Secrets from Chuckling Goat

by Shann Nix Jones

  I cry sometimes from tiredness, and sometimes from feeling overwhelmed, but mostly it’s about Rich. He has to go back into hospital to have yet another massive operation, and it seems so monstrously unfair as he’s only just recovered from the last one. It’s supposed to be on 10 September! That’s only eight weeks away!

  A massive abdominal operation that will entail four hours in the operating room and three months of painful recovery. And then yet another, smaller, operation afterwards. The first operation was to remove the colon. The second one will be to reconstruct what they call a ‘J-pouch’ in his intestine, which then has to be left to heal for a period of time. And then a third – and hopefully final – operation to remove the colostomy bag, and hook up the new plumbing.

  He’ll have the bag in place until the third operation. And hopefully, if all goes well, after the third operation he’ll be free of the bag and back to normal – as normal as you can be, without a colon. That’s if we’re lucky. And it all goes to plan.

  I don’t have to face all that pain myself – although I would happily share it if I could, if it would make it less. But I can’t. It’s Rich who has to go through all of that again. And he knows, this time, exactly what he’s in for.

  And so do I. It’ll be another three months of running the farm on my own. But this time, I’m determined to have outside help. Rich and Ceris (home from university for the summer, having just graduated from her early childhood education programme) have been painting Taid’s flat, and it’s going to be beautiful once it’s re-floored and decorated.

  My parents can stay there if we can get it ready in time for their arrival in a month’s time. And after that, I’ll advertise for someone who wants to come and stay on a farm for a couple of months – in their own flat with a kitchen, lounge and bedroom, and sea views from every window.

  And in the meantime, there’s hope. There must be hope. It’s going to be a long, rocky road in front of us – but at the end of that road is Rich, strong and healthy, vigorous, free of the pain. We have to stay focused on that.

  5 September 2012

  Just put my mom on the plane, after a blissful month of having her here with us. We did a lot of thinking and talking… Rich is going into hospital in four days.

  We talked about fear. I think maybe there are different kinds of fear. Sometimes fear can be helpful – for example, when it sharpens your instincts and keeps you out of trouble. But what do you do about this kind of fear – when you can’t do anything to avoid it? Like a soldier going into battle. Rich will inevitably go into hospital, where they’ll cut him open in a long and gruelling operation. I will inevitably have to run everything while he’s gone. There’s no avoiding this pain – and knowing that fact causes unavoidable fear. But since fear isn’t helpful – or avoidable – is it the same as sadness?

  Funny that no-one tells you about these things. I don’t recall being taught what to do about pain, or the different kinds of fear, and whether they should be handled differently. I’ve an ominous feeling that I’m going to get to test out all my pretty theories, very soon.

  I asked Rich what he was doing with his fear, and he said that he wasn’t very afraid of the pain of the operation. All his fears, he said, centre around me – that I will do too much, fall apart. And of course, all my fears centre around him. Maybe that’s what happens, when you love someone? I’ve never properly loved a man before, so it’s all a bit of a revelation to me.

  7 September 2012

  A good day yesterday. Shockingly, it was a happy day. The sun most obligingly came out just in time for us to get the hay off the fields – Rich hired someone to come in and bale one field with the big baler, so that we can sell the bales. The second field, which is our chemical-free hay that we feed our milking goats, he’s going to bale today, and everyone is coming around to help get the bales off the field tonight.

  Rich was super-charged all day yesterday – I call it his ‘hay high’ – sunburned and energetic and working dawn to dusk. It’s his adrenaline, his life, out there with the hay and the tractors, and I love to see him loving it.

  I got up at 6 a.m. today and milked, as always. Our new helper, Magalie, who’s staying in the guest cottage in exchange for helping out, fed the young stock and filtered and bottled the milk. It was all done and washed out by 8:30 a.m. Then Rich and I both walked Benji to school – Benji in his smart new uniform, holding our hands on either side. Rich and I walked back home together, more slowly, still holding hands. The last time that he’ll be able to walk Benji to school for many, many months. The last time for so many things as we count down the days until I drive him to hospital and come home without him.

  I’m thinking that life may be normal again by New Year’s. I’m not looking for anything until then. From now until Christmas, we’ll just snug in and let Rich recover. I’m going to get him a sheepskin for the couch, and I’ve ordered loads of DVDs – Happy Days, Fawlty Towers and The Waltons, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie, all the comforting shows from the 70s that I remember made me laugh. It’s the only thing I can do, to prepare for the time ahead.

  Sunshine coming and going, but out at the moment – we need a full day, just one full day of precious sun, for the hay to be ready this afternoon, and then we’ll be prepared for the winter, like squirrels with their nuts tucked safely away.

  17 September 2012

  I was standing outside the barn after milking, watching the clouds moving and shifting over our mysterious landscape. Somehow, here at the farm, the bowl of the sea and the horizon actually seem to be higher up than the place where we’re standing – as if here, on top of our hill, we’re below sea level. As if the bowl of sea and sky could tip in over us. But it never does.

  There was a slight rain, and grey clouds, but the whole landscape was lit with a mysterious light that came from nowhere that I could see – as if lit from within.

  Watching the clouds moving, I thought, That’s it. That’s the way that everything is. Constantly moving, constantly shifting. And wishing otherwise is as foolish as getting attached to a cloud picture that you see while you’re lying on your back, staring into the sky. Of course, it’ll shift and break – of course it will. Do you cry when the dragon you see turns into a witch, and then into a pillow? No – because you expect it of clouds.

  The problem that we have is the illusion of permanence. You think that the stone house is solid and forever, that the marriage will stand, that the family will never change. Because it looks solid in the moment – more solid than cloud – you think that it is solid.

  But it isn’t. Its rate of change is simply slower than the clouds. Because you can’t see it shifting during your attention span – say, half an hour – you think it’s unchanging.

  Our attention spans are relative. A rock changes – but it takes hundreds or thousands of years to do it. A plant moves – but it moves within a 24-hour cycle, and our restless natures can’t sit still long enough to watch. So we think that plants are insensate – that they can’t feel, or move – because they don’t do it during the time span when we’re patient enough to watch. But they do. And when you set a 24-hour camera on them, you can see them do it.

  So everything changes – but at different times, and at different rates. Like alternating sine waves. Just like – yes – a symphony. Like the treble and bass clef notes of music, shifting together but in different times. The basso notes of rock and mountain, planet and star, changing slowly. The mezzo soprano notes of bug and microorganism – tiny, quick, pattering lives, shifting so quickly that it’s difficult to hear.

  The alto of tree, tiger, monkey and human, plant and bear, all in their interwoven song. It must have been what Beethoven heard. It must have been why it didn’t matter to him, being deaf. He could still hear what mattered, inside his head. He understood.

  And it explains, as well, something that I’ve never quite grasped before – the gypsies. I’ve always been intrigued by them – by their mysterious nature of always jou
rneying, never arriving. It’s said that they have no idea of ownership, which is why they ‘steal’ things, and are therefore hated and feared by rooted communities.

  I’ve always wondered why the gypsies’ strange, atonal, dissonant way of life strikes such a chord of fascination with me, and with many others. Their delicate but complete refusal of the attachment to bricks and mortar that so defines the rest of us; their subtle assertion of the fact that it’s better to be always travelling, than to arrive. I think that their way of life mimics most truly the way of things – that’s why they fascinate us.

  I’m so afraid of change at the moment – afraid that this fragile stability we have will be swept away, and what replaces it will be terrible. But there’s no point in trying to hang on to anything. Everything changes. That’s the only thing we know for sure. Our bricks and mortar give us the illusion of stability. But it’s only an illusion.

  The gypsies understand – or understood once, some time deep in the misty past – that stability is an illusion. They grasped the fact that pretending that anything is stable – that anything really stands still – is futile. And ultimately only causes pain.

  Is it better then, to define your entire life so that there’s no illusion of stability? Nothing to hang on to, nothing that allows you to pretend? That’s how reality is, so why not embrace it, all at once? Build ye empires and houses all you like. They crumble in time – and it’s only painful if you believe otherwise.

  Life is like a river, the moving clouds teach me, this evening after milking. Always moving. Always flowing. It may change slowly – but change it will.

  18 September 2012

  Waking up at 6 a.m. to do the milking – inky darkness and so windy outside that opening the door is like stepping into a river. But the house is filled with the smell of baking bread, and it somehow makes it all better. Thank goodness for the bread machine with a timer!

  Rich’s operation has been postponed. We don’t know when it will happen now. Apparently this could go on for ages – the operation getting scheduled and cancelled, scheduled and cancelled. I’m trying to stay calm with the whole thing, as this country’s National Health Service is so different from what I was used to in the USA.

  While I was waiting nervously for news, there was a very lovely shaft of light, a bit of magical luck – we’ve won an award for our kefir! Janey Lee Grace, presenter on BBC Radio 2, author and expert on natural products, has awarded us her Platinum Award 2012. We get a platinum medallion to put on the website. I’ve printed out a paper version and put it in a frame by the front door, and I smile every time I go in or out.

  A much-needed ray of sunshine in these dark days. Janey Lee Grace is such an inspiration, an amazing woman! She asked me whether I ever put the kefir into the soap. Interesting question! I wonder if it would work? Haven’t got the time or energy to experiment with it at the moment, though.

  11 November 2012

  No news yet on Rich’s operation, but an exciting turn for the business – in the wake of the Platinum Award from Janey Lee Grace, the Daily Mail national newspaper contacted us and asked if they could review our soap! They were doing an article about natural alternatives to household items that contain chemicals. But the soap would have to arrive in London by the following morning to make the deadline for the story.

  Of course, we said yes and quickly packed up a box to send, and called the courier. But the courier didn’t come. Finally, at 2 p.m., fighting panic, I phoned the central office. They said the driver was on his way. By 5 p.m. it seemed clear that there was a problem.

  I was ready to get in the car myself and make the four-hour trip to drive the soap to the newspaper offices – I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity! I rang the lovely girl at the front desk one last time, car keys in my hand, and told her the whole story. She told me that somehow the regular driver had gone missing.

  But she rang a special driver, who showed up in the yard, in his own car, at 6:30 p.m. – with just enough time to get the box to the central depot before 7:30 p.m. We packed the small box into the boot of his car, and I stood in the yard and waved him away, feeling like I was watching a child go off to the first day of school. Fingers crossed…

  14 November 2012

  Wow, amazing, I can’t believe it! Rushed to the local shop first thing this morning to buy the Daily Mail and flipped with trembling fingers to the article – where our soap was being reviewed – and they gave us nine out of 10! The highest score for any natural product. And our competitor, Pears Soap, only got two out of 10. Giddy and spinning around the kitchen – don’t know what to do with myself!

  The review says, ‘Chuckling Goat Oatmeal & Honey Soap: You could eat every ingredient: goat’s milk, which is anti-inflammatory; natural oils; grapefruit seed extract; honey and oatmeal. There’s a subtle sweet smell, and the oatmeal gently scrubs your hands. This soap has a soft, creamy lather. My hands were left clean, but not over-dry. 9/10.’ Yippee! Must phone my mom.

  4 December 2012

  Still no news on Rich’s op, but more exciting news for the business – we also got written up in the Welsh press. Here’s what the Western Mail had to say about our soap:

  ‘A little-known, natural hand-made soap made by a Welsh farming couple has just trumped and unseated cosmetics classic Pears Soap in a national newspaper review. Chuckling Goat Soap, made in Llandysul, was rated nine out of 10 against the traditional product, which only scored a two.’

  Amazing!! Our lovely local shop, Hoffnant Londis, is stocking the soap and has put a little cut-out of the article next to the display. Everyone’s been really lovely about it – we’re feeling quite the local celebs! People who read the article, or saw us on the telly, are knocking on the door, asking for the soap and skin cream.

  Astonished to discover how many people are desperate for a natural solution to eczema or psoriasis or rosacea. Traditional medicine just doesn’t have much to offer, except the nasty steroid creams that thin your skin – and you’re warned not to use those for longer than two weeks. At the end of that time, your skin is more delicate than before, you have to stop using the cream, and you’ve nothing to turn to. Worse off than ever!

  Eczema is a horrible thing, especially for parents who have to watch their children suffering. There’s a woman in the village here with two adorable little girls, one of whom has eczema so bad that her skin comes off on the sheets at night, and she wakes up with her pillow covered in blood. So heartbreaking, but now I can help her.

  I think of that little girl when I’m making my soaps and skin creams, stirring the big pots on the stove in the farmhouse kitchen. It’s simply miraculous to me that the goat’s milk can help and heal so powerfully, and I’m so fortunate to be able to make things with it that can do some good! A wonderful feeling, to think that I’m actually accomplishing something in the world that can help someone… after so very many years of lots of smoke and noise and not accomplishing much of anything at all.

  24 December 2012

  There’s a very lovely ancient tradition which holds that on Christmas Eve, at midnight, animals are given the power of speech. I’ve even heard it said that all the animals then sing songs of praise.

  Walking into the warm barn – away from the icy, windy dark outside – it’s easy to believe this lovely story. I look into the slender faces of my familiar, much-loved goats, with their dark eyes and knowing expressions, and I can easily imagine them opening their mouths to sing at midnight.

  Glenda, Wandi, Patsi, Juliette – I know them all by name, and I can tell them apart, as identical as they might look to a stranger. I can imagine just how each of their voices might sound, raised in the choir. Juliette rears up her hind legs to have her cheek scratched – just there, by the hinge of her jaw – and to rub her head lovingly against my shoulder.

  Coming here twice a day, to milk and to commune with these lovely animals, has taught me a thing or two about miracles. The goats have taught me about dedication, and patience, and di
scipline. Waking up at 6 a.m. on a freezing morning and going outside sounds like a punishment when I’m wrapped in my duvet. But as soon as I haul myself up and out, and into the barn, I realize the truth of it – coming here is my reward. The teaching really is in the practice – putting my hands on the goats, tending them and receiving the healing milk that they give me, is all I need to know of magic.

  The Christian tradition holds that the king is born in midwinter. The pagan tradition too speaks of rebirth in the time of darkness. It’s a principle as old as man, when we were frightened and crouching in the caves, waiting for the light to return. Peasants have milked goats for as long as humans have been around, and I follow this time-honoured tradition with gratitude now, as the warm streams of milk hit my pail in a fragmented melody.

  In that song, I can hear everything I need to know about rebirth. These goats are pregnant in the darkness, gestating new life. In the spring, the kids will be born, and the milk will be freshened. The life force dies back and blossoms up again. New life. It’s a miracle that we few – who are lucky enough to tend the farm – learn over again with our hands and feet, arms and eyes and hearts, every year without fail.

  Christmas Eve – in the darkness – the goats and I wait together in the silence. We wait for the rebirth that is certain. It’s certain as life, certain as breath, as certain as the knowledge that someday, spring will come again, and light will return to the world.

  27 December 2012

  On the farm, there’s a rhythm to the year. I never really understood the lyrics of the song ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’ by The Byrds – okay, originally a verse from the Book of Ecclesiastes – ‘For every thing there’s a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.’ But it’s true on the farm, and we live our life by it. Not because it’s pretty, or romantic, but because the turning of the seasons demands it.