Quite a week

This has been quite a week for me.  I have never been a part of the birthing of goats before and so had no idea what a spectrum of experience it would include.  The births that go smoothly are absolutely beautiful, breath-taking, awe-inspiring.  The babies are so completely adorable that all you can do is...well, adore them.  The curiosity of the other Moms-to-be as their friends deliver brings to mind the gathering of my friends around a new baby, the thrill of a cooing, squirming new member of the proverbial village seems to transcend species.  And then in the late evening, as everyone is settling down, chewing their cud, kids snuggled together asleep, an occasional infantile bleat punctuates the peace and all really seems just as it should be.

But there are tragedies.  We've had more than one in just the last two days.  I won't go into the details here but they are as devastating as the "easy" births are uplifting.  On Friday I came into the goat barn as Lynn held Carly while Lisa worked to get the right parts of the kid to come out first.  The admiration I had for both women at that moment was tempered only by the gut-wrenching cries of Carly.  I am so fortunate to work with people who see what needs to be done and are willing and able to do it.  For Lynn to hold that goat for more than an hour as she labored to give birth, crying in obvious pain, was more than I can imagine doing.  Meanwhile, Lisa is up to her elbow --literally-- trying to find the way out for the kid, bringing all her knowledge and experience and instinct to bear on this particular set of circumstances.

It didn't end well.  No squirming, cooing bundles of joy remain to make all the struggle blatantly worthwhile.  It took a lot out of Carly and will take a good while for her to recover.  But I can't think of it as a total loss:  we all learned things from Carly's saga that will serve the herd in future birthings; I saw two women I work with every day in a new and wonderful light; even though I don't have an intimate relationship with the goats, I opened up a place in my heart for them and feel bonded to the community of this farm in a more profound way.

I grow the vegetables at Rainbeau Ridge.  I love it; I feel that it is my calling to grow food for people.  But right now it seems a bit like an easy out.  Yes, last year's torrential downpours, one after another, were heart-breaking to me; to walk to the back of the main garden and smell the slight rottenness of the brassicas was so disheartening.  And the successes were fabulous: the beauty of the mini bell peppers, the bounty of the beans, and the luxuriant lettuce I'm harvesting now --these are truly wonderful moments in my life.

But I think we all agree that there is a different level, quality, degree of life in animals.  Whether you call it soul, a higher level of consciousness, whatever...there is something different about animals and plants.  The death of a cauliflower is fundamentally less tragic than the death of a goat kid.  That doesn't make my work less important...I only mean to say that the consequences of it going badly are much less poignant.

We all avoid pain.  It is generally agreed that pain is unpleasant and not something to be sought out.  I submit, however, that  pain can also be the springboard for a depth of joy previously  unavailable to us.  The heartache we go through at Rainbeau Ridge in watching our goat friends endure labor that sometimes ends in the death of their babies makes us more compassionate, more aware of what we have in common with the animals, more human.  For me, the pain is already yielding a joy of deeper connection that I can see will only continue to grow.

The cheese will taste different to me this year . . . richer.

-Deb

Comments

[anonymous]

well said...sounds like a necessary experience.

[Bohdan Kwasowsky]

Dear Deb,
The relish with which you write about farm nature shines saintly reverence. Identical to your elation, you remind me of staying up many nights until morning, negotiating delivery of new born bovines into the world of our tiny dairy. Alas, sometimes despite all efforts, even vigorous CPR & mouth to mouth, the flicker of light that is life winks out. So true, in such resides the real richness...
Having accidentally stumbled upon these bloggish Rainbeau writings is just the inspiration I need to continue planting my own garden, the heirloom seed varieties ordered online having arrived yesterday. Beans, beets & carrots, oh my! A couple hundred pounds of seed potaotoes found the ground here just last week.
Rainbeau sounds like a wonderful symbol of sanity. Thank you.
Wishing you all a bazillion blessings and a bountiful season in all respects!