Incoherently Yours

I like to dabble in a bit of self-sufficiency. I'm really kind of too lazy of a person to jump all in, but I do like to dip my toe in occasionally. I love that we eat our own beef. But do I personally butcher it? Nope, nope. And I mooch chickens off of my mother-in-law. I'm too squeamish to even help. I don't think I'd ever eat chicken again. I love eating our farm-fresh eggs. I informed Sheldon when we got the chickens that I kind of, sort of, really despise/hate birds (and am possibly afraid of them) so I would eat from the fruits of his labours, but I wasn't about to help with them. Turns out, I probably could, as our chickens are weirdly tame and you can pet them if you want to. I don't. But still. Anyways. So yes, we raise most of our own meat, I plant a garden, I freeze veggies, and can some stuff, I keep potatoes and squash and carrots in my cold room. I like to make my own apple juice, jams, and jellies. I like the thought of owning a milk cow. In fa

I went to a funeral today. They have a way about making you think about death. And grief. And loss. And unfairness. And hope. And Heaven.                 Admittedly, after losing Rory, hope and heaven took a long time to enter my thoughts, to penetrate my soul, to soothe my heart.                 My friend lost her Dad. She’s my age. He’s my parents’ age.                 I thought about my old friend a lot this week. If you look under the definition of introvert in the dictionary, you will find her there. My heart ached and cringed at the thought of all the well-meaning, mostly-loving and kind-intentioned people and words about to come her way. I nodded in complete agreement when a mutual friend whispered at the funeral, “I just want to steal her away and hide her.”  I can still remember after Rory died one lady hugging me and whispering for a good two minutes possibly all of the most cliché “comforts” in my ear. All I could do was nod and wish for her to stop talk