Death. Why Take It Personally?

December 14, 2019

Yesterday, Jenn walked out of a chicken house gingerly holding a rat trap.  A large rat scurried back and forth inside as I took the cage from Jenn for the next necessary step.  "Don't drown it in my bathtub!" called Kevin.  He has reason to clarify; we discovered too late that previous rats had met their end in the rain barrel that he uses for his cold baths.  

 

 

I stepped onto the island in the farm pond and set the trap on the muddy bottom of the water.  Rats are able swimmers.  I crouched and cried as the last bubbles left the animal's whiskered face.  "I'm sorry, Rat," I said through my tears.  "I am so sorry."  

 

This brush with death left me pensive.  I looked at the rain drifting across the gray farm landscape and imagined the spring of the year after I die.  On bare twigs, buds hold perfect faith for spring's return.  There will be a year that I do not watch those buds flower.  Perhaps the magic of the Christmas season is less personal than I used to imagine.  Life will flourish again, whether or not this particular human is around to see it.  The birth celebrated at Christmas is an icon of what I see in the trees, the birds, the creeks: death is all around, and yet life will eternally renew itself.

 

I don't know what to do with this knowledge.  I settle for cooking the rat for the barn cats--experience has shown that they won't eat raw rats.  The death of this season brings me closer to what is true inside of me, here on a farm where practicality and philosophy are closely intertwined.  Perhaps my body is a bud, someday cracking open to flower in a mysterious spring.  For now, there are cats to feed.  Braised rat, anyone?

 

 

Please reload

Our Recent Posts

Please reload

Archive

Please reload

Tags

I'm busy working on my blog posts. Watch this space!

Please reload

Follow

Contact

Address

(425) 286-5640

17340 NE 195th Street

Woodinville, WA 98072, USA

©2018 by Hawthorn Farm