I was very lucky to have a mother who I was close too, who loved me, shared with me, was fun to be with, had all her marbles and was able to live alone right up until the end. She was my biggest ally and the biggest hole for me will be our morning phone chats, almost daily in the past years. Upon returning to the house the day after she died, I found an old voice message from her. She was calling after a wind storm, and just wanted to "See if things were OK there, I'll talk to you later." Another message from above and beyond.

She went into the hospital on Tuesday to get help for some anemia issues that were taking their toll on her energy and were affecting her breathing and her lungs. I'm so grateful I talked to her that morning. That night she had a heart attack, but was stable soon after. Her lungs and heart had clots which we didn't know about, and she was on oxygen and could not live without it at this point. We hoped to get her to a state where she could live with full time care in her home, even if it meant a day or weeks. The day after her heart attack, I was able to talk to her. She was so adamant that I 'hang tight' and not to rush down, that she was going to be fine, and she kept repeating, "Don't worry, please don't worry, I'm going to be fine." I was emotional, cried, and told her "I love you, Martyn loves you," and she said she loved us too, but went on, "I'm going to be OK, don't worry."

I told her I wasn't ready to lose her, and she said she wasn't ready to go. And she meant it.

Always the mother.

I hung up the phone and cried, but had the hope of a ten year old when they hear their mother say it is going to be OK. I wanted it to be true.

Even the shepherdess needs a mother.

There was no trauma that night, I went riding to relax and get away from the phone. Upon returning, I had a call from my brother who had a more dire outlook from the doctor. She wanted no heroics, and her choices were looking like a bleak two: take the oxygen off and die, or leave it on and die in a week maybe three. But he said, "We won't have the conversation with her yet, because there are some good signs too."

When I asked my brother if I could talk to her, she waved her hand as if to say, "Not now, later". I knew she was detaching. But then I went into my child like hope state. Even though a day earlier she seemed able to pull it out, giving me her 'sit tight" command, I decided to drive down on Saturday, the quickest I could line up farm help and vet care.

The same time I was figuring out how to leave the farm, she was dying. As one of my closest childhood friends said,

"She went out being Kelly, she didn't want you stressing about getting there and driving 13 hours and that was her final motherly gift to you."

I take great comfort in the ICU nurse telling of her last moments. She had the attack with the nurse present, and it was not violent. On pain meds, it lessened any intense pain. The nurse gave her water, helping her hold the glass. The nurse asked her,

"Are you done [with the water]?"

and my mother said, impishly, calmly, "Done, Dunn and done."

And she died, with a smile on her face.

Her last three words captured her North Dakotan humor, explaining she was done with the water, her name was Dunn, and she was done - with life. The nurse said she was clear and coherent about what was happening, and not panicked. I believe until that last moment, she tried to beat it, and wanted to beat it. But her body couldn't beat it. That last second, when she knew, she just faced it, and went.

She could have lingered, could have stroked - so many things. So I am grateful. I have no regrets. We lived our love out loud in actions.

I have never known grief to this extent, and I have had grief. And I have lost my father but it was different in many ways - hard, sad, and long to grieve, but it was different. I told someone it is like having the earth being kicked out from under your feet. The sadness comes in waves and is so debilitating I nearly go into a state of shock again. I know I will walk through this in my own way. I know her spirit is always here, but it's going to be raw and sad and hard.

When I did barn chores this morning, I recognized that everything before me was something I had re-built or fixed or made, or nurtured. Apifera is of my heart, I found her, I brought her back to life with my husband. My mother raised me well, and because of that I somehow found Apifera and this life. And she had her life which I was a part of but her time here was over, her tasks on Earth are done, and she did them well.

As I stood with the donkeys this morning, I mourned into their muddy, wet necks, telling them how I felt. I had a good weep, but then a real calm came over me, and a clear thought came into my mind, and passed quickly, but it was a clear sentence:

"Something so magnificent is going to arise from this, you don't know how or what, but it will."

And once The Pig was born

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 23:00:00 +0000

Five years ago The Pig was born. Having a pig is delightful, knowing their actual birthday adds a lot to the responsibility of pig guardianship. I had big plans for Rosie's birthday, but life took over requiring me to take the reins and try to stay on track. Details later. But for now, may I just share this little Pig likeness I did last week. I liked the simplicity of it so much that I am keeping it all for myself.

I do have a special gift I've made Her Royal Pigness and have asked her if it is okay for me to give it to her after life settles down. She was not bothered, as long as she could continue getting her morning egg and any vegetable scraps. This seemed very mature of her, so I thanked her for her understanding.

I will be back soon - I'll be less sneaky about what is going on, but for now, let me just say,

"Happy Birthday, dear Rosie! You are the only Pig for me!"

Singin' and hummin'

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 12:00:00 +0000

The warm weather we've been having makes us all happy and springy. With an extra kick in their morning steps, the flock sings at intervals, and the old goat naps and quietly hums himself to slumber. We relish these overly warm days, even though the valley is dry and we need rain for summer's eventual heat. But...I'll take it, selfishly.

After this weekend's Super Shepherdess Extravaganza Trimming Feet - Worming - Sulfa Treatments and CDT Shots for 40 Ewes, I'm still feeling like Old Rudy here - like I could take just one more little nap. But no rest for the weary. I'm impressed with myself I did them all, solo, in one morning-afternoon session - if I may gloat a bit. The last couple nearly killed me however. I actually like trimming feet - kind of like vacuuming, it is necessary and when complete, one can look at a new tidy version of the former. And my girls are actually very well behaved and stand for me. The pygmies, that's another story.

Draw a pig...or a goat...or donkey!

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 22:34:00 +0000

Stop over at the Online Workshop site and learn about my Gestural Drawing Classes.

These sessions are for all levels of drawing ability - or for people that want to start drawing but don't know how to begin.

Gestural drawing is a wonderful way to begin a drawing or painting project. It strips you down to an essential element - that essential line that makes up the core of the subject - and urges you to capture a deep natural action on paper in a simple, emotive, fluid, raw way. Sometimes a gestural is so fresh and raw it radiates much more than a preconceived, well drawn piece ever could.

These classes also aim to show you how powerful 'looking' is, and how it is is an active skill that we all need to practice, myself included.

Tiny chicken underpants

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 16:01:00 +0000

Henny Penny is the tiniest member of the barnyard and has been with us about eight years, so she is most likely about ten. Here she is showing off her underpants, and of course they are the smallest underpants in the barnyard, but ever so lovely, don't you think?

Glipse from the barnyard

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Donkey bunnies and moth escapes

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 13:00:00 +0000

We were going to all dress up like bunnies for you - but really, even The Head Troll felt it was just too much. And with the donkeys nearby, there is never a shortage of bunny ears. The May show is keeping me hopping and it's going to be a wonderful group of paintings, if I may say so myself.

I am not a religious person, but the holiday of Easter is a wonderful time for renewal. While we don't have lambs this year because I wanted to make room for working on the solo show, there is new life all around me - buds, bugs, tree sprouts, worm trails, lambs and calves in other farmer's fields, baby birds - some will live on to old age and some will not, but I am taking notice of life this Easter. I am at an age where people begin to crumble around me, some quickly and some in spurts and stops. Teachers of yesteryear, parents and relatives, cronies from high school and college dying too young, mentors and people in the public eye who have inspired me for years - they all are leaving the stage. It is happening, the next one takes their place on the great mandala and you have to get on board, you have to.

I helped a moth out of the water bucket, only to be eaten by a chicken. I do this continually, saving bugs in water buckets. I think it is wrong in a way, as their death is only prolonged, and water logged they are perhaps suffering longer if I pull them out. But I imagine they are screaming, just as the bugs and roots suffer when a human rips up a lettuce head to carry it back to the kitchen, like a lion and her prey.

Before something lives, something dies.

Sitting with royalty

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine Dunn) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 13:00:00 +0000

The days are longer now, giving the earth more hours to suck in the warmth, leaving the concrete wall by the barn the hot spot to hang out and commune. It is the water cooler of the barnyard where small statured goats can collect and look out at the lower fields. Who knows what they think when they go into a zen state prior to their cud chewing. I have conversations with them, of course, and share them in story to relay my feelings of the day, but their inner thoughts are as private to them as mine are to you. Nobody ever really enters that sanctum of any of us - and this is good for all parties.

These first days of spring are so pleasant, before the flies and bugs arrive with the warm air allowing a shirt without sweater, and rarely does one break into a sweat.

It's just another day on the wall with the goats, hanging out, all of us in our own thoughts. They stand on the wall not much wider than a balance beam, looking right, left, then right, like royalty in a passing car. But these goats don't need a palace - not with the warm wall and a stall of straw to bed down in, the moon leaking in through a hole in a tin roof.