Holding the line at 49

I am 49 today and before you say, “Wow, that’s almost 50!” I do want you to know that I am well aware of that fact. Time. It marches on.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I am in West Virginia for my annual birthday plantathon. It has been a spectacularly gorgeous day, and before you say, “Wait, it’s a Wednesday and you still have a child at home: are you there alone?” I want you to know that yes, yes I am here alone. And it’s delightful. Time. Sometimes you don’t get enough of it by yourself, to spend in the way you want, and because it marches on, well…take it when you can. Happy birthday to me!

I’m in our dining room which is also a sunroom, and I’m surrounded by healthy plants (both inside and out) and birds are chirping and enjoying my window feeder and the wind is blowing and my back is aching like a 49-year-old’s back even though I work out twice a week with my trainer Felipe who kicks my ass via Zoom from Argentina all the while telling me I’m “doing amazing.” Do you know I totally believe him even though I’m not sure I am doing amazing? I don’t care. I’m trying. And his dog, Truman, is the cutest. As is Felipe really. And being that young seems ages ago and also yesterday. And that both/and keeps tripping me up. Time. It marches on and lets you know about it. My friend Karen and I are forever sharing stories about living for forced interruptions during our Felipe sessions because my god, we’ve both had two kids and our core strength is never again gonna come anywhere close to what it ever may have been or what Felipe’s is. Probably Truman’s too.

This morning, I made blueberry scones and lemon curd (from a jar) and coffee, and while eating breakfast, a crimson cardinal landed on the fence outside, and I know it was my Nanny coming to say Happy Birthday, Em. I miss her all the time and she’s been gone more than a decade.

Today I mucked the barn, feathered out new straw all over it which of course the goats insisted on eating as I spread, and weeded and mulched and planted and talked to all of the worms and other little beings I encountered, and thought a lot about how fucking excruciating this past year(s) has been and all that it’s forced me to learn and stand up for. I thought how Nanny would get that. How my mom gets that. How stupidly hard life often is and how you will be forced to learn lessons that you’d really rather not. You can’t beat ‘em but you can join ‘em, and I guess that’s the meta lesson.

Y’all, some tufted titmice are fighting in the window feeder. They are so cute.

Anyway, hard is hard, but lessons can be good, and as time marches on, I would rather learn and pivot if it means this one life we get will be happier or more fulfilling or, maybe, just simpler? Less hard? I’m not even sure how to articulate it. It’s not binary, really. But you probably understand. Some things I’ve (re)learned this year:

Profound grief can be felt when someone is not gone but is gone from you. Such absence can feel like your heart left your body and started walking away from you, maybe punching you in the solar plexus on the way out. Grief remains a dicey social topic, not least depending on who took your heart and left and how and what was or was not explained (Tom and I are fine; this isn’t that).

Not unrelatedly, female friendships are the linchpins of life. Some women are shit (Pam Bondi, Usha Vance, Marine Le Pen, etc) but any (good) woman will tell you that she’d be up the creek with zero hope without her female friends. They are the ears, defibrillators, water, comrades, “tell me, girl,” spare tires, laugh tracks, diaries, emergency everything, honest, photo taking, wise, antibiotic, disgusting in the best way, care package sending, late night call picker uppers of life. Without my girls, I think I’d just have quit by now. I would like to add that I have two male friends that I consider girlfriends and that is the biggest compliment and thank you SA and MB.

Some-a minuscule percentage-of men seem to be getting this, but it’s not nearly enough, and I truly feel sorry for them. They are missing out on SO much. And I say that as a woman who birthed two boys and has spent years trying to underscore the value of emotion and sharing it. To their credit, they do feel and share it. To my fatigue, they only feel and share it with me. Do better society. Back to girlfriends. **Please take a moment to listen to Sister Suffragette by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins. My dear friend Jennifer recently reminded me of this treasure, and shit, it holds up. Not least because…well, if you don’t get the why there, you’re hopeless.

Always behave such that history will not consider you a disgraceful cunt of some sort. Do you see what I did there? If, in that sentence, you’re upset by the use of “cunt,” you are probably not behaving well. Do better. Especially every single trumper, maggat, and other meanie out there. To be fair, WHAT is the Venn of Bad in which one is not a trumper or maggat? Truly? What is left in “bad”? Like, if you abuse animals, I suspect you voted for trump. You appear to be fine deporting a Maryland resident and father to El Salvador with no cause, so you don’t seem to have standards that constellate around good.

Another thing I’ve learned is just how important it is to keep learning, so let me know if there is any answer to the above question about the Venn of Bad. I don’t know that there is, but I am open and eager. Beyond that Venn, I continue to love learning about plants, birds (“peak middle age, Mom!” -Oliver), needlework, Irish literature, some other literature. Irish politics, Ireland, my students, and my female friends. Less enthusiastically but perhaps most importantly is learning to hold my own lines.

Holding ones own lines, aka knowing, asserting, and holding your boundaries, is, to be honest, an absolute pain in the hole for non sociopaths and, probably, most men. Not saying men are sociopaths but they are a lot better at boundaries. Boundaries is probably the #1 or 2 source of angst, fret, therapy, etc for all but one women I know. That woman is a dear college friend, she is neither male nor a sociopath, she is just awesome and powerful. A rare breed in my experience. You go, TC!

I am NOT good with holding my lines, but damn if this past year hasn’t said, “Emily, hold these lines or throw in the towel of life.” And so I have tried. And continue to try. And you know what? It is absolutely worth it, even when it is terrifying, risky, the threat of the unknown looms, or someone gets mad. MY values, my integrity, my moral compass…those are all worth holding the line for.

Most of the birds have returned to their nests and the goats and cats have called it a day. I’m still waiting for the orange feral cat to come get his dinner that I left out on the deck. Poor lamb- he heard me open the door and is hiding, but I hope hunger overrides his fear and he emerges for a double Fancy Feast.

I thank every single dear one of my friends and family who remembered me today. Your notes and texts and calls meant and mean the world to me. Oh, last lesson: It is NEVER a bad time to thank someone or let them know you’re thinking of them. NEVER. Do it more. You’ll never regret telling someone that they mean something to you or have done something that you appreciate. It puts goodness out in the world to thank and take time. It softens edges, it is healing. The world needs tenderness now more than ever. Also boundaries. Jesus christ, can we have more Harvards and fewer Columbias, more Marc Eliases and fewer Skaddens!

Look for and add to the beauty, tend your and others’ hearts (not least because you never know what they might be going through), stand strong and don’t be a cunt, be good to nature and it will repay you more than you could ever wish, and if you’re grieving, find your women. Do it now. Time marches on.

Shane and a farm

Some of y’all surely know of my obsession with Ireland. If you don’t, now you do: I am mad for Ireland. Its history, literature, music, dance, beauty, humor, accents, its President, Michael D. Higgins—aka Miggledy—and even that it’s an island because it makes for dramatic scenery. In Dublin in 2022, I happened to attend the opening night of The Steward of Christendom at the Gate Theatre, and who walked in but Miggledy himself!! It was a great evening. I continue to read a LOT of Irish authors: if you’re in the market for a great book, try Trespasses by Louise Kennedy or As You Were by Elaine Feeney. Both are beautiful tearjerkers and they stick with you.

Anyway, do you know the Pogues? They’re a Celtic punk/rock band from the 80s and since, really, minus some lost years to alcoholism and other demons. Their founder and lead singer, Shane MacGowan, died on November 30, and today was his funeral. All of Ireland mourned, and the tributes have been utterly moving. He had such a unique, moving voice: it just gets inside you. Fairytale of New York (not a Christmas song but a Christmas-adjacent song in case you’re in the mood! I never tire of it.) and A Rainy Night in Soho were both performed. I sent my family a video of guests dancing in the church aisles to songs sung during the service with the instruction that were any/all of them in charge of my funeral, it better match the level of love and joy of Shane’s send-off. His mother is dead, but his father and wife were there today, and I hope the celebration of Shane’s life gave them a bit of comfort.

I thought of his life, a life well-lived, fully nine lives of nine lived when his body just couldn’t go anymore. He was a raging alcoholic who loved heroin for a while, lost most of his teeth, replaced them (including one gold incisor), grew up with a hearthfire for cooking, and wasn’t great at school. But he had many gifts and shared them generously. Rest well, Shane.

After getting the boys off and running errands and kissing goodbye, I drove to West Virginia this morning. I have been angsty this week and tired from a really rough case of sinusitis which onset during the flight home from Scotland. At one point, my right tear duct was squirting tears at a rapid pace and I swore I was having an aneurysm. The pain behind my right eye was literally excruciating. I’m super tired of being sick (pneumonia and a virus in the month before this sinus disaster) and am thankful for this quiet weekend. The break between my last visit and this one is, I think, my longest ever, and I delighted in getting reacquainted with all my barn friends.

I spent a good few hours building random shelters for any wild creature that might be in need. No idea if this is something an animal would trust or use, but it was an oddly therapeutic and fun activity, and I look forward to more work tomorrow.

example shelter

Did I tell you about ordering winter coats for the goats? This was and remains a good idea that is, nonetheless, so much harder to execute in real life than in theory that it should be in some sort of training manual for determination, creative problem solving, and resilience. Measuring the drama queens with a CLOTH measuring tape took three people, and our “measurements” were aspirational and in some cases, completely fabricated.

Undeterred, I ordered seven bespoke insulated goat coats because if y’all had seen the boos shivering last winter, you’d have ordered them too. Each goat got a different color. Generally, TomOlJack were supportive, but for Beverly, our blond goat, I chose a turquoise hue and have since been accused of making our girl look like a Floridian grandmother. Whatever. She is now easy to find. And, incidentally, she was the only goat still wearing a coat when I got here today.

Oliver and Tom came when Jack and I were away and managed to get four on. That was down to three by the next day, two the following week, and, as I mentioned, one today. Getting to four rendered Tom dragged over a boulder and superficially impaled by a horn in the hand; Oliver gave up. I managed to get Rambo’s on today. He promptly reached down with his mouth and unVelcroed the strap around his neck, but I was waiting for such chicanery, acted as alpha, and the next thing I knew, he was this:

he’s fine

I will return to battle tomorrow.

Just some thoughts about life

Earlier today, I buried a goat. It was a somewhat surreal experience, but let’s back up a bit.

Last weekend, for my birthday, I bought too many plants and drove to West Virginia for three days of gardening. For a variety of reasons, I suppose, or maybe for no real reasons at all, this was not a good birthday. I love my birthday, and so this was disappointing, but I’m glad it’s in the rearview and my plants are in the ground. Much of what I planted last year for my birthday plantathon is thriving (I shake my fist at you, ironweed!); it reminds me that growth can appear so glacially slow that what was alive seems to have died, but in reality, progress is being made. Life is biding its time. Cell by cell, root by root, bud by bud.

Despite my inability to settle, I spent a lot of time with the goats and cats and the peace and beauty of the land and our view. Of our four-turned-eight goats, Lefty has always been the weakest, the gentle lumberer the others butted and picked on to continually assert pecking order. She nearly died three years ago of listeria; her then-owners literally saved her life by literally going above and beyond for many sleepless days and nights.

I also, last weekend, hired a couple to help me pull some shiso (my invasive nemesis!) from the pastures. West Virginians endure so much poverty and hardship. It’s enough to break your heart on the regular. This couple currently lives with their teenage daughter in one room of a house in which dogs are allowed to pee and poo and it’s rarely cleaned up. There is mold, and they wish they could return to the hotel, but they can’t. Lefty loped up to say hi as they started pulling, and they even got to see her turn a left circle (hence her name, from the listeria episode). I hope she gave them a moment of simple pleasure.

Since we adopted Lefty, we have all doted on her. She was often alone, which is not the norm for a herd animal. Tom thought she seemed content; I always worried that she was lonely. In that is such a fascinating perspective on how different people read and experience others. But, that is an explication for another day.

Last weekend, I took Lefty aside each day for a chopped apple in private. She is a slow eater, and I didn’t want her to feel rushed. She loved apples. As she chomped, I scratched her neck and looked into her big brown eyes; they were like pools of simple goodness. Some apple juice ran down her jowls, and it made me so happy. When I left Sunday, I hugged her and said I’d see her soon.

On Friday, our caretaker called to say that Lefty had died. He’d seen vultures for a few days straight and found our girl lying in a sun-dappled dip in one of the pastures. Because he has dealt with livestock death before, he knew to close the gates to isolate her so that the other goats and scavengers wouldn’t meet up.

Yesterday was Earth Day. I’d organized a neighborhood yard sale which was a fun, great success. So many families sold and gave away so many things, hung out together, and contributed to various eco and charitable drives I and some other neighbors spearheaded. Supplies for a local diaper bank, a humane shelter, a family shelter, and a summer art camp for poor and refugee families in our area. The rain we desperately needed held off until closing time. It ushered in a cool front, and I wondered if that might help any smell or bloat we’d encounter when we went to bury Lefty. I thought about how much material stuff was being exchanged and how it was both wonderful and awful. The excess when so many have nothing.

Right now, I’m on my porch watching grackles and northern mockingbirds and sparrows and mourning doves duke it out at my feeder station. They, too, have a pecking order and regularly flex with wing, call, flight, and talon. A zaftig dove has decided to use the tray feeder as a bed. It’s both reclining and eating, and you’ve just got to admire the chutzpah. I am sad and quiet.

We all dreaded finding Lefty today. J was extremely worried about what state she might be in; O and I felt the right thing to do was properly bury her no matter what; T was solemn.

As it turns out, vultures are profoundly capable creatures, and Lefty was but a skeleton, one leg, and a hide. There was a smell, but only if you were downwind or on top of what remained. It was remarkable, really. Like, objectively, we all had to take a moment to appreciate the incredible efficiency, thoroughness, and lack of waste. And selfishly, the vultures’ work made ours infinitely easier, in both emotional and physical ways. What we saw didn’t look like Lefty anymore, and that helped. And, so much of our land is rock with a hint of dirt, but where Lefty lay, we could dig with relative ease. Quietly, wearing masks, Ol, T, and I dug and folded and covered. J pulled shiso, and then we all built a cairn atop Lefty’s grave. In a weird way, the entire afternoon felt rather like a perfectly organic end to the Earth Day weekend. For what it’s worth, I want to be buried like we buried Lefty. A pine box if you must, but just me and the earth would be my choice, with some flowers on top.

I am enjoying a glass of wine and the cacophonous concert of these wonderful birds —a scarlet cardinal has just entered the mix— and thinking of Lefty and the differences between strong and weak, objective and emotional, simple and not. About community and the individuals that comprise each one. About how hard life is for some.

I think, as I so often have, about articulating for the first time how strenuously I wished for a simpler, more still mind. It was my senior year of college, and a boy and I had recently fallen deeply in love. He would be the second and final heartbreak of my life, but I can still only think of him with fondness and gratitude. In any case, our relationship was, perhaps, a mere month old. We were in bed, and he looked at me with his big brown eyes, pools of love, and asked, “Emil, do you ever wish you had a slower, simpler mind? I do.” MANY people call me Em, some call me Emmy or Nichols. No one, before or since, has called me Emil.

“Yes, all the time,” I said. And that was that. We listened to a lot of music together; Tom Petty was a favorite, and whenever I hear “Time to Move On” I am instantly transported back to a room in the Delt house.

It's time to move on, it's time to get going
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
It's time to move on, time to get going

In the decades since, I’ve gotten tougher, stronger, orders of magnitude so. But my mind? It still runs and races and feels and hurts, and that in this world is…well, it’s hard. Is the goat lonely? Will the couple be ok? Will the ironweed ever grow? Will the shiso be eradicated? Will any plastic bag recycling drive ever make one bit of difference? Will my loved ones continue to grow up and out in healthy ways? Will I get to take the stage for my next act?

Today I buried my darling Lefty. My greatest hope is that she didn’t suffer at all between the last slice of apple and lying down in that bit of valley. I hope she felt love and some peace. Perhaps her mind was always still, perhaps it was at the end. It’s time to move on.