I learned the word “redundant” on a picnic table at the Mayo Clinic while eating lunch with my dad. He told me that my mom, who had just had her second brain surgery, had “squashed squash” for lunch and he asked me if I thought that was redundant.

Last night I found myself pondering the redundancy concept once again, only this time I wondered if “stupid chickens” was redundant. Sigh. I have significant evidence to support my theory that yes, it’s redundant indeed.

About six weeks ago, I tucked six day-old chicks under Isabella, a hen who had been broody since I’m not even sure when. She took to the chicks as though they were her own, the only problem that arose was when it was time to roost, Izzy jumped back up in the nesting box she had called home for weeks on end and the littles couldn’t get up there. It took a few nights of me wrangling chicks in the near-dark to get them all to at least go inside the coop with the other girls. They eventually made a nice little corner for themselves and Izzy settled in with all six tucked under her wings.

Admittedly, since the repeated success of that relocation, I haven’t checked on the girls at night very much. Edith Ann has never gone into the coop to roost, which is a whole ‘nother story, but she is broody and rather upset about being deterred from it, and so I just leave her in the nesting box where she seems happiest. As the weeks have gone by, Izzy has continued to care for the chicks, but April has eagerly stepped in as the overbearing, overprotective Aunt, keeping a somewhat close eye on them and all but taking over the motherly role. It’s been entertaining, to say the least.

On my list of to-dos, was to add another roosting bar to the coop. The addition of six bumped my chicken math total to sixteen and while The Sky is Falling Inn has multiple roosting options, I know that this is where the cliques duke it out the most and so I wanted plenty of space for all the girls with little room for bickering. So, yesterday I cut some boards and put up a new roosting bar, swearing only a few times as I went, but feeling rather chuffed when it was completed.

Around 11:30 last night, I decided to go out if any of the flock had chosen the new roost for their sleeping perch. I took Trudy along for the adventure and trooped out with my flashlight to hopefully admire my own handiwork and the imagined excitement of my feathered friends. Peeking in the window of The Inn, I was delighted to see two girls up on the new roost, but upon opening the door, I realized that my excitement would have to wait, as the chicken math didn’t math and I knew I was short several girls. I shut the door and went around to the run.

And here is where I found my stupid chickens. Edith Ann was in her broody box, as usual, which wasn’t surprising. What was a bit alarming, however was that April was up in her own nesting box, as were all six of my half-grown chicks. To say there wasn’t really room for seven chickens, whether half-grown or not, is an understatement. But there they all were, crammed in there together as though it was below freezing outside, the innkeeper had turned them away and this stable was the only shelter available.

Thus began the rodeo. To my advantage, chickens don’t see well in the dark, so I hit the button to open the little coop door and then set my light so that only a faint glow remained in the run. One by one, I grabbed a chick and shoo’ed her into the coop. Aunt April immediately started her motherly clucking, quite concerned about this abduction of her charges. I picked her up and pushed her into the coop as well, but she did the quick math apparently and realized that only half of her brood was in the coop, so she turned right around and came back out. Meanwhile, the other three little ones had leaped out of the nesting box and were scurrying around the run. I was now rather frantically trying to shoo chicks back into the coop just about as fast as they were running back out. All the while, the automatic door, knowing the sun has long since set, keeps trying to close. Rodeo indeed.

I finally, exhaustively, got all six chicks and Auntie April in the coop. I even threw Edith Ann in just for giggles. I quickly shut the door and then ran out of the run and into the coop to provide just enough light that they might get on a roosting bar. Any roosting bar. I wasn’t particular at this point.

Aunt April had already jumped up next to Izzy, and was doing what she considered to be her civic duty – clucking to the littles to let them know where she was and where they needed to be. She did not, however, show them how to get there. Two littles, Louise and Eleanor, figured it out quickly enough and tucked themselves right under Izzy and called it a night. I watched as the others jumped up on the step stool and tried to figure out how to launch themselves onto the nearby roost. I knew they were capable, they get up on such things in the run, but the pressure was on and everyone was watching and so it took some time.

While all of this is going on, Edith Ann is rather frantic. Still convinced she is a chick herself (she’s somewhat of an orphan and has a complex to go with it) she is trying desperately to tuck herself under any chicken that will have her. Despite her being the only bantam in the flock, no one is really eager to have this half-sized chicken up under the feathers on this balmy evening, and so there is much shuffling and clucking going on on this end of the roost. I scooped Edith up, much to her dismay and set her up on the new bar, where she only had Molly and Nora to contend with.

It took about fifteen minutes for five of the six littles to get up on the roost and tucked under Mom or Auntie. Vivian was the sole hold out. She kept running to the door, trying to escape, but thankfully it was shut tight with no hopes of opening until dawn. I couldn’t get near Vivie, even if I wanted to, as it would ruffle too many hens and Lord knows what a mess I’d make of the semi-calm I had going for me. I kept dimming the flashlight more and more, trying to convince Vivie there was some urgency to her choosing a spot. She finally hopped up on the step stool and launched herself to the roosting bar (that was no more than a foot away) but she overshot it and ended up about where she started.

Ten minutes later, with Trudy impatiently waiting outside the coop door and Edith Ann finally contentedly tucked under the most inhospitable hen that I have (Molly), Vivian made the leap successfully and I quickly shut off the light, stepped outside and closed the door.

Stupid. Hens.

If anyone is interested, I am sure this little circus will happen again this evening, right after dark falls. Pull up a chair and enjoy the show!

If ever you should happen upon,
my home without me there,
and you notice the bed is quite hastily done,
Just left without a care.

The pillows might be in a jumble,
The quilt a bit askew,
The sheet, perhaps, not pulled up tight,
And it occurs to you - 

That maybe I left in quite a hurry,
Or didn’t focus on the task at hand.
Maybe I was filled with worry,
Or just did the best I can.

Please know, with complete conviction,
That doing it well was the ultimate goal.
But the likely cause for the imperfection,
Was out of my control. 

The problem was with the cat, you see,
Who decided just this morn,
That the bed was her place to bask and sleep,
And any other plan faced her scorn.

So, I left the princess lying there, 
Her head upon the sheets,
And postponed my goal for a better-made bed,
For later in the week!

I was supposed to be in Oregon, sitting by the ocean, hoping I could catch a late migrating whale or two. But for many reasons, I am home. As a consolation to myself, I let my broody hen sit on some fertilized eggs so I would have some new chicks to attend to (not quite the same as being ocean side, but still…) But, reverse chicken math took its toll this round and seven fertilized eggs quickly became two hatched and three squished and one crushed egg altogether. I ordered three day-old chicks from a hatchery, and only one survived the overnight trip from Ohio.

The upside is my broody hen is being the best mom she can be and is luckily quite unaware that she inadvertently killed three babes shortly after they hatched. She is trying to keep an eye on the three remaining, but the one survivor from Ohio is a firecracker and is keeping us all on our toes. Earlier today, when I went out to refill their ever-upended water and food, I watched Little Miss Ohio slip right through the chicken wire on the run and out into the woods. Fortunately she slipped right back in when I ran around to catch her, but oh goodness do we seem to have our hands – or feathers – full with her.

I had names all thought up and picked out specifically for each of the breeds that I had under Della, but now I’m not even sure which two are the ones that survived, and Little Miss Ohio needs a name more suited for her than the one I had originally picked out. I’ve been thinking about my original list of ideas and trying to find a combination that works, but it wasn’t until I was getting ready to go check and refill yet again that I realized exactly what their names need to be.

Sitting by the back door are the boots I always put on when I am running outside to do something quick. Whether it’s taking out the trash, stepping out with Trudy, or checking on the flock, these boots easily slip on and suit the need in any season. They are worn boots, too big for my feet and yet too small for my heart as they are James’ last pair of boots that he wore at work. The left, as his always were, is stained purple, though faded now in ways they never were, from the blueberry dye he held in his left hand to stamp the beef. I would wear them for the same reasons when he was here and each time I slip them on, or see them sitting by the door, they wrap my grief in worn leather comfort – if just for a moment.

In any case, it’s the boots that tell me exactly what I need to name these three survivors. For feathered friends that were to bring more joy to the farm this summer, I know of only three other little girls that brought James so much joy – Margot, Edith and Agnes – the little girls in the Minion movies. The very movies that transformed my beloved back into a young kid, laughing and giggling and quoting the lines every time. (I have very, very fond memories of hearing James and Little G laughing in TN while they watched a Minion movie together!) Edith, in the movies, is curious and loves to explore. This seems like the perfect eponym for Little Miss Ohio and her adventurous spirit! The movie character, Agnes, is a sweet little thing infatuated with unicorns. I doubt my little black chick has any thoughts on unicorns, but she seems a bit more shy and prefers hanging out under Della’s wings. And Margot – the eldest in the movie, with all the apt generalizations that come with that role. My little gray chick, the first of the three to survive, will be a great Margot as well. All three, here to bring little sparks of joy, like the sound of his laughter, back to the farm. Unless, of course, any of them end up being a “Bob”.

It has been on my to-do list for months. I can’t say why I have avoided doing it, but I even chose to paint my bedroom over doing this task. I have had the materials for several weeks and my sister’s sewing machine has been in the mud room for at least half that time, but there was something about this project that made me keep procrastinating. But as my first week of Winter Break wraps up, I wanted to finish up as much of my home to-do list so I could move on to my school list – one that is equally as long and daunting. So, today, with no time left to delay, I had to tackle making the guest room curtains. Even as I got started on it today, it was reluctantly and with much grumbling. I had already spent time measuring and writing down the steps I would need to take to make them. All that really was left was the “doing” part of the job, but it just kept feeling like the one thing I didn’t want to do at all.

I have sewn many valances in my life, but all of them, and I mean, all of them, were over 25 years ago. So, I settled in at my dining room table with the sewing machine, duvet cover that I was using as the fabric, scissors and measuring tape and set to work, anticipating a long day of tearing out seams and cursing at the machine that wasn’t to blame at all. It took a couple of YouTube videos to help me get the bobbin threaded and installed correctly but once I got that figured out, I found myself puttering along like I had been sewing just a week ago. The cliche about riding a bike seems to apply to sewing machines as well as I remembered things like leaving the needle down when I needed to adjust the fabric and reversing just a bit at the start of each seam to keep it from unravelling.

If sewing wasn’t stepping back in time enough on its own, I also dug out my ironing board and iron, both of which have been tucked away for about as long as my sewing skills. And between ironing and sewing, I found myself thinking an awful lot about my mom. I turned on a Spotify playlist full of John Denver and James Taylor and hummed along, just as she would have. Guiding the fabric under the needle, I felt joy at knowing Mom was still guiding me today. The curtains I made today would have earned me a B- at best in a Home Ec class, but I think Mom would have been quite proud, given how long it had been and how little practice I have had. Her lessons have stuck with me and even being used in a very basic manner, I was able to sew some very nice curtains without much hassle at all today all thanks to her.

As I hung them in the guest room, I thought about all the projects I have accomplished over the last week. I have hung curtain rods and painted rooms and assembled furniture and hung pictures and now, sewn curtains – all tasks that required skills I learned from my parents. Using a drill, Phillips screwdriver, iron or sewing machine might seem outdated or trivial, but they were the very tools that I needed the most right now as I change the feel of my living space to one that reflects “me” more than “us.” And even though Mom has been gone for more than half my life and Dad and I haven’t worked in the woodshop together for quite some time, the skills they both taught me are ones I will remember and use for a lifetime. Especially the ones on how to make a house a home.

It was my therapist’s suggestion that I buy some new furniture.  She thought changing the house around might help me cope better with the constant reminders of James’ absence. Trudy, my 70-pound lapdog didn’t mind the rearrangement up until the one and only chair she was allowed in went in the trash.  

The chair was long overdue for disposal – springs were poking out the back, fabric was worn through in several places and I was on my second set of slipcovers for it. But it was the one piece of living room furniture I allowed her to be on and Trudy was eager to snuggle with anyone willing to share the space with her. 

I moved the furniture full of memories downstairs to a mostly-finished room, where the new arrangement might displace most of the reminders and allow me to make new associations with the couches we had picked out together.  New furniture was delivered for the living room, changing the feel of the space entirely.   

The first few evenings I sat in the living room, enjoying the couch and the chair and ottoman, a pair of sad brown eyes rested on my leg. Trudy gave me the most pitiful look, as though she was truly neglected since she couldn’t sit with me. A few nights later, when I eventually sat downstairs to watch some TV, she was there again, head on my knee, sad eyes laying a silent guilt trip. 

I realized at that moment that my therapist was right.  We need to do everything we can to infuse our lives with as much joy as we can. So, I pulled a blanket from the basket and hardly had to tap twice on the seat next to me before Trudy bounded up and settled right in against me, taking up at least two thirds of the couch herself.  Within minutes she was sound asleep, happy as a dog can be. In fact, that’s where she is right now, completely at peace and thrilled to be next to me.  Joy, wrapped up in a whole lot of fur. 

I’ve known since I was young how short life can be, and the importance of treasuring every moment we have, but finding my way back to joy since James died has been a long, tough road.  He brought a tremendous amount of joy into my life and I have really struggled to feel it again in his absence.  I am learning – at a snail’s pace perhaps, but I am learning –  to let joy seep in through the small moments, like when a happy dog is curled up beside me.  

It would be easy, in the world we live in today, to fill ourselves with worry, fear, angst and anxiety.  It would be understandable for all of us facing loss or trauma in any form, to turn to despair or to lose sight of hope.  But the thing James brought in abundance to this life was joy and it is that exact thing that I miss so dearly about him. It’s what we all could use far more of.  So, this holiday season, and for the whole year through, I hope you let joy seep into your daily moments as well.  Let the dog on the couch, let the chickens on the porch, fill the bird feeders so the cat can watch and definitely book that vacation to the coast.  James taught me that joy is all that really matters and I owe it to him to live it, to create it, to share it and celebrate it.  I wish you all a season, a year, a life, filled with joy.

Just as I began to round the jagged corners of the second anniversary of losing James, the owl returns. Three nights ago, I had just shut off the TV downstairs when I immediately sensed something. Trudy perked up as well and we both sat in the silence trying to figure out what had alerted our senses. The owl. The great horned was back. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could, grabbed a blanket off the couch and crept outside onto the deck. Scared that I would frighten him away, I sat down on the deck stairs, as hidden from view as I could be and waited.

For well over an hour, the owl talked to me from no more than fifty yards away. And for well over an hour I spoke with him. I told him about all the ways my heart still breaks and all the ways I am trying to heal it. I told him about the mundane public things like my new principal, Jacob’s move and even my young hen, Molly, laying her new beautiful green and brown speckled egg. And I told him all the things I never tell anyone but him. I may not understand what was being said in those beautifully soft, muted calls of the owl, but my heart went from sobbing to quiet comfort in that time.

I woke up at four the next morning, wide awake for unknown reasons. Unknown until I heard him again. This time he was out front. I ran to the front door and unthinkingly opened it, setting off the alarm, frightening both myself and the owl.

But he was there again the two nights ago. Two in the morning, I awoke again to the sounds of the owl. It’s a sound that is barely audible from my bedroom, but ever since we moved into this house, it’s a sound that always woke me. Trudy and I both lay awake, listening to the great horned, letting him soothe our sorrows. He is there again in the morning when I check on the chickens before leaving for school. I pause in the grey of the early morning hours and listen. I tell him again how much I love him and I reluctantly get in the car and drive to school, wishing I could just stay and sit on the porch and listen.

The owl could not have come at a better time, giving me a small ounce of faith in all the unknows that remain for me. Time has not healed the wounds of grief and loss for me. Despite medication and therapy, his absence is still sharp and the struggle is palpable. I will trade my precious, fleeting hours of sleep; I will trade the warmth of my bed. I will trade hours of the night to hear the owl. I would burn my entire house to the ground if it meant he would stay here with me every night.

But I know he can’t stay. I know he has better places to be, a truth that pains my hearts something fierce but also brings me great comfort. So I will listen now with all my heart. I will soak up the sound. I will savor the soft, gentle words that ring in the still of the dark night that speak to my soul. I will savor even the silence between his calls. He is here with me now. Right here. So I will lie here in the same room two years later, where he drew his last, difficult breath. I will lie here with the window open, knowing, hoping, trying desperately to believe that somewhere his sweet gentle soul lives on. And I will let the calls of the owl soften the jagged edges of my sorrow.

I am a leaf, falling from the tree that once sustained me, once gave me support, once gave me reason.

I am falling, completely at the mercy of the cold, cruel wind and the gravity that pulls me ever downward.

I fall and I fall, further and further from the only home I have ever known, from the only life I have ever had.

I fall, toward uncertain ground, an uncertain future.

Even my soft landing is no consolation. Where is my purpose here? Where is my connection? What will I become? I see only what I have lost above me.

My season as a leaf has ended. This life I had – far too short – was full of purpose on that tree; the shade I provided, the nourishment, the protection from the rain, the safe place to land, the soothing sound when the warm, spring winds blew.

I was there when the sun was shining brightly, and I held tight when the storm winds blew. I was there when the birds sang at dawn and I was there when the night creatures roamed below.

And now? What am I now?

I am nothing. I am only a reminder of what used to be.

Then again, the breeze whispers. Then again.

Perhaps, the rain murmurs. Perhaps.

What if, the clouds sing. What if?

Maybe, the owl calls. Maybe.

Maybe – I am not the leaf. Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe I am the tree.

Maybe this is just my season of loss. Maybe this is just my time of rest, my time of self-preservation, while the cold winds blow and the ice hangs from my limbs. Maybe this is just a time when I need to hold on, stand strong. Maybe now, when I can provide no shade, when I can offer little shelter, maybe now, when I can barely nourish myself, maybe now when the winds blow and the storms cause parts of me to break, maybe now, all I can do it wait.

Maybe.

Maybe spring will come.

Maybe one day I will feel the buds begin to grow again. Maybe one day I will have enough within me to leaf out, to grow, to shelter, protect, nourish and soothe once again.

Maybe.

Maybe it will not always feel like winter in my heart.

Maybe.

Maybe I am the tree.

I am terrible at grocery shopping. I have a list in hand, but it lacks many needed items and is in no discernable order. I start with an organized approach to the process, but I end up backtracking multiple times and changing my mind about what sounds good for the next several days and it is not uncommon that I end up back at home with still missing ingredients. I could solve all of this with better preparation, to be certain, but grocery shopping is a chore I hate, mainly for all the ways that it reminds me that I’m alone – James was the grocery shopper in this relationship. He was also the primary cook once we got married. Being at the store, and in fact, prepping any meal at all, is something I with to do as quickly and simply as possible so as to minimize the reminders.

And so it was that I found myself at Meijer on July 3rd, with every other last-minute American that lives near Kalamazoo, trying to get the essentials for the long weekend. Only I didn’t have to be there that day, I could have been there at any time, but my procrastination and reluctance had me now walking the crowded aisles, trying to navigate a relatively small shopping trip among the throngs of people heading on vacation, or getting ready for family gatherings and BBQs. Less than ideal, but a manifestation of my own making for certain.

I was in the produce department, the place where, on the rare occasion that James and I were at Meijer together, we had often split up to “divide and conquer” whatever remained of the list. Today, I had already picked up romaine, tomatoes and bananas and was choosing a handful of nectarines when I saw him. He was near the peppers, but was easy to spot for the hat he always wore and the beard I loved so much. I saw him. James. James. And then, as fast as my heart had leapt, it was shattered, for my brain said what my heart had failed to see – it wasn’t James, but just someone who looked enough like him to take my breath away.

I was not at all prepared for this. I don’t know if there’s anything that could have made me ready for such a tsunami of opposing emotions. He was there, and then just as quickly, I was suffocating in his loss all over again.

Had it not been for the cart in front of me, I would have crumbled to my knees. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe; I fought (and lost) to keep the tears at bay. As I rushed to the check-outs, I was employing every breathing technique I had ever learned or heard of. The man waiting in line ahead of me looked my way and I shook my head begging him not to ask if I was okay because I was the furthest from okay that I had been in months and I feared that one simply touch of sound or air would shatter the very fragile grasp I held on the world.

The three bags of groceries were all but shoved in the back seat and the cart returned to the corral with a shove while the tears rolled down my face. I wasn’t even in the driver’s seat before the sobs arose heavily from my chest and I sat and cried and cried and cried, grieving him all over again. And as if I wasn’t already drowning, among all the cars in the crowded lot, I saw the same man getting into a grey truck, remarkably like James’, just two unobstructed rows in front of me. It took conscious effort to not open my door and run to him, but my mind knew the devastation I would feel upon seeing him close enough to really know it wasn’t my James and kept my heart from opening the door.

My grief is an ocean that I am forever swimming in. Most days, lately at least, I feel like I am floating, softly, gently on the surface, as if on an inflated raft in a backyard pool. But there are moments, like this, when I am reminded of the vast, deep, dark ocean that surrounds me and the effort to remain afloat is barely manageable.

It is this tenuous grip, this fragile balance that makes walking through this world so difficult. It is knowing the power of the flood that is there, just beneath the surface, that scares me. His love brought me so much joy – so much joy – and I don’t want to live always feeling devastatingly sad when I am reminded of him, but I do not know how to stop feeling angry and confused and lost because he is gone.

I finally dried my eyes and pulled myself together enough to drive home before the milk got warm. On my way, my dad called. We talked about nothing important, and yet, he was the reminder I needed that grief will not always consume me like it does now, for he has lived this path. This loss will always be with me, but I will reach a point where I can talk about him and think about him and those conversations and memories will bring me joy. He would want that, I know. I’m just not there yet.

There is no easy way to describe the past year. There are no words that can adequately explain the journey my heart has been on or all the ways I have struggled. Last night I thought I would break completely. I felt nearly as shattered as I did a year ago. I curled up under his blanket and I cried and cried. This morning, when I woke, I knew something had to give. I knew if I remained in this space for any longer the grief would consume me. I knew that change was necessary and that I was the only one who could make it happen. I had no control over the cancer that took him, no control over losing my beloved, but I had to find a way to control what happens next.

I walked into my bathroom and took off my ring. I put it in the dish next to my sink where his ring lies, along with a couple bracelets and some earrings. Later, I will move it to the safe, but I just cannot look at that ring all day long any more. I cannot be reminded every second of every day of the thing I no longer have. I am not married anymore. It is a fact that I despise, but it is truth and my only way forward is in truth. James is gone. He cannot return. Forward is my only option and I have no choice but to move in that direction alone.

I started cleaning, working on projects previously left undone. I need to claim this space as mine and I need James to exist in all my precious memories and not in false belief that he is going to grab his hat from the top of the fridge and put on his boots waiting by the door. I have spent a year wishing he were with me, months and months screaming over his absence, days upon days crying for the loss I feel without him. I suspect, if he were here, he’d tell me with a heart full of love to, “Throw some dirt on it.” My wounds will never be gone, but it’s time to forge ahead, finding my path once again.

My love for James isn’t “over,” I’m not “moving on” or trying to erase what we had. My love for him is complete. He was a part of my life I will forever treasure. I know it will not be easy. I know this grief will live in my heart forever. I know I will always think of him, miss him and remember him. But it’s time for me to figure out who I am without being his wife anymore. It’s time to start writing the next chapter.