Friday Five: Bucket List

SingingOwl over at RevGalBlogPals suggests that we offer our personal "bucket lists" for the traditional Friday Five. I never saw the Bucket List movie, so the words brought something different to my scattered mind:

"There's a hole in the bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza..."

I loved that song when I was a child. It seemed endlessly funny, the way each problem on the ol' homestead sent Liza and Henry farther into the Slough of Despond...all 'cause there was a dad-blamed hole in the gosh-darn bucket.

Now that I live on a homestead myself, the song ain't so funny--just achingly familiar. In my life, a "bucket list" is likely to involve an actual bucket, and if'n it don't have a hole, well, the side may be split or the handle near to coming off.

Och, but enough whinging and whining. The sun's come out to warm the weary earth, and I shall plant peas in the garden today. This morning I said goodbye to The Piper's Son, who is headed off across the country to a new job and the unfettered freedom of young adult life. I'm thankful, today, for the extraordinary gift of his help this past year as we turned our old woodshop into a genuinely lovely little house. I'm also excited for him, fresh-faced and ready to discover his place in the world. Oh, and this morning, after he left? After wiping away a few sentimental tears, I got out the utility knife and the drill and put up the last piece of drywall in our bathroom, bringing the house that much closer to being done.

Now, about that bucket list:

1) Restore this old farm and open a Bed & Breakfast with a Celtic theme. I'd cook sumptuous Celtic breakfasts, all ingredients homegrown and/or fresh from other local farms. The Bagpiper would provide evening entertainment and, for those who request it, an unforgettable wake-up call! Instead of being isolated and exhausted by the hard work of farming, we'll be constantly invigorated by the stream of vibrant visitors who come to appreciate this farm's unique blessings and gifts. We'll hold Celtic Spirituality retreats for church groups, Farm Discovery weekends for armchair homesteaders, Writers & Artists retreats for weary professional women (BTW, I count caregiving of any kind as a profession, so just about all women would be qualified)...

2) Become fluent--or at least comfortably conversant--in Scottish Gaelic. (I started learning this beautiful, soulful language several years ago, but had to end my classes when I left for seminary.) Of course, to continue my studies, I'd need to spend a fair amount of time in, well, SCOTLAND! Ah, home of my ancestors and my Spirit's Other Home... Tir Mo Ghraidh! There I would sing with the seals, wander the moors, caper at the ceilidhs, wrap myself with the mountain mists and eerie, ancient peace of the isles...and the Bagpiper would travel along, sometimes choosing a different path for her own musical pursuits, but always joining me to bless moonrise and sunrise, to share our stories at the start and end of each day.

3) In keeping with #2: Make music such a central & powerful part of our shared life that it continues to heal & energize us. Ideally, it should also open opportunities for us to travel and make music in the places--and with the people--we most love. (Also, ideally, we would develop a corps of sturdy & steadfast farmhands, available to mind the farm when we depart on occasional musical jaunts!)

4) One other journey: to travel and explore some spiritual, as well as cultural roots. I'd like to see some of the Continental Celtic strongholds and archeological sites in Brittany, Austria, and Galicia. I also want to take a side trip to Ravenna, Italy, to see the church mosaics there--especially the one where there's a lifesize procession of the Church Mothers. I've been intrigued ever since I heard of these mosaics. In one, there's supposedly a woman with the title "bishop" above her head!

5) I've been a caregiver--to siblings and other people's children--much of my life. There has always been a bittersweet element of release in this work. The children always return to their parents at the end of the day, and my guidance and gifts have always been secondary. That can be a good thing--to leave the "hard part" to others--but still I'd dearly love the chance to "have a wee bairn or twa" all my own. There is so much joy and mystery that I'd love to share, as well as the shared work and earthly delights of this beloved farm. I'd like to raise up a child who sings freely, works earnestly, laughs readily, and lives fruitfully.

Speaking of being fruitful, ain't nobody gonna be fruitful around here if'n I don't get out to the garden and plant those peas!

Falling Stars, Singing Pipes

It is daybreak, and the stars are falling.

At least, that's how it looks this morning, as heavy wet snow-stars plummet, filling the span between cottage and woods with their silent, stunning artillery. Sleet is predicted for much of the day, a staunch declaration that Spring is seeping out from under Winter's hard and icy grip.

It has been the sort of winter when one questions Spring's return. We have known the time Gaels call Am Faoilteach, "the Wolf Month," when hunger and fear leave their sharp indentations on even the most well-armoured souls.



"What though the tempest round me roars, I know the Truth, it liveth;
What though the darkness round me falls, songs in the night it giveth."

Songs in the night have been few and far between, though I've tried and tried to be brave. I love this old song, (circa 1864, attrib. to Anne Warner), and--usually--I love Winter. But I confess I've done precious little singing. The best I could manage, most days, was a snatch or two of wordless whistling, usually slip jigs with their defiant, springy rhythms. I believe in the power of words, of naming things into being, but my faith became so hesitant and timid that my dearest hopes were no longer among the things I could name.

And then the plumber called.

What? A plumber? One of those people who play with pipes, who put the pipes together, add water, and make them sing? A real honest-to-goodness PLUMBER?!?

Aye, a plumber called. It seems The Bagpiper's Son, a wandering woodsman, had met a plumber's son on his travels--verily, the Son of a Living Plumber. The plumber's son heard our tale of woe and said, "Fear not, for the Plumber is with you, and he shall mend your plumbing and make it whole."

Blessed are they who believe what they have not seen...well, we had indeed begun to suspect that plumbers were mythical creatures, mere will-o'-wisps at the edge of our imaginings. Our regular calls to our previous plumber had become like desperate prayers to a distant and silent saviour, if you'll forgive this slight blasphemy. We pleaded, we bargained, we ranted and raved... in short, we made absolute fools of ourselves on that man's answering machine, to no avail.

But yesterday, the weather began to warm. Our hearts dared to lift. There were portants in the heavens. The moon was waxing gibbous. Long had we waited in unwashed darkness... And Lo, unto us a plumber was given. And the tools were in his bag and the mantle of his credentials was on his shoulders: He is a plumber and retired professional engineer who regularly works with Habitat for Humanity. He has plumbed many houses. Within a few hours he had measurements taken, floor plans and schematics drawn, and a parts list written. Oh, Hallelujah Chorus!

Now, like any long-unused system, our faith has gone rusty and stiff. It is hard work to shake things loose and exercise our belief, allow ourselves to trust again. The Bagpiper has not done much piping, and I have not done much singing, but now The Plumber Has Come and perhaps we shall dig down and reconnect to the sweet well of music again. It is hard to believe, but The Plumber says work can begin next week. It is hard to believe, but this project is being enscribed, copied in triplicate, and named into being.

"My life flows on in endless song above earth's lamentation...
I hear the real, tho' far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing--
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing?"