A compulsion to collect things that others might throw away.
I don’t think it is a secret that I have an obsession for Q’s. It took hours of looking at web friendly fonts to find the perfect Q for the this website. Sometimes the q theme hasn’t worked out so well. Like when I wanted to spell “kudos” with a q “qudos” for the media webpage (since it links to articles about quillisascut). But mostly people told me I spelled qudos wrong, so I scrapped that idea.
Then there is Quesday, Thank Q, and Qaptivated. Yeah, all a bunch of silliness.
My web guru was pondering what this philia might be called and came up with Qphilia? Qphiliac? as one having an abnormal appetite or liking for q.
This obsession for all things q has grown to include what shows up in nature. It might be an abstract image in the ice on a frozen mud puddle, a round tomato from the garden with a little tail, twirly garlic scapes and twisty chili peppers. For some reason they speak to me in the language of Q.
All these swirls in nature bring a lot of pleasure. No they aren’t all Q’s but they are curly q’s. I hope you lique them, too.
Today the goats are halfway through kidding. Sixteen girls have had forty kids (eight sets of triplets and eight sets of twins) So far everything has gone pretty well. Except, one of the weaker triplet kids didn’t make it, even with extra nurturing from Rick.
The weather has been fair, no cold or snow during any of the births. Most of them were born during the day. We haven’t had any that required us to stay up late at night waiting for action. (knock on wood)
Our life at Quillisascut Farm has followed this pattern every year since 1982. In early spring our herd of goats kick-off the season of rebirth where light and dark come together and remind us of the fragility of life. Spring is here, kids jumping for joy, new milk, and fresh cheese.
On a connected note, some of you know that Rick has been taking piano lessons and this week he is learning The Hokey Pokey.
AND THAT’S WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT.
(Disclamer: don’t watch the following video if you have Ornithophobia.)
Back in the beginning of time, before we moved to this farm, Rick and I spent a couple weeks in San Blas, Nayarit, Mexico. One morning, sitting in the center of town we heard a beautiful trill and chatter coming from the trees. There was a flock of “tropical birds” singing a crazy song. Looking up into the trees we could see the birds, they were medium sized many of them had shiny black bodies and bright yellow heads. We were wowed, it seemed so idyllic sitting there in paradise, the sun was out, the birds were singing.
Then one day after we moved to Qullisascut we were outside and heard the same tropical trilling song and realized what we had thought were “tropical Birds” were Yellow Headed Black birds. Here in North Eastern Washington state, we have their black bird cousins, some with red strips on their wings, some all black, and sometimes a visiting yellow headed pair adds to the mix.
Yesterday when I went out it felt like spring in the air, the sun was out, blue skies, mud between the bits of snow and these birds making a bunch of noise. Seems like Paradise.
June 6th was Daisy Mae’s birthday, so I am spending time with her memory and thinking sweet thoughts of her.
It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their — if you don’t
mind my saying so — their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example — I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch —
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early