How I Beat Despair

We've been working so steadily, I haven't had time for photos, which makes for a visually boring blog, I'm afraid. Please console yourself with photos of the boys' creativity. (Since they have realized that they might get a blog mention, the boys have been asking for photos after almost every accomplishment, no matter how minor.)

Oh, and Abraham in his new sleeping bag, which we use on their beds instead of sheets. Much lower maintenance, and they don't show the dirt.

After planting over 400 garlic bulbs this morning, I found myself giving in to despair. My unhappy companion for so long, I had not regretted the month or so without Despair, so to have a visit today was unwelcome. Weary to my bones, I went to take a nap.

But for me, naps don't always work. It is better for me to write down all my frustrations (I even have an "Anger" file always available). Usually when I'm that frustrated, I don't know why. But after writing for a bit, some of the underlying frustrations start to emerge, and then I feel, if not justified, at least sane.

Today I had several issues: convinced that chickens would scratch up the garlic, that the spacing of the blueberry beds (not yet even planted, mind you) would be a nightmare to us for the rest of our days, angry at the unclaimed ram (and angry at myself for being so angry—after all, it's not his fault he's mangy and stray), frustrated by the 9500 daffodil bulbs yet to plant, wondering about the role of entertainment in modern life. There were probably other reasons.

But in the midst of my pique, I had several absurd little bursts of good humor that meant I really had to struggle to maintain a bad attitude. "You have a happy hive of bees!" was one. How can I stay irritated when thinking of happy bees? It's impossible.

So after lunch, four of us had a great time digging up the remaining cherry trees and planting them in the lower pasture. (Abraham was feeling a bit under the weather and Jadon generally prefers reading to, well, just about anything else.) Isaiah eagerly used the backhoe, and Joe helped fill in holes with "the claws," as he called his hands. He made appropriate mechanical-sounding noises to ensure we understood his robotic function.

At one point while Isaiah was digging a hole with the backhoe, Phil said, "Look at him. He is using the backhoe as an extension of himself. He knows exactly where the bucket is, exactly how deep he is going. He is using it like I would use it." And it's true. Seven-year-old Isaiah uses the backhoe with focus and gracefulness.

Of the 25 cherry trees we dug up this last week, I think 24 have a good chance of living. One was dropped a bit and the trunk fractured, right above the graft. Phil hammered brass tacks into it (which he claims is what famous tree expert Tom Burford does), but I (horribly) dropped it again. Poor little Danube. You were a sweet little tree.