Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I have a bum fascination. I catch myself checking-out the rears of the wooly beasts in the community. It’s indicative of age, health, and happiness.
The dead sheep in the neonatal room was Baby Stephen’s mother. Her back end was disgusting: matted, crimson brown, and rotting. It is obvious she was sick and laying on her hind quarters during the last part of her life.
On the other end, Baby Stephen could use baby-wipes. Infant lambs produce mustered colored waste that runs down their tail and back legs as their digestive systems are not yet fully developed.
Teenagers have the most appealing tushes. Full of energy, these youth keep a clean bottom by prancing around, rarely taking a seat to soil their fuzzy fanny.
As sheep mature, they display various stages of dingle-berries. The more senior the sheep, the more the berries grow into pinecones.
In the nursery, I watch lambs nurse. This is certainly my favorite rear view. There are few things cuter than the blur of a small white tail as it flutters in happiness from underneath its mother’s coat.
It is evening. I’m feeling as filthy as a middle-aged sheep (mercifully minus the dingle berries). I walk back to the house to clean up.
The shower is less than two feet in diameter and enclosed by a curtain that characteristically does not keep the water off the floor. In a novice small-shower move, I drop the soap; the shower curtain attaches itself to my wet body and run-off spills everywhere.
I’m still ginning. After a month of sitting on my bum on the shower floor with my leg propped up on the bidet, hand washing with a hand towel, THIS now is glorious! I’m standing; I’m showering; and if I had a tail, it would be fluttering.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Placing a fresh batch of hay on top of a soiled hay bale, I make myself a “clean” seat in the neonatal room. With me are three preemies, four milking mothers, and one dead sheep. I wonder how long the sheep has been dead. The two stronger infants climb over the corpse; drool still runs from her nose.
Since my arrival, I regularly check on the progress of the littlest preemie, Baby Stephen. Sheep are not named at Ca’Mazzetto but as it was uncertain if the abandoned lamb would survive his early birth, I thought to give him more of a fighting chance and thus named him after someone who’s passionate about life.
The largest lamb with a brown freckled face chews on the shoelaces of my Sorrels; I offer an index finger. The second lamb follows suit; he gets my pinkie. The two infants suck my fingers while Baby Stephen remains in the corner with his head cocked back. At least he’s not shivering like he was when I first met him.
Not surprisingly, with no milk the finger-sucking is appealing for only so long. The lambs look for a real teat but get head butted when entering mom from the front and kicked when entering mom from the back. I pin the unwilling mother between my legs, grab Baby Stephen and place him in the milk vicinity like I’ve seen Pasqual do.
“Bravo!” Pasqual says when Baby Stephen successfully attaches to a nipple.
“Aye Madonna!” he curses when the mom urinates on his leg in protest.
Knowing the drill, the older infants scurry to the secured mother - free milk with no kicking and no head butting. Ah.. but I know the drill too! Being bigger, they’d push my little friend aside, so still with mom between my legs and Baby Stephen underneath, I hold the freckled lamb with one arm and place the second lamb on top of the mother. No free lunch for these two.
“Bravo!” I say as Baby Stephen eats.
“Aye Madonna!” I curse as the freckled face lamb urinates on my arm in protest.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Ca’Mazzetto Barn is an E-ticket Fun House. It’s my favorite ride on the farm; it’s where all the 4-legged action takes place: feeding, milking, mating, birthing, nurturing and even dying.
This house is the home for the several hundred sheep and lamb. There are various rooms and passageways, gates and fences, stairs and platforms, bathtubs and hay dispensers, pens and nurseries, corridors and feeding stalls. On the floor sits hay, feces, mud and urine. On the metal beam ceiling hangs string, like stalactites in a cave.
The sheep move through this maze without so much as a floor map, occasionally spurred on by a dog or Pasqual yelling “Ale! Ale!”
My first task: figuring how to enter the barn. There is an array of openings but all seem to be blocked via a sheet of metal, barricaded door, or wood piling. Wisely, I deduce that if the sheep can use the dogs for guidance, so can I. Bubul the smallest dog leads the way. My canine friend jumps on a wooden frame, over a wire fence, on to an inverted palette, through a wall opening and into Room Function x_(y^2 ) (Maybe in a few weeks I’ll have construed what the room functions are but at this point, it remains a variable in an unsolved equation.)
There is a brief moment of silence upon entering the premises; hundreds of beady eyes look up at me. The moment is over and the background music comes to the foreground in forte! Every pitch of “bah” is heard. A number of sheep “jingle” from the bell around their neck. Bubul barks. Few sick sheep cough. And the head-master gives orders to move. The concerto sounds like this:
Bah Bah BAh BAh bbbaaa bbbaaa Jingle Jingle BAAH bark bark bah “Ale! Ale!” bah bah bah cough cough BaH BaH “Ale! Ale! Bastardo.. ALE!” Baaaaaaaaaaah.
It’s pure magic and worth the price of admission.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Years ago when traveling through Europe, we traversed a valley. Down below, a young women bundled in layers of wool tended a flock of sheep. She held a large stick to move them around as they grazed the grass lands. Next to girl was man’s best friend - her companion and fellow worker - the header’s sheep dog.
The moment was captured on film by my traveling companion and my best friend but already the picture was forever imprinted in my mind. I could be that girl..perhaps in another time, another life, but I could be her.
On my computer in Santa Barbara, there is another picture. The moment I saw the photo last year, I down loaded it from the Agriturismo Ca' Mazzetto website. On my desktop, the Coccorano hills of Italy make home to a flock of sheep; the working dog takes refuge from the sun under an olive tree. Every day I would look at the picture. I could be there.. perhaps one day.
This afternoon I completed applying primer to the repaired sections of the restaurant wall. Slowly I walk to the stables where the clamor of the evening feeding and milking can be heard. Pasquale opens the gates of the barn and the flock of sheep hustle out to the fields and into the evening sun.
In this moment I knew.. one day is here.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Holding a bucket of concrete-putty substance in one hand and a bucket of patching tools in the other, my host darts up the path to their “restaurant”; he plans to repair holes in the old farm walls before the arrival of the Easter guests that will be dining there next month. I’m thinking it’s a never ending job and am rather embarrassed by my bedroom thoughts upon arrival. (I wonder if he read my mind.)
Trotting on the path behind his owner is one of Ca’Mazzetto’s four dogs. And limping behind the collie am I, unable to take my eyes of Pasquale’s left pant leg that is tucked inside his striped sock; it’s adorable.
But even before the sock, Pasquale endeared himself to me last night when we were introduced; he asked if I was a vegetarian. (I wonder if he read my mind.) The girls were at dance class and he was making dinner for the teenage boys; they wanted sausages.
On my personal menu, dinner was an assortment of vegetables and salads, various breads, seasoned spelt with carrots, and the crowning glory: farm made pecorino cheese, farm made fresh ricotta, and farm made olive oil.
Clearly I’ve come to the right place.
(And you don't need to be a mind reader to figure that out.)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
This is not at all like I pictured my new wwoof quarters. And why is it when apprehension is involved I’m always cold? I sit in what is to be my room for the next month - zipped up in my down puffy jacket and fingerless gloves - trying to find comfort in the little that is familiar. The hole in the bed cover and the hole in the wall do not make me feel better.
Nervously I crack peanuts from Leonora’s parting gift when she took me to the Borgotaro train station this morning. God I miss her. It is evening in Valfabbrica now and outside the wind howls. The driver who picked me up from the final bus station reported snowfall last night.
The room is sparse. There is a single lamp and a roll-out folding bed which currently doubles as my desk and chair. My mind wanders to where I was this time yesterday - in front of a cozy fire, in the company of my dear friends. Boris invited Sarah, Maria and me to his home for our departing dinner. We discussed quantum physics and parallel realities. If I were a Master, I’d jump into the alternate reality of last night. I crave warmth, comfort, and love.
And that is it. Even as I write the word – love – it becomes clear to me that the weather and the accommodations have little to do with how I am feeling. Unaccompanied, by myself, alone, I sit in anxious solitude waiting to meet my new host family who are currently not here in the house.
I take a fresh look: three rolled towels are carefully placed next to my bed; dried lavender is tucked in the corner of the room; a small red petunia sits on the window sill and a single picture hangs on the wall. It is of a white-bearded man gently carrying a white-wooly sheep. How could I have missed all that before?
I’m pretty certain this reality will be just fine; I just needed a change of view.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
It is my last day at Casa Lanzarotti. Tomorrow morning, I leave the crutches, I leave this farmhouse, I leave the chickens, I leave the cows, I leave the valley, and I leave my friends. Tomorrow morning I depart for Camezzo, a new farm, new livestock, new countryside, and I’m certain – new friends.
Still I am sad. I’ve never liked good-byes.
In the last few hours I’ve written and re-written my last few stories. Each one remains on my laptop unfinished as if defying the inevitable end of my Casa Lanzarotti journey. Like me, they’re reluctant to reach some concluding finale.
The story ideas now seem exhausted.
On Friday I had my last bread day. On Saturday I had my last clean-the-mouse-poop-in-the-lab day. On Sunday I had my last “free-to-just-be” day. I find comfort in routine and yet I know my life yearns for continued growth and experiences. It is not finished.
It is time to go.
Maria runs into the house from her morning chores crying “The sheep! The sheep!” I’ve heard this before. Only now, on this last day in Albareto, our pregnant sheep has her baby, correction, babies: twin black lambs. The mother cries her loud protective “BAH”; the first lamb cries his tiny confused “bah”; the second lamb cries his tiny confused “bah”; and Brigit cries her tears of emotions.
It is my last day at Casa Lanzarotti; it is our lambs’ first. Welcome my little friends; it is a good life.
“I could live here” Leonora sighs as she enters Casa Lanzarotti to take me to the hospital. Had she been a farmer in the Mezzadria Era, she certainly could have. But as was the case with most sharecropping tenants, she probably would have lived in the loft, above the stables, with several other families. Her rent for these quarters would have been half the farm’s yield.
Italy abolished mezzadria after the Second World War. Thereafter, the landlords were required to pay farmers in currency. As a consequence, many rich-in-property owners parceled off their land to generate cash. This was the case in the Lanzarotti estate.
Iris and Gian-Luca purchased the decaying farm house and the considerably smaller surrounding land in 1990. Fortunately, the home had not been “modernized”. What remained was original and our new owners would work for nearly a decade returning the structure into a faithfully restored Casa Lanzarotti.
It took Gian-Luca five years to merely recreate authentic windows. Duplicating the original construction of the 1800’s in 1990’s, involved milling lumber from local chestnut trees, drying the wood for three years, and hand manufacturing each window frame for the following two years.
The year that Elvis lived here, Casa Lanzarotti was enclosed in plastic tarps. The boys woke up on winter mornings to find their sleeping bags covered in ice. Today, Casa Lanzarotti is sound and cordially welcomes guests throughout the year. Thanks to the hosts, the content visitors feel at home.
Further up the street, Boris invites Sarah, Maria and me to visit. “I could live here” I sighed on entering his dwelling. My recluse friend has created a beautiful home for study and meditation. The feeling of peace permeates the open great-room. Clean lines of Asian and Tibetan art compliment the warmth of the Italian villa. We’re served tea and homemade fruit tart in front of a modern fire chimney. Wrapped in a mohair African blanket on a black leather couch, I sit with my leg elevated, Sarah draws, and Maria sings. Thanks to our host, we - the content visitors - feel at home.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
In Argentina one can “Wake up like an ass”, in France “Wake up with the left foot” and in the States “Wake up on the wrong side of bed”. I am not certain what the equivalent expression is in Italy but our Italian chicken didn’t wake up like an ass, with her left foot, or on the wrong side of bed; our Italian chicken simply - didn’t wake up.
I’ve had a morning in the recent past where the axiom “It would have been better to stay in bed” came to mind. Following the “skin-not-connecting” doctor’s visit, Leonora left me at the ER entrance while she fetched the car. Alone with my disappointment, I broke down in tears, sobbing into the parking lot asphalt.
And then there are mornings that take me by surprise. The day before Spring officially arrived on the calendar and several days after Spring unofficially arrived on the farm, I woke up to see snow falling from the window’s view.
A subsequent doctor’s visit removed the sutures and a subsequent day brought the sun, but on a subsequent morning our chicken did not run the fields of Casa Lanzarotti as she did the day before. So rather than thinking in terms of “good days and bad days”, I will think in terms of good days and better days. And rather than waking up on the right side or wrong side of bed, I will be grateful to wake up at all.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
A motorcyclist pulls up to 93 Roncole di Gotra. He tosses his helmet to the side of the stairs and speaks to Iris in front of the wooden entryway. He stays for dinner. At home, he has flightless ducks that eat snails and like to be thrown up in the air. We enjoy his company.
A life student of ancient knowledge purchases organic meat at Agricoltura Biologica Casa Lanzarotti. Iris wraps his goods on the wooden dining room table. He stays for dinner. With wit and humor, he assists Maria with her math homework by relating it to a symphony described in equations. We enjoy his company.
Georg - a hard working German - journeys with his motorcycle and camper through Italy. He offsets travel expenses by wwoof-ing in exchange for a meal and a hot shower.
“What brought you to Albareto?” I ask Georg before he tills the greenhouse.
“It is winter in my home and it is spring here.”
Boris - a Roncole resident - spends quiet moments in meditation and spiritual pursuit. He looks after his grandmother who lives across the street. For the two of them, he procures provisions locally: milk from Ezzio’s, eggs from a neighbor, and beef from Iris.
“What brought you to Albareto?” we ask Boris over our dinner bowl of minestrone.
“It was winter in my soul” he responds.
“And is it spring now?”
“Yes. Yes. Spring is coming.”
I am thus grateful to winter; if the cold were not felt by such sympathetic people, we would have missed being present to their warmth.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I feel incredibly righteous hunting for dinner. With the crutch, I move aside some dried shrubs (OPO is right.. this IS the Utility Model). I spot my kill: a hearty dandelion plant!
Since Iris and Gian-Luca are working this evening, the wwoofers – three girls now – must fend for themselves. Maria, nursing an upset stomach from the antibiotics, (poor dear finally gave in and what does she get? .. at least she can run) musters plain rice. Sarah, ponders lunch leftovers in the form of spaghetti-bolognese. And Brigit.. dreams of a SALAD!!
Granted, this is not the first time I’ve been on the dandelion quest. I’m embarrassed to admit, at home my pursuit included a bottle of weed-killer. But having seen dandelion sold at the Parma Farmers Market and having witnessed a horse stretch his neck through a fence in an effort to reach dandelion, I figure I’m not above the weed.
Sarah sketches my entre on her traveling notepad: a soft boiled egg, hunks of cheese, leftover potato, chopped cabbage core, carrot with carrot top, and a sprinkling of sesame seed shells, all on a bed of dandelions bathed in olio d’oliva and balsamica.
My Italian is accomplished enough to declare in confidence: Molto Buono!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
After a physically demanding day of shoveling, wood-hauling, and cleaning, my preferred late afternoon activity was a run up to the neighboring village of Buzzo. After a physically non-demanding day of ironing, potato-peeling, and mending, my preferred late afternoon activity is a run up to the neighboring village of Buzzo. Seeing that is not feasible at the moment, I decide to do a “lap” around the farm on the OPO crutches (they are - after all - the Utility Model) with my wound-up energy.
The sun rests low on the horizon casting an orange glow on the valley. A young bull scratches an itch on a tractor hitch. A pile of slate waits and waits. Wood leans on a table saw that’s green.
Budding trees salute the sky. Laundry billows and hangs to dry. Wheelbarrows rest with their legs held high.
I watch the chickens kick up the freshly laid manure in vegetable garden, forging worms for their evening meal. Everyone, everything, is winding down.
My lap concludes, and so do I.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
I focus the Petzl: The string on the salami looks eerily familiar; so does the indentation left on the meat as I scoot the twine to examine the mold underneath.
It has been two months since our homemade salamis were hung to dry in the basement; the mesh closet allows air to enter but prevents mice and feral cats from doing the same. The aging of fresh salami is a delicate process. Ideally the meat should be stored in a cool 18 C (65 F) location, free from drafts and heat sources; an open window or a hot pipe may give rise to salami that is inedible.
I check the progress of the ripening visually. Soft greenish mold is good; yellow spotted mold is bad. With a stack of hand towels, I wipe each salami, scraping questionable growth. Airborne fungi spores encircle me.
After the doctor removed the final set of “strings” in my leg, I was instructed to air the wound in an effort to dry the weepy areas. I crutch around the house with my right pant leg rolled up.
Down in the basement my mind is still making comparisons between the drying salami and my drying leg. Cleaning the mold, I am reminded of why I took the antibiotics to the bitter end (footnote 1) and in the bitter end (footnote 2), despite running out of uninjected territory (footnote 3). Amen! - I was spared an infection. And then it hits me: the floating fungi particles, the exposed moist laceration, my care-less-ness!!
Sirens ring in my head. I race to the medicine cabinet, douse the wound in Acqua Ossigenata, sprinkle the gash with orange Iodopovidone, and just to be safe, poke myself in the rear with a spare Ceftriaxone.
In the room next door, Iris is giving kind salutations to the departing Swiss guests; they purchase two salamis. She wraps them in butcher paper and ties the package in string.
1. Pun courtesy of friend, Santa Barbara, CA. Email 3/3/09
2. Pun courtesy of friend, Ojai, CA. Email 3/14/09
3. Pun courtesy of friend, Ojai, CA. Email 3/12/09
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
One never knows what one might find searching the internet..
perhaps even an old pair of shoes.
From: elvis dolić [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
Sent: Monday, March 16, 2009 8:44 PM
Subject: Re: My old brown shoes ;)
p.s. so just let those waiting for me there ;)
love and peace
2009/3/16 elvis dolić
Hello Maria and Brigit;)
just by chance i came upon the message for me on your blog and it brought me back so many of great memories ;) thank you...i did not understood really at first what is going on but now i can see... Iris and GLT are two best people on this planet and i love them just as i love my own parents...thank you in my name for staying with them and helping them in their work...i live for the day to come back there with my wife and rise my family there...that was always my dream...
once again thnx a million for bringing these memories to me...
Monday, March 16, 2009
One Friday afternoon, Miss Brown’s third grade class stayed after school; we were served vanilla ice cream in Dixie cups. All hail the annual recycling champions at Noble Elementary School.
We’ve come a long way since the yearly newspaper recycling event; a few days at Casa Lanzarotti, I see we can recycle further.
There are three recycling bins under the kitchen window labeled: Mucca (cow), Galline (chicken), and Compost (compost). Next to the bins hangs a wire basket collecting eggshells. And underneath the bins is a cupboard with traditional recycling: glass, aluminum, cardboard, and steel.
The cows are vegans. They get cheated in their veggie and fruit rubbish from the competing vegan household eaters , namely Maria and me. We make no secrets about sneaking into the cow-bin to steal a discarded green carrot top, cauliflower stem, broccoli leaf or an apple core.
The chickens, by comparison, enjoy a good steak – or at least the spit out pieces. They get served refuse animal products: skin, cartilage, fat, gristle, and egg shell dust (no bin competition here).
I sit on the stainless steel counter (it’s amazing what one gets away with being a gimp) and crush discarded eggshells. The shells, rich in calcium, must be pulverized into powder; otherwise, the clever chickens will learn to recognize egg shells and peck at their own babies robbing us of an omelet (i.e., egg competition).
I pound 3 pounds of eggshells and drink my yummy tea: a bin-salvaged orange peel immersed in hot water with fresh ground nutmeg and a cinnamon stick.
This is better than vanilla ice-cream; who knew recycling tasted so good!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
On this beautiful spring morning, I felt confident in the leg’s healing progress to crutch my way up to the chicken coop to let my girls and one boy out. It has been nearly three weeks since my fowl duties were abruptly halted and apparently, I was missed.
So excited were the chickens by my arrival that they squawked at the pen’s wire entry as I made my way up the hill. Upon opening the gate, they greeted me with affectionate pecks to my shoe. Several of the hens - in solidarity - stood on one leg. And the rooster - wanting to assure me that I was still part of the family and privy to what might otherwise be matters behind closed doors – mounted one of his harem chicks in my presence.
It’s good to be loved!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
• The high pitched shrill of a Ferrari engine on the radio as Italy anticipates the start of the Formula One season.
• The rumble of the tractor as it delivers hay.
• The snazzy tunes of old time jazz as the dinner guests, party of 11, enjoy their evening.
• The notes of John Coltrane as Maria recreates one of his pieces on her saxophone.
• The happy whistle of Gian-Luca as he works on the farm.
• The squeak of the metal crank on a wooden window as it opens for the first time letting in Spring.
• The gurgle of plumbing as someone upstairs flushes the toilet.
• The ding of competing church bells as the towns of Gotra and Buzzo announce the hour.
• The chop of an ax as a man splits firewood.
• The river running
• The fountain babbling
• The birds singing
• The leaves rustling
• The bees buzzing
• The squawk of chickens after Georgina the cat pulled rank and pounced.
• The groan of Brontola after a bull bullied her calf Mela-Stella in the paddock.
• The neigh of a stallion after unsuccessful pursuits of a mare in heat.
• The bark of a village dog after passing their domain.
• The scatter of a fleeing dog after approaching them.
• The call of Silence
• The reply of Stillness
Thursday, March 12, 2009
It is two weeks into my stay at Ca’Mazzetto; I’m walking along the Franciscan Peace Trail, tending 400 sheep on their 120 hectare farm in the hills of Umbria. Maria’s alarm goes off; she lets it ring repeatedly burying her head deeper beneath the peach colored down comforter.
Per the injury, my roommate does double duty: her work, my work, and my personal go-get-it nurse. No doubt as a consequence, Maria’s own health suffered; she has an infection in her left mammary-gland. Reluctant to take antibiotics (do you think my runs could have anything to do with that?), Maria walks around the room with Argile - an herbal remedy - smudged on her left breast.
“We’re a mess!” she displays her green boob, points to the crutches and the visible gash on my leg.
And then she sings, like she often does, “Little Darlin’, it’s been a long cold lonely winter. “
“Little Darlin’, it feels like years since it’s been here” I add.
We pull up the Beatles on my computer and together with the utube video, sing and dance like the gimps we are:
“Here comes the sun. Tu do do do. Here comes the sun and I say, ‘It’s all right.’”
As of March 1, I was scheduled to be at the second WWOOF farm. As of March 12, I am still at Casa Lanzarotti.
I can’t think of a place I’d rather be.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
In my experience, humans tend to fall into one of two categories in regards to cats: they love ‘em or they don’t. My personal relationship with cats typically involves the word “SKAT!”
Casa Lanzarotti has two domestic cats: Puffa and Georgina. Presumably, these felines earn their stay by keeping the farm’s mouse population in check. I’m told that the kitchen is occasionally a sporting arena where partially living prey is brought in for game; eventually, the huntress displays her fallen victim to the praise of her human fans. But in my observation, the cats are sleeping on the job.
The wooden dining room table has been converted to a large handicap friendly ironing board. I sit on a bench where I can extend my leg and merrily iron clean laundry from the previous house guests. Meanwhile, I observe the cats in action: napping. I’m fascinated that they can siesta so easily. Per my doctor’s instructions, I’m told to rest. Clearly this has been the hardest challenge of my injury.
Georgina is not concerned with which side of the cat-pack I belong to; she makes her way to me and nestles in the un-yet ironed laundry. “Skat!” I say. Unbothered, I deduce she doesn’t understand English and give her a nudge. She moves – to my extended leg on the bench. Fine. I continue ironing and she continues sleeping.
After the sheets, duvets, table cloths, linen napkins, and towels have been pressed, my feline friend is still in slumber. Her head rests on my thigh. Uncomfortable to wake her, I sit.
And close my eyes.
Hey! Did I actually nap!?
Now if only she can teach me how to consistently land on my feet when in a fall.
Monday, March 9, 2009
I wonder if the fountain knows,
that which transpired days ago:
Ants marched its perimeter of moss covered stone;
Chickens sipped from its water drip;
Algae thrived in the pool below;
And a girl slipped when stepping on its concrete lip.
I wonder if the fountain knows,
the solace that it now bestows:
The sound she hears from its water flow;
The sense of wet from a stray droplet;
Her finger skimmed its reservoir;
As she lay on its ledge and let her mind forget.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
One morning while out tending to her AM chores, Maria ran back to the house crying “The sheep! The sheep!”
Maria had been feeding the animals when she caught sight of an inverted sheep, head buried in the hay and feet in the air (classic dead-bug or happy-baby yoga pose; but in this case, closer to the bug.) Poor girl, she couldn’t stand.
Iris re-inverted the ewe and tried to place the animal on her feet. Given that our genus Homo are not proficient communicators with her genus Ovis, we can only assume what might have occurred: perhaps she’s pregnant and simply toppled over.
The sheep is back on all four and today we wait to see, under that winter fleece, a new baby lamb.
This morning while out tending to my wound during the 4th hospital visit, I was crying “My leg. My leg.”
I had been obeying orders, resting, taking medicine, lying on my back with my foot in the air (half a happy-baby pose) but still, poor girl, I cannot stand.
The doctor tried the possibility of removing the sutures, however, the skin had not reconnected. Since my reasoning mind is not a proficient communicator with the autonomic activity of epidermal healing, we can only assume what might have occurred: perhaps I simply have a very nasty slash from when I toppled over.
One day I’ll be back on all two while today I wait to see (under that winter fleece), a new layer of skin.
I believe there is a higher intelligence that conducts the creation of babies, the change in seasons, the flight of birds, and the walk of man. With such a complicated symphony, I’m glad to be sitting in the orchestra pits; I’ll wait for my cue should I need to start.