My head is on the pillow and my eyes are heavy. Twelve hours ago I stood in the kitchen, asking Andre a question. He looked distracted, and said, “I have to go and give death to a boar”
This has been my life now for 5 months.
I don’t go to supermarkets anymore. And sometimes, I walk out of my Harry Potter barnroom to find the head of a bull just outside my door.
This has changed me.
In theory, I have always cared about the sources of my food. But concept is so different from staring directly into the eyes of death like that day I looked a long long time into that Bull’s eyes.
Until I didn’t catch my breath anymore. Until I could be in relationship with his death.
Everything about it.
His name is Walker.
Words sometimes take a while to catch up with awareness, and I realized a few weeks ago, that being a part of these animals lives, and then being part of the whole process of bringing their bodies to my plate, is incredibly intimate.
Is, at the end of the day, an experience of friendship of the deepest kind.
On one of my rare visits to Lucky’s, I catch a glimpse of the Meet counter, and feel this,
“those are not my friends. Could I still eat those animals, whose lives I have not touched with my own hands, who have not touched mine?”
Two moons ago, we took two goats for a mountain walk in the light of the full moon, before their deathing the next morning.
I fell in love with them, as they looked out at the mists rising from a rocky ledge, standing on either side of me. I didn’t know how to tell them about their death. It wasn’t a concept.
Standing so full of life, under that pregnant moon. Was their death a betrayal of our friendship?
The next day, I stood in the field past the milking cows while they were being slaughtered, and I cried into Emily’s open palms.
I actually grieved for two whole days about those white coated beauties, and when Andre made the kefteh with their fat two weeks later, and I took a bite, all I felt was love.
Through my whole body. Utter. Complete. Direct. Intimate.
A sensation, not a thought.
Yes, this is friendship and no, the mind probably cannot figure out such intimacy.
This is the thing.
Life is relationship. Not Product.
In a store, we buy products.
On a farm, we build relationships.
What I eat. Who I eat. What I use. Where I live.
Is all Story, and when I am living fully in that Story, in those relations, my life starts to sing.
Call it Soul. Call it what you want.
It seems The World now has too many missing links. Too many stories not fully lived, too many relations lost in the complexities of not enough Relationship.
I have been gifted here with so much Relationship.
Tomorrow and hopefully Full Moons to come, I am helping to throw a feast in honor of this.
In honor of living inside of a Story again. In Honor of Being Loved by our Food Again, because we Loved too.
Loved the Seed. Loved the day Zippy’s calf was born. Loved the piglets who died on a cold muddy Beltane Morning. Loved the Dark just before Sunrise that always greeted us from our Dreams before waking to do what must be done.
In Honor of and to Make Space for
Telling These Stories that Make us
And these Stories that help ReMember Ourselves Home.