Tumblewater

I have to admit, I've been struggling.

I had intended this to be an update about where things stand on the smallholding, but I find myself caught in tumblewater and unable to think in such simple terms. Tumblewater is the term for the churn below a falls in a river or in breaking surf, where you get caught and tossed about until you don't which way is up or how to get out. Fight though you might, it just holds you there, no matter how hard you try, rolling you over and over until it saps the life from you and finally, sometimes after a very long while, spits you out.

Still, as I sit here, Isis is lying curled up in the driveway, the rising morning sun on her face, the dew sparkling on the grass in the pasture beyond. Keegan's cat, Russell Wilson, a creature obviously raised by wild boys hell bent on destroying everything in our home (he has a particular affinity for annihilating Brandi's house plants), is crying in the background. Every so often I can hear Tensaw snoring softly. He is the epitome of senile and spends the bulk of his time sleeping under the truck and the rest baying at any of the other dogs that dare come too near him.

It's remarkable how able the dogs are at finding their spots, the place it is they are meant to occupy. Of course, once they have found their spot, one can argue it is simple reinforcement that accounts for why they return there, but this doesn't at all explain why they choose their particular spot to lay in the first place. It brings to mind one of my favorite passages in The Teachings of Don Juan by Carlos Castenada. Don Juan directs Carlos to find his spot, the place in the house where Carlos is supposed to sit, the place where, when Carlos is seated there, all the present forces come into balance. As is typical of his teaching style, Don Juan gives this direction, then promptly leaves without further instruction. Carlos, confused as always as how he is to accomplish this, hits upon the idea of rolling back and forth across the floor. After awhile, he notices that one spot feels more "right" to him than the others. When Don Juan returns some time later, Carlos has found his proper place, which he continues to occupy thereafter.

I've been having a hard time gauging whether or not I'm in the right place. I've been trying to follow the signs, let the path show itself to me, which was a goal of mine for the year, but all I really feel is discombobulated. I've become acutely aware that I've lost touch with the Tao, that I've been chasing things in the material world rather than addressing the spirits of which they are merely artifacts. It happened when the boys came. Some kind of paternal instinct kicked in, and I more or less lost my mind. Now that they are essentially self-sufficient, I have somewhat come to my senses, and I am more confused than ever.

Okanagan, the breeding female we obtained from Mark Nardin, is gone. In her place is a new pup out of Tumnatki Siberians, Vaxie. I've come to realize that, as obnoxious as it may sometimes be, I can probably never live without the howl of a pack of huskies. It is a bridge connecting me with the ways of the past and the spirit world that I otherwise find missing. I often whine to Brandi that I want to move away to some place a bit more like-minded, but I could never do it if it meant giving up the sound of canines howling in the distance.

Fall is here, and winter fast approaching. I am attending classes at the University of Montana, which is a story unto itself, and the lads are running cross-country. From their performance, it is clear they suffer a lack of confidence, an affliction that can surely be lain at my feet. It drives me literally crazy to witness. Despite my despotic efforts, I have largely failed in my attempt to prepare them. For, like my dream of occupying a seat at the Round Table, my energy has been misdirected and applied, counter productively, in all the wrong places.

I am looking to acquire some goats. The coronavirus pandemic has accelerated the pace at which it feels the world is falling apart, and I am doing things aimed at increasing our resilience. It seems as though reducing your footprint and building soil are the only two things we should be doing right now, but they don't appear to be getting much attention. It's a source of consternation in our household, how to resolve what the world needs with what it requires. Most likely, the goats will  be a total disaster. When I fenced the area where I plan to put them, I chose the wrong kind of fencing. I should have strung No-Climb but unwittingly went with field fence instead. It was cheaper, and it seemed to be what everyone else with goats and sheep had. But now that our chickens are freeranging in the neighbor's yard, I have realized my mistake. Every man is an island in this day and age, but, when it comes to the Bitterroot, only fencing separates the Dominican Republic from Haiti.

Mitigation has given way to adaptation, which is something I used to consider myself pretty adept at. Now I just find myself stuck in the tumblewater, caught between the need to adapt and a raging desire to see us intervene on our own behalf. My friends tell me that work begins and ends with ourselves, but I can't be sure they're not merely regurgitating some misconstrued form of American individualism at me. For one, the math doesn't really add up, because some people seem to have an outsized effect on the world, affecting outcomes that I don't believe could be achieved with the attention focused only inward. Still, no matter what the case, one thing is absolutely certain - nothing gets done when you're stuck in the tumblewater.