Real Life

This morning I sit with a view out to sparkling green grass, sounds of water dribbling off the bird bath, and flitters of tiny birds dancing with each other in the bushes. 

If I was writing a travel brochure, all those over-used, throw away words would be ideal for a 4 paragraph sell: Peace! Tranquility! Quiet!  (and one of my all time favourite phrase to hate : "at one with nature".    What really comes to mind is something else though.

Since my last post, I've been chewing over the idea of all of this unbelievable goodness, this little world bursting with contentment and sensory pleasure being precisely balanced with a necessary violence and closeness to death and pain that's all part of living in the bush. I'm going to try to explain what I mean here ...

In a recent post, I was struggling with the ethical dilemma of squashing white moth caterpillars  who were confidently devouring the broccoli in my city backyard garden. Oh, the horror! Pfff.... Already I find myself scoffing at my weakness of spirit.

Here on the farm, in the same day I bottle-fed a furry, cute lamb, I watched the ram stumble painfully on his front knees  to eat because of a mysteriously injured foot. 

Outside the house I appreciated the birds sing politely; inside I found myself shrieking  in horror at a squealing, struggling mouse stuck in a trap (never mind the scream I let loose when I went to scoop the dog biscuits out of the food box in the dark and narrowly missed TWO mice crawling up my arm as a means of escape. The last glorious moments of those two little opportunists I won't describe here, except to say it involved a cat-like display of play/murder by a small, well-fed jack russell terrier.)

If my dog, the red kelpie, manages to find his way to the neighbour's sheep, he's been threatened with being shot (this is the same dog who melts with a tummy rub and is afraid of the vacuum cleaner). 

While attempting to herd the baby chickens back into the chookyard, I got some unrequested "help" from Millie (aforementioned terrier/savage) who decided the best response to free-roaming, panicking chickens was to try to eat one. Bearing witness to that and  intervening was a little disturbing for this city-minded idiot. Jerram's recount (he was in the house at the time) was of a cacophony of squawking birds and barking dogs followed closely by a lunatic girlfriend screeching and running around the yard maniacally.

The big handsome rooster has mangled, bulbous claws and legs because of tiny mites burrowing under his skin. We rub cream all over his legs in the hope of killing the parasites before they kill him. 

Every day something like this must be dealt with. The balance between what gives us joy and what causes pain is constant. In my Melbourne backyard, I control what I experience. Here I am really at the mercy of what goes on in real life. It's very humbling. 

As I consider what dad will have to do when the ram can't walk anymore or when michael the rooster has reached the end of his 'autumn' years, I realise that  maybe there is more to be said for being at one with nature.