by Krista | Dec 3, 2023 | Summer
“Keep taking time for yourself until you’re you again.” Lalah Delia
For a long time after my Bear died last year, I didn’t think I’d ever be me again. The day he died, I went into shock. The following days, weeks, and months are a blur to me now, a hazy memory of trying to breathe, making myself eat, and doing the farm chores with tears streaming down my face as I told Bear over and over, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t”.
My brain couldn’t accept the fact that my love was gone, that the creak I heard on the back steps wasn’t him coming up from the shed for a cuppa and chat, the ring of my phone wasn’t him calling to see how my day was going, that his side of the bed was empty when I’d reach for him in the night. It felt like nothing would ever be OK again.
And for a while, nothing was. Things got worse. Much worse.
Drought ravaged the farm creating cracks so big in the soil that I could slide my arm into them. Dogs and a fox got into my paddocks and killed half my herd and I spent days burning bodies. “Shiny, Happy People”, a documentary of the cult I was raised in, came out, triggering horrible dreams, PTSD, and severe flashbacks. Bushfires raged, I was hospitalised twice, and a nightmare litigation ensued.
I told Bear, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t.” And felt him say in return, “I know, darlin’, it’s too much, but you will.”
So, I hung on. And when I couldn’t hang on, dear friends propped me up and gave me the love and support I needed to take another step forward. I went to therapy, read everything I could about grief, and sat with my shadows until I could see them for what they really were – my greatest strengths and the very things I needed to get through this life.
My neighbour helped me repair the irrigation so my plants and trees could have a fighting chance in the drought, I rebuilt fences and gates and made them dog and fox-proof, and I took ownership of my situation and studied Queensland law so I could navigate the litigation to the best of my ability.
In time, things got better. Rain came at last, putting out fires, filling in the cracks, and turning the whole region a dazzling green. Wounded animals recovered, rebuilt fences have done their job, and I’m no longer afraid of or intimidated by lawyers and litigation.
Even more precious is discovering that even though grief doesn’t go away, the soul/heart/spirit, whatever you want to call it, expands and stretches and makes room for peace and joy and love too. They’ve squeezed in alongside my loneliness and heartbreak and despair until they’re all nestled together quite cosily, enabling me somehow to live again. The pain of Bear’s death will always be with me, but as I care well for myself and stay close to my steadfastly loving people, I find that it gets cushioned, its sharp edges softened.
I understand now that I’ll never be me again, not the old me. She is gone. But I can be the new me, the now me, the ever-changing, never-give-up, plant-seeds-in-drought me.
I know bushfires will flare up again, drought will return, and I will lose people I love. Unkind people will need to be stood up to, animals will die, and life will go all sorts of wonky, but I will be OK. Now I know to my very bones that no matter what happens, even when I can’t do it, I will.
by Krista | Mar 13, 2023 | Autumn
Shortly after Bear died I found an article that said the opposite of a trigger is a glimmer.
Whereas triggers set in motion trauma responses such as fear, pain, anxiety, and panic, glimmers prompt feelings of wonder, connectedness, peace, and joy. The article went on to explain that while triggers are unpredictable, generally hitting us out of nowhere and sending us reeling, glimmers are something we can actively look for, collect, and treasure.
Those words were a light in my darkness, reminding me that although I had no control over the devastation I was experiencing, the pain ripping through me, or the triggers that seemed to be everywhere, I could control what I looked for in the world.
When I wake to an empty bed, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, but I can also notice the rising sun turning the branches of our favourite tree to gold and hear the call of the magpies that Bear said would always be a reminder that he loves me and is with me.
When I have to go into yet another government office with my sheaf of paperwork and tell them my husband is dead, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, I can shake and want to bolt for the parking lot, but I can also notice the cute baby grinning at me from his pram and breathe a quiet thanks in my heart for the kind receptionist who gives me a hug and makes the process as smooth as possible.
When something breaks on the farm and I don’t know how to fix it, I can feel overwhelmed and alone and wish with all my heart for Bear’s clever brain and innate ability to fix anything, but I can also shout hooray when I find a YouTube tutorial that actually works or say thank you to one of Bear’s amazing friends who are always willing to talk me through how to use a chainsaw safely, how to repair a busted irrigation pipe, and what parts I need to keep the lawnmower running.
Some glimmers are easy to find because they come right to me – cuddles from dear friends visiting, finding an old love letter from Bear, the wagging tails of four dogs and eight puppies overjoyed to see me.
But others must be purposely hunted for, especially in dark moments or dark days when life feels bleak and meaningless and I can’t rummage up hope no matter how hard I try. In those times I picture myself putting on a pith helmet like explorers of old, squaring my shoulders, and hoping against hope that I will find something to light my next step.
And some days, we need our loves to help us. This past week as I faced a particularly difficult situation and all hope seemed truly lost, beautiful friends stepped in and hugged me tight, validated the awfulness of the situation, then helped me look for the glimmers I needed to renew my strength for the battle to come. How I love them for that.
Good and bad, light and darkness, easy and hard. Life continues to be a baffling blend of all those things and we need each other to make it through. Sometimes we’re the needy ones, sometimes the needed, and both are good. xo
by Krista | Feb 26, 2020 | Summer
Slowly but surely I’m getting back into the gentle rhythms of a life not marked by one catastrophe after another. I’m learning to breathe deeply again, to relax my shoulders and unclench my stomach and be at peace instead of desperately trying to keep afloat as towering waves crash and smother.
It takes time for a body to adjust to the security of knowing that our land is no longer in mortal danger, our animals are not on the cusp of death, and our community is no longer withering away before our eyes. You don’t realize how much energy is expended hanging on for dear life until you loosen your white-knuckle grip and see that the roller-coaster you’ve been on has stopped, the ground is steady underfoot, and you really can start to rebuild.
I love looking out my office windows each day to see the hills and fields covered in lush, green grass, vibrant weeds, and succulent herbs. Even after 3 weeks of this wondrous beauty, it is still a delicious jolt, a glorious surprise.
I miss seeing the kangaroos and wallabies grazing side by side with our sheep and goats, but I’m overjoyed to know they’ve gone back into our bush, safe and sound, with plenty of grass for them to feed on and leafy trees and bushes for them to rest under.
The wild birds that came during the drought have stayed, and we love having them. We toss out birdseed for the big ones and finch seed for the little ones and every day we are rewarded with the arrival of double-bar finches, zebra finches, satin bowerbirds, top-notch doves, wild ducks, and magpies. This morning they were joined by sparrows – the first ones we’ve seen in ages.
We love having our cuppas on the back veranda, watching the birds hop, swoop, and dance as they feast in the grass and bathe in the birdbath until the geese arrive, honking and hissing, to stake their claim.
We don’t know when the next rains will come, so we’re letting the farmyard and paddocks run wild, watching them get tall and thick so we have food for our animals through the winter. It is rather wonderful to wake up early in the morning when the wildflowers open and see the paddocks full of them, tiny shimmers of blue, orange, purple, yellow, and white in a sea of green.
We’ve let the gardens run amok too, excited to see what comes back, what reseeds itself, and what starts producing again. Tomato, berry, and pumpkin vines form a tangled and prickly web that requires careful stepping when I harvest. Leeks are getting tall and fat, eggplants provide a vast umbrella of leaves for the jewel-like purple and white fruits that dangle underneath, and the capsicums have finally started producing beautiful, plump peppers. Herbs that went to seed during the summer heat, drought, and smoke have returned in a haze of seedlings – basil, dill, mugwort, lemon balm, pineapple sage, and others I haven’t managed to find yet under the forest of weeds.
Our land looks wild and unkempt now, and I absolutely love it.
I feel myself rebuilding along with the land, animals, and plants as I recover from nearly a year of severe illness, surgery, and hospitalizations. I get so excited to feel my muscles grow and strengthen, my mind clear and calm, and see my calendar steadily fill with projects, meetings, and consultations that delight and challenge me instead of overwhelming and tiring me.
I’ve purposely rebuilt slowly, quietly, so I didn’t take too much on and end up back where I started. I’ve clarified what I want to do, how I want to do it, and who I want to do it with. It feels so good to be working with people I respect, enjoy, and trust.
My business partner, Shaun, and I have been working hard on a new website for the work we do. Until recently we’ve been happy to take on projects by word of mouth, but now we’re ready to grow and expand and we’re having so much fun putting together packages, designing our site, and choosing how best to share our work so it connects us with kindred spirits who share our love of creating thriving online spaces for businesses and bloggers. We hope to launch this week and I promise to share it with you.
I’m so grateful for this time of my life. This welcome and longed-for season of rest, renewal, and growth. Life is always sending crazy situations and encounters that unsettle or upset us, but it also sends amazingness. Today I’m especially thankful for the lovely people I’ve met, delightful opportunities for learning and adventure, and treasured chances to get to know myself better and get more comfy in my own skin. xo
by Krista | Feb 6, 2020 | Summer
A gentle rain is falling softly and I’m looking out from the back veranda at what has been for so long an endless stretch of dry, parched ground void of any plants or grass. Now it is a sea of dark, damp earth with islands of bright green grass and wild herbs slowly but surely getting bigger as they inch towards each other. I hope that one day it will all be green again, the soil restored, the land healed, recovered, and vibrant.
I hope the same for myself. No, I don’t want to be green, but I will love to be healthy, recovered, and vibrant. That is my dearest wish in spite of everything life has hurled at me over the past year.
I had hoped that would begin at Christmas, but instead, I caught an uncommon virus that robbed me of my voice for most of the past 6 weeks and gave me blinding headaches, nausea, and caused me to randomly tip over thanks to inflammation of the inner ear. After finally getting through the hospitalization, cancer, surgery, and recovery of last year, the arrival of this virus was a kick in the gut. Combined with severe drought, the threat of bush fires, and all the difficulties those events entailed, it has been a rough time.
In the past, I would’ve downplayed how hard it has been, quickly shifting to all the good things I’ve learned through it. But not now. Hard is hard, pain is pain, and when life is difficult there is no sense in pretending otherwise. It’s right and good to be sad about sad things, to be discouraged and frustrated and overwhelmed. I know I won’t stay that way. I know that after the weep and the whinge and the woe-is-me-ness, I will take a deep breath (or ten) and feel better and braver. My courage will return, I’ll find light in my darkness, and I’ll be able to make something beautiful in the midst of the awful.
And I am.
The virus is a weird one. My doc told me it is nasty and lasts a long time but that it ebbs and flows until it finally ebbs away completely. Somehow, this helped me. Knowing that I would have a few good hours or even a good day now and then made all the difference because I could plan happy things for those good moments, little adventures that would comfort and delight me and make all the bad stretches easier to bear.
Since those moments have been scarce and unpredictable I wanted to make the most of them, so I wrote a list of things I love best that didn’t require any talking. At the very tip-top was being outside – forest, mountains, water – and that is what I planned for. When the good moments came, I was ready.
- I put my hiking gear within easy reach.
- I kept my car filled with petrol so it was always ready for last-minute adventures.
- I researched hiking trails in our region and made a list of options according to my strength levels.
- Not Much – sit on a bench in the rainforest.
- A Little – 15-minute walk to a mountain stream.
- Pretty Darn Good – 1-hour trek through the bush.
Being voiceless and ill for so long can be terribly lonely and isolating, but getting out in nature, taking pictures of beautiful places, feeling strength return to a body that has been through the wars, makes a huge difference. Even a few minutes can yank me back from the brink of self-pity and grief and remind me of all that is good and wonderful and worth fighting for.
Bit by bit I’m getting better. 8 months ago I was stuck in a hospital bed unable to stand, walk, or even sit up by myself. 6 months ago I had my head cut open to remove cancer. A few weeks ago I stopped falling over and regained my balance. Last week I did my first solo hike in the mountains. 4 days ago I got my voice back, albeit a bit raspy and creaky. I’m deeply grateful for this progress and look forward to the day my head incision finally heals, my muscles are strong, and the last vestiges of this virus disappear.
In the meantime, I continue to embrace a quiet life.
Even though my voice has returned, the doc said to use it as little as possible so it can heal completely. I cherish silence in ways I never did before. After the initial frustration and discomfort of not being able to communicate verbally, I now enjoy our very quiet days of naps and book-reading, bird-watching and drives in the country. I’ve heard all sorts of new stories from Bear since he’s the only one who’s been able to talk, and it’s rather nice to hear him tell me all the details of his day and the projects he’s tackling and dreaming about. I’m getting pretty good at charades-style communication, much to Bear’s amusement and total confusion and I’m thankful to lovely friends who don’t mind doing non-verbal things with me like going to the movies, reading together, and going for walks.
We are deeply grateful to friends far and near who have supported us so kindly and faithfully over this past year. We are eternally grateful for the money you’ve sent to help keep our farm going while we hope and wait for the rains to come and end this horrible drought. You have comforted and cheered us through your emails, texts, and care packages, given us hope when we were hanging on for dear life, and shown us what true love and friendship look like. When I look back on this incredibly difficult year, it is your love and care that I remember most clearly.
by Krista | Nov 8, 2019 | Spring
I look outside and the air is filled with smoke and dust as the wind howls across the land.
I walk outside and underfoot the ground is dry and cracked, some cracks big enough to easily slide my hand into.
I knock on the side of our last rainwater tank and it is barely half full.
I stand in the last paddock and see dead grass and clods of dirt where once there was grass waist high filled with wildflowers.
And I wonder how long until the water runs out, the grass withers away.
We’re doing everything we can to hang on. We shower once a week, flush toilets once a day, wear the same clothes over and over again to limit laundry to once a month.
Kind friends in the city, Shaun and Stacey, fill water bottles for us so we always have drinking water, and when we visit, they give us stern instructions to bring our laundry and take the longest, hottest showers we want.
I use our precious bore water to keep my gardens going so I can give our animals something green to eat each day. Some lettuce, silverbeet, and sorrel, a handful of weeds, some asparagus fronds, the bottom leaves of the artichokes.
We stay close to home except for work trips and devise our own entertainment so we can save every spare penny for water, power, and feed for the animals.
Most of the time our spirits are good. We give thanks every day that we have enough water for us and our animals, we delight in the wild animals and birds that come to drink out of the water troughs we set up for them, and we try to make life extra nice for each other with special meals and working together on projects that matter to us.
But other times it all feels too much. This week was a too much week. So I cried. A lot. And we were extra kind and gentle to ourselves and each other. We bought fresh blueberries for me and avocados for Bear, put on movies where snow falls and rain buckets down and the world is lush and green, and sat on the back veranda with our coffees and talked about how much we love our farm, our home, even in this desolation.
And one day, when the wind died down and the air cleared and we could breathe well again, I went outside at sunset to see if I could find beauty.
I did.
It’s a different kind of beauty. It’s quiet, small, easy to overlook.
But somehow, in that quietness, it is all the more wondrous.
As I looked I also found life. Pomegranate trees I thought long dead are dotted with tiny green leaves, a lime tree covered with white blossoms when all its citrus neighbours were dead, olive trees looking as if they’d never been healthier or happier. Amazing.
I returned to the house with my hope restored, my spirits lifted, my focus shifted.
We will keep holding on. We’ll keep looking for innovative ways to care for our animals and our land. We’ll keep hoping for rain.
Courage, dear heart.
