grazy days of summer

I've realized that as of late, I've not written too much about the farm. There are a few reasons for that. For starters, we are in a bit of a lull, nothing new or exciting to report. Just our day to day chores and upkeep. Also, Kaleb and I have been mulling things over, asking ourselves those all too important questions. What are our dreams for the farm? What would we like to see happen and in what direction do we see this thing heading? It's us taking a step back and asking God to guide us, which I know he will. 

So in the meantime, I thought I would fill you in on part of our daily life. 

Here on our little farm, we practice something called rotational grazing. Theres so much history to it, it's wonderful for the farmland and the animals, but for us, there's a romance to it. There's something really special about guiding your herd, and them learning to rely and trust us, while we learn to trust in something much larger.



What is it you may wonder? Well, in it's simplest form, you have taken your open pasture and broken it down into manageable sized paddocks. The cows rotate from one plot to the next daily. This way, the grass has a chance to rest, there is time for a rebirth of new vegetation. Also, the cows are in smaller areas, so they can fertilize everything for us. It's a win win all around.

It works beautifully for us, because our home is a bit wild and grown up. There is not a single working fence to be found, so we can run everything off of a single strand electric fence. Kaleb with the help of the boys, set up a new paddock, opens it up, and the cows all line up and hurriedly file in.

Romantic? Absolutely! Most times we make it a family affair. It's usually in the evening, since that is when they tend to be up and about. Lucky for us, it's the loveliest time of the day. We pile up six high on the four wheeler and head out into the setting sun. 

Zain loves to be the one to open the gate. He is so good at this farming biz. He reminds me so much of Kaleb, in the way that he enjoys any kind of hard labor and anything outdoors. I tell you, this boy is our farmer, and I love watching him as he has opportunities to learn and practice.

As soon as the gate is opened, they pour thru. Always excited to get on fresh grass and new terrain. It also gives us a chance to do a quick headcount and check that they are all well and good. But, my favorite thing to get to do, is watch our calves. They are so funny, running and skipping around while there mammas bawl at them to come back and settle down.

There really is something so beautiful in farming. The greatest asset for us has been that we had no prior knowledge. Neither Kaleb or I grew up on a farm or ever dreamed one day we would call ourselves farmers. So everything is brand new. Which leaves us open to the freedom of exploring old traditions combined with newer tactics. We don't know how it's suppose to look, which means it can look anyway we want.

I've heard it called a "profession of hope." I love that. It's a beautiful sentiment to a beautiful lifestyle.

atlantic infinity

Here it is, finally. A tale from the ocean weaved together so perfectly. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you will enjoy it fully. Written by my brother, the talented Dane. Don't forget, if you have a favorite beach memory and would like to be featured here on the blog, send it to me at hollandsreverie@gmail.com. Without further delay…

We had come a long way for this. We had turned a 12 hour drive into a 15 hour drive with hourly potty breaks, a vehicle on it's last legs, and the need to preserve parental sanity with a few playground stops. We had scrimped and saved for 6 months, broken into our "college fund" (aka- big jar of loose change in the laundry room), and waited. Waited for the eternity of winter to fade. Waited for the interminable days of drizzle and cloud and the  seasonal depression that accompanies, to pass away into spring. Endured hours of work and meetings and the nonsense of a busy "life"- for this. The van crests the last hill before the highway settles onto the coming bridge, and we see it. The first glimpse of ocean. A thin green line running the length of the horizon, flanked by a strip of khaki. Windows roll down and for the first time in 670 odd miles(who's counting, though?) the van is silent. And for a moment everyone just breathes. 

There is air, and then again there is air- if you know what I mean. There is the dry-hot western air that seems to warm your very blood as you inhale, the clear air of mountains that hits the bottom of your lungs "like ether", and the wet, fragrant, nocturnal southern air- I love them all. But there is nothing like ocean air. The tang of salt and fish and mud that is somehow far more connected to memory and history than actual sensory perception. You can smell ships- schooners and shrimpers, and the trades and tradesmen that plied the waters and shores. You can smell oyster bays, and docks, and pilings and 200 years of exploring and shipwrecking and working and fishing. And you can smell the wind. You can smell the wind because it carries all of that on it's back and then up your nose. And it smells of a thousand moments of your life with sand under your feet and sun on your back and a view so wide and blue that it only ends where the earth starts to curve away. That is a lot to register and process, which is why we have to be intentional about how and what we breathe. 

So, two adults and five children sit silently- breathing intentionally, and feasting our eyes on the hope of a long and cold winter. 

We pull up to the house late in the afternoon. We've been here before and we love it. Every stick of it silvered by salt. Every board beaten by sun and blasted by sand until the softwood has been eroded and the hard grain stands out with a deep texture. The house is nothing special. In fact- the realtor had called it a "hellhole", if I remember correctly. She wasn't even trying to sell me on a more expensive one, just an offhand comment. It is pretty old, I guess. Everything is out of date. It still has shag carpet- in a beach house- can you imagine? It's pretty kitschy- dark pine walls, old shells and fishing lures, bits of nettting, some Japanese glass buoys that washed up. But I like it. At least it's not one of those places decorated with that faux-beachy crap that try to make it look like it has a sense of history and place. She's not fancy, but what she lacks in curb appeal she makes up for in location. She sits high on pilings- "like an old lady holding her skirts up to cross a puddle", as Ruark said, and looks out across a wide and shallow gulf front bay. And there is her true appeal. Proximity. Any closer to the water and we'd have to wear life jackets to bed. 

As I set bags down and look out across the empty beach, my children erupt into view. They are kicking off shoes, throwing off shirts,stumbling and tripping down to the wash. They are giddy with laughter and intoxicated on the 100 proof undiluted joy of a wild thing so beautiful and large that their souls cannot adequately imbibe. I look at the mountain of luggage in the middle of the living room floor and know- unpacking must wait.

It's been stormy today and the waves are larger than usual. Sand and sediment stirred by the upwelling cause the shore break to be tall and heavy. We don't care. We dive in and are pushed back. We bully through one wave only to be pounced on and roughed up by the next. There is a current running and before long we are a quarter mile down beach from where we started. It's getting darker. The low light and spumy water give the whole scene a bit of an ominous, sharky tone. We don't care. We stay out longer than we should, swim further than is prudent, and wholly lose our sense of schedule and duty. 

Finally we will ourselves to make for dry land. As we stand dripping and quietly staring over that Atlantic infinity, a little hand finds mine. And I find another, and then another until seven people; two big, five small- connect in a place and way that we have not since last we stood here. We breathe; in, out, in, out... and remember, this is why we came.

maybe

Maybe. . . If I could do it all over again, I'd care less about what people thought and really let my freak flag fly.

Maybe. . . I still have feelings that our family is not complete, like we're still missing someone?

Maybe. . . taking fish off a fishing pole really grosses me out, so I have carefully spent time instructing each of my children, so that I no longer have to.

Maybe. . . my new thing is Oregon. Man, how much would I LOVE to explore Oregon.

Maybe. . . the thought of homeschooling two kids this year is kind of overwhelming. Like things just got real up in here.

Maybe. . . someday I will really master post processing, and my images will finally begin to be the pieces I envision them to be.

Maybe. . . I am not aging gracefully. I do NOT enjoy it.

Maybe. . . I'm learning bravery. It's in the small things yet it excites me. Like maybe, just maybe, I'm growing up.

tales of the deep

I am so over the moon excited about this week! I've got some fun posts coming up that I love, and the start of a little series. But first, a little explaining. . . Kaleb, the kids and I took our first trip to the beach last September.  Earlier last summer I happened upon a Southern Living article about  favorite beach destinations. One just so happened to be Santa Rosa, FL. The pictures and food reviews had already sold me, but then I saw that distance-wise it wasn't so bad, and they had an amazing state park with little cabins we could stay in fairly reasonably. That was all the push I needed, the next day I reserved us a week stay!

This was a really big deal for us. It was going to be our first real vacation just the six of us, and I was beyond thrilled! Up to this point, the only summer vacations we had done were with my whole family. The kiddos had never been to the beach and I was so happy to get to share it with them. There is just something wholly beautiful about experiencing newness thru the eyes of a child. Their awe and joy is fully contagious!

 

The entire trip was so much more amazing than I ever could have dreamed it. The weather was perfect, the crowd was ideal - people to watch but room to breathe. We hiked, and swam, built sand castles and even had a few surf lessons. For me, I will always remember it as a coming of age, of sorts. For once, I was in charge! I got to pick all the restaurants, I didn't have to wait on anyone else to make plans, it was just us and the kids- a cozy little unit filled up on love and ice-cream.

I will never forget that first day when we pulled up to the beach. It was just barely misting, the sky a little dark. The wild ones hopped out of the car and ran down the boardwalk to catch their first view of the ocean. I'm not sure what they were expecting, but I guess not white sand beaches, they started shouting wildly "It's snowing, It's snowing! Look at all this snow!"

I know I have described it countless times as "the best week of my life" and it's absolutely true. Even now I could recount in detail everything we did, and saw and said. I have stored up these memories tight in my heart and will draw back on them for years to come. Remembering specifics: like Isaac falling asleep at the table every night at dinner, his little body completely exhausted from the play, or the huge grin that lit up Zains face when he rode his first wave. The years may fade it into something broader, but I will always remember it as a week in my life where I felt complete and total happiness. 

Anyway. . . we are headed back to the beach in September, except we decided to stay for two weeks this time, and I am already crazy excited! 

So in keeping, I thought we would do a little mini series here at the reverie. Do you have a stand out beach trip or favorite memory you would like to share? If so, send it on  over to me at hollandsreverie@gmail.com and I will select a few to share here on the blog! 

Looking forward to hearing your stories! 

P.S. Whatever you do, check back here on Friday! My amazingly talented brother is doing a special post sharing his beach tales to kick off the series. Let me tell you, it is crazy good! You will love it, I promise!