Worry, worry, worry

"Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow. It only saps today of its joy." Leo F. Buscaglia

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I woke, anxiety-ridden, and lay in bed detailing to myself my worries. I was worried about the fact that I needed to get to church early to prepare for a small presentation I was giving, and I was worried that I would forget the materials I needed for the presentation (the written text I planned to read, plus my laptop to take notes during the discussion that would follow). I was worried it would be too hard to get up on time due to the hour of sleep lost to daylight savings. I was worried about the forecasted rain and whether we’d have problems with flooding. I was worried about how I would fit in my imperative daily run if the flooding was bad, and I was worried that the forecasted high winds would cause a tree to fall on me while I ran.

As I slept, I could hear the wind and rain; I woke worrying about how my mother’s flight home from London was going to be able to land the following night in such bad weather. I was worried that my daughter would dawdle throughout the morning and be late getting to her friend’s birthday party, and probably arrive in a cranky mood for having been rushed.

When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened.” Winston Churchill

And then Monday I woke even earlier with even more worries. This despite the fact that as far as I knew, everything I had worried about before dawn on Sunday had worked out. I’d arrived at church on time and the presentation had gone great, as had the discussion afterwards. Holly had been good about getting ready for the party and had enjoyed it greatly once she was there. I’d fit in my run before the heavy rains started, and the forecasted heavy winds never arrived. When I’d gone to bed on Sunday night, my mother’s flight was still scheduled for an on-time arrival, though I didn’t know for sure that she’d landed.

Still, it seemed that by 4:40 AM on Monday, I had a whole new set of worries waking me. The flooding had indeed begun as predicted on Sunday, and our driveway was starting to wash out. I wasn’t sure how I’d get the kids to the bus stop if it was impassable by daybreak. I was afraid when daylight came I’d discover that the whole farm was under water. I didn’t know how I’d feed the cows if the barnyard was flooded; I wasn’t even sure the sheep would survive a flood. I worried and worried and worried.

Worry is like a rocking chair--it gives you something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere.” Unknown

Meditation and other prescribed mind-calming measures don’t work for me at times like this. Instead, I arose from bed even though it was an hour earlier than I usually get up and tried to write out possible solutions to everything that was concerning me. Our house is built on a slab; even if the fields were flooded, the area around the house always stays dry, and I knew I didn’t really have to worry about that from the perspective of flooding. The woman who owns the sheep had been here the evening before; surely she had taken some kind of precautions if she thought they might be in danger. Getting the kids out to the road if we couldn’t get through in the car would just require leaving a lot of extra time, and if Holly balked too severely at walking in the flooded driveway, I could pull her in the wagon. My father, who’s the real farmer here – I just help with morning feedings – would surely know what to do if the barnyard was flooded. And there was no point, two hours before sunrise, in worrying about what I would see when the sun came up. I wrote all of this out and tried to let it go. I reminded myself that most of the time, getting up early is one of the best ways to counter worry: there’s quite a lot you can fix or prevent simply by having extra time to deal with it.

There is nothing that wastes the body like worry, and one who has any faith in God should be ashamed to worry about anything whatsoever” Mahatma Gandhi

And most of it turned out all right, except that when daylight broke I discovered the barnyard situation was even worse than I imagined: the entire pasture west of our driveway was under a foot of water. Rick headed out to work and called me to say the driveway had indeed washed away during the night and I shouldn’t even try to get the kids to school; it just wasn’t safe. So there went that worry. I called my father to express my concerns about feeding the animals, and he said he’d take care of it. One less burden on my shoulders. I saw for myself that the house and the land around it were still dry and not in any threat from the continuing rainfall at all.

I tried again to tell myself how unproductive worry is. My mom called a little later in the morning and said she’d safely arrived home from London and that dad had managed with the animals and they were all safe and well, even the sheep. Things were turning out okay.

Worry is such a bad use of time. Listing your problems and figuring out how to cope with them is such a better idea. Getting up early to solve things is often the best strategy of all. Simple guidelines to remember at fretful times like this. It’s not always that easy. But it’s a start.

Worry is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.” Arthur Somers Roche

January farm scene

Midwinter is a breathtakingly beautiful time of year here. This week, a thick snow cover lies over the ground; the tree branches are bare. Today the sun is beaming out of a milky blue sky, and the trees and fence posts throw crisp shadows onto the snow cover.

December, even after snow falls, often has a muddier cast. Because the temperatures are warmer then, the snow that falls often partially melts on a ground that is not entirely frozen to begin with. But now, in the coldest part of the year, no mud mars the sparkling whiteness. The fields shimmer with gently rolling curves of snow; the pond is indistinguishable from the surrounding pasture other than being flatter. The dog runs across it, looking confused by her new ease of access through the woods where once a large body of water lay.

When I go out in the mornings now to feed the cows, I find them standing shoulder to shoulder by the barn waiting for me. Their spirits apparently rise as hay bales tumble from the loft; they butt each other out of the way to get their heads into the bales even though there’s enough for everyone, not just in the general sense but quite specifically: I feed out six bales for six animals. Nonetheless, for reasons I can’t understand, they clump together, preferring to shove each other around over one or two bales than to spread out a little and eat solo. It’s tempting to anthropomorphize and assume they prefer the conviviality of breaking bread (or hay) together, but that seems so counterintuitive based on what we know about animal nature that I can’t believe it’s that simple. The sheep, meanwhile, trot out of their enclosure when I open the gate and find four or five untouched bales in their path; since this is four or five times more than they normally eat, this has to be pleasing to them.

What strikes me most at this time of year, even more than the beauty of a pristine blanket of snow or the sharp gray branches and evergreen needles against the blue sky outside my home office window, is the light at the end of the afternoon. Just two weeks past the winter Solstice, I know the days aren’t growing substantially longer yet, but the light appears different to me than it did a month ago. Late November and December afternoon light has such a grayish muddy look, like the ground, as if the early sunset means the afternoon never opens up entirely to daylight. At this time of year, perhaps because of the sparkling white snow cover or perhaps because of something more celestial, the late-afternoon light looks brighter to me, even just before sunset.

Whatever the reason, it feels like a promise of milder days and longer afternoons ahead, but there’s no rush. Right now we are in the coldest and most frozen time of year, and that has its own beauty, a winter luminescence of snow and ice and blue sky. When I go running midmorning these days, I frequently see the brilliant red feathers of cardinals in the trees, or the bright blue of a blue jay flying by. The colors are sharp, the cold bracing, the air clear, and the winter breathtakingly lovely, and so right now there’s no hurry for spring.

Recipe for a bucolic morning: Cows, sheep, dogs, hay

I fell into the daily habit of taking care of the barnyard animals in a circuitous way.

The barnyard and its inhabitants are primarily the domain of my parents, who live next door to us. And for the first few years we lived here, I didn’t have much involvement. I occasionally helped out for an hour or two during haying season or stepped in for backup herding duty when my parents needed to move the animals around and wanted an extra person to stand at one of the gates, but for the most part it wasn’t really my arena. There aren’t all that many jobs to do on a daily basis – let the sheep out of their pen in the morning; feed the cows a couple of bales of hay from the barn if it’s not grazing season – but my parents covered those responsibilities themselves, and when they were away, Rick usually took over.

But fourteen months ago we adopted our dog, Belle, and I started taking her out for a walk first thing every morning. Since we were passing near the sheep’s enclosure, it made sense to stop and let them out. As October came to an end, I noticed the cows, previously out grazing in the pastures while Belle and I took our walk, were congregating near the barn every morning. I asked my father if it was time to start “feeding out,” meaning giving the cows hay bales rather than leaving them to fend for themselves in the field. He conceded that it probably was about that time, and I said that since I was out with the dog -- and now the sheep -- anyway, I’d take on that responsibility as well.

More than a year later, I have to say it’s become one of my favorite times of day, those ten or fifteen minutes I spend with the animals in the barnyard. First I put on the heavy padded coveralls my parents gave me to wear in the barn; then I grab my pocketknife, my work gloves, and – if I am to be perfectly honest here – my cell phone, just in case I fall out of the hayloft or get trampled. Yes, I know that traditional farm hands don’t carry cell phones, but I’m on a tight schedule in the morning, needing to hurry home and get the kids off to school, so I figure it’s for the best to be able to call for help if I ever need it, which I never have.

Belle gallops across the field toward the barn, her energy high after a good night’s sleep and her exhilaration at being outdoors and free almost palpable. The cows see me coming and meet me along the way, expecting to have their curly dark-red heads scratched and then plodding along after me as I make my way to the barn. The sheep bleat as they hear us coming.

Once in the barnyard, it’s an easy job. I climb the ladder to the hayloft and toss down a couple of bales to get the animals below out of my way; then I descend and enter through the front of the barn to pull out a couple more bales for them. I use my pocketknife to snip the twine around the bales, which makes me feel like a Boy Scout. I scatter the hay a little so the animals don’t all cluster in one place.

Then I scan the barnyard and pasture until I locate Belle, who camouflages beautifully with the brownish-gray of the trees and dirt. She is usually either burrowing her face in cow manure, drinking from the brook or chasing squirrels in the thicker grass. Once assured that she’s not too close to the sheep pen – every few months she gets an inexplicable urge to chase them -- I let the six sheep out. Unlike the cows, they don’t particularly want my attention; they trot goofily past me, hurrying toward the hay to get their share before the cows finish it.

That’s all there is to it, and as my father reminds me frequently, there’s no reason I have to do it every day; he’d be more than happy to share the job with me or take it over once again for himself. But I love getting out with the animals early every morning. The heavy lifting as I move the hay bales and the climb up to the loft make me feel strong and well-exerted even though it’s brief and not that arduous. Seeing Belle get in some fast running and vigorous playing before my work day begins is satisfying too. And so is the benign appreciation of the animals. They’re a peaceful bunch, placid, never pushy (or if they are pushy, it’s to each other, not to me). Unlike dogs, they don’t go wild at feeding time. Unlike my kids, they don’t have opinions about what they do or don’t want. They just stand there waiting for hay, and when they get it, they eat it. Job done.

It might be an overstatement to say this is the best part of my day, but it’s definitely up there among the most satisfying. And it’s definitely a contender for easiest part of my day. I release the sheep, feed the cows, let the dog run and everyone is happy. How simple the animals can make life seem.

All creatures great and small (shouldn't be my responsibility)

Like a lot of women my age, I spend too much time feeling like World Hostess: it’s my responsibility to make sure everyone – everyone! – is happy, warm enough, cool enough, well-fed, comfortable, safe and entertained. For some of us it’s just in our nature, I’m afraid: feel like the world is your front parlor and it’s always your responsibility to ensure everyone’s comfort level.

And I’m okay with that, having lived with it for four decades. I’m used to taking responsibility for everyone who steps into my home: my children, their friends, my husband, his friends, our parents, our kids’ friends’ parents, our parents’ friends’ kids. Plus the neighbors, census takers, carpet cleaners and the UPS man. If they cross our threshold – no, our property line – I want to be sure they know they’re in good hands.

But recently I’ve been struggling with the question of where to draw the line when the animal kingdom is concerned. I’ve started taking responsibility for the personal safety of every creature on our acreage, and since we live on a farm surrounded by forests, that’s a very large number of beating hearts.

Almost a year ago, following an article I wrote on the pet-matching website petfinder.com, we adopted a stray dog from a shelter. She’s a terrific pet but she occasionally chases the five sheep who live here. Occasionally is the key word. She’ll saunter past them for months, uninterested, and then one day she’ll bolt straight toward them. I honestly believe she just wants to have some fun and experience the thrill of the chase. But I can’t expect the sheep to know that; they seem terrified when she bolts toward them, and they ignore my plaintive instructions: “Just don’t run, and she won’t chase you.” They bleat, disperse, and tear haphazardly across the fields. She never catches them; that’s not the point for her. She just wants to have some fun. But they don’t know that, and I consider it my responsibility to protect them from the experience of being sporadically terrorized.

Fortunately, the cows are large enough that they intimidate the dog, but whenever a calf is born, I stay vigilant until it becomes steady on its feet. The dog sometimes sniffs around them, curious, and usually a bellow from the mother cow is enough to warn her off, but when they’re first born the calves have such spindly little legs, and I want to make sure they never have to use those legs prematurely to run away.

And then there are the chickens. Unlike the sheep and cows, they’re not ours; they belong to the next-door neighbors. But chickens don’t know from property lines; they free-range their way onto our lawn on an almost daily basis. And I have no problem with this, except that if I see them I won’t let the dog out because, despite my hopeful question to my neighbor about whether chickens perhaps can fly, it turns out they can’t. Not even under extreme duress. So I check for chickens before letting the dog out, but every now and then there’s one or two in the corner of the yard that I don’t spot, and wild chasing ensues. Fortunately, the dog hasn’t yet caught a chicken, but I find it a little tiring to worry about them so much.

Deer populate the woods surrounding the farm, and venture often into the fields and across the driveway. In the morning, my son and I ride our bikes together the nearly half-mile down our dirt road out to the main road, where he either catches the bus or continues by bike to school. It’s not uncommon to see deer leaping across the driveway. The dog has given chase a couple of times and not yet caught one, but again, it’s not something I want to see happen, not in general and especially not with the kids around. So as my son and I ride down the driveway in the morning, I try to make train whistle noises to scare them away, which embarrasses him to no end. “Do you really think the deer know what a train sounds like?” he asked me this morning. “I don’t care if they know what a train sounds like; I just want to sound like something they wouldn’t want to be near,” I told him.

Today I drew a line in the sand, though. I opened the door, saw a flicker and a scurry, and the dog was off in a blur chasing a chipmunk that had bee foraging in the corner of the garage. As she dashed to the edge of the yard near a grove of tall oak trees, I shrugged. “Chipmunks and squirrels are officially on their own,” I announced to no one.

I can be a good host, but not to everything. Let’s say mammals over five pounds are my responsibility, plus domestic fowl. I’m happy to serve food and beverages to our human visitors and make sure the dog stays away from the non-human ones as much as I am able, but every host deserves a break once in a while. From now on, I’m turning over the care of birds (other than chickens), reptiles and small woodland creatures to a higher power.