Dad's Birthday

Today’s my dad’s birthday and so I’m thinking about him. He’s lived a really good 54 years. I don’t know this for a fact, but I think my dad wakes up everyday and chooses joy. That’s a hard thing to do, but he does it. When I think about him, I think of a guy smiling from ear to ear, waiting to give us a hug. I think of guy who works hard and also loves hard. He’s an encourager and a supporter and a complimenter. He’s grateful for the simple and taught us to enjoy the small things as well. Not only does he give out gut-busting laughter, but he’ll dish out tears as well. A man who laughs hard and often, but tears up over inspiring, moving stories; a man fully alive...I wanna be like him.

One of my favorite writers, Henri Nouwen, said:

“One of the most beautiful things that can happen in a human life is that parents become brothers and sisters for their children, that children become fathers and mothers for their parents, that brothers and sisters become friends and that fatherhood, motherhood, brotherhood, and sisterhood are deeply shared by all the members of the family at different times and on different occasions.”

I think that’s happening with my dad and I. We’re becoming friends. And I like that.

So I raise a cup of French Roast coffee to my dad, Owen Mitchell, for being the kind of dad I’d love to be someday.

Happy birthday Dad,

Kyle

Wheat, Berries, Hay and the Tale of the Prodigal Ducks

Lynea and I recently went to a wheat conference. Much of it was over our heads, especially the talk about the genetic structure of wheat, but lots of it was very interesting. It was neat to see farmers, millers and bakers hashing out the best ways to do a local grain system - that is, how to grow wheat locally, mill it locally and bake it locally. This is a tough thing to do here in the northeast, given that most wheat is grown in the midwest. Real folks working through real issues in their lives. Cool to sit in on their conversations and hear about the ancient-future wisdom of growing and processing wheat.

Bringing in the Sheaves

One of my favorite...no, hands down, my favorite thing to do is pick berries. We’ve got wild black raspberries and blueberries that we pick everyday. I’m fascinated by it. Maybe I’m meant to be a berry-picker. Nothing quite like picking a ripe, juicy berry off the bush and popping it in your mouth. It’s a mystery. It’s magical. The earth provides delicious treats that are good for our bodies. I’m sure I could figure out how it works scientifically, but that still wouldn’t explain why it gives me such joy. Kinda like understanding all the numbers behind the earth rotating around the sun compared to laying on the beach and watching the sunset. It’s magical.

Blueberries

Black raspberries

Hay is a cool word. It means “there is” in Spanish, but is pronounced more like the English word “hi”. Which is funny cause the English word “hay” rhymes with “hey” as in saying “hi” which is similar to how the Spanish word is pronounced. There is hay in our field. Or if I was going to speak Spanglish, “Hay hay in our field.” And we cut it, wind-rowed it, tethered it and bailed it.

And finally a story of Rabbinic proportions:

We had 5 ducklings in a cage. 4 squeezed through and ran away, while 1 got stuck in the cage. It was a cold night and we feared the ducklings would either freeze to death or get eaten by a larger creature. The next morning, we put the mother duck in a cage with 3 other ducklings. 1 hour...nothing. 2 hours...nothing. 3 hours later I went to check on the cage and there before my eyes, the 4 prodigal ducks sitting safely outside the cage by their mother’s side. We rejoiced.

We've got about 40 new chicks!!