When weeping abates

 

When you have just lost the key person in your tribe, at first you sit around for weeks alternately weeping and staring into space, then you (while also weeping and staring into space) take stock of the situation and see what can be salvaged. We face at least six months of uncertainty concerning our financial and housing options. Stony Run Farm will probably be sold and, if the gods favor those of us that have survived, the much smaller and urban La Finca will be the new tribal base. The project of this blog, which is to report on doings at Stony Run Farm, where we have homesteaded for 28 years, will likely come to an end, perhaps in 2022, perhaps in 2023. 

This is a pretty good time of year for calling around to insurance offices, mortgage holders and the like, as the weather has encouraged us to stay mostly indoors.

Friends have been very kind, and I can report the tradition of bringing tons of hot meals has not abated.

In the forest of the cranes, the moon has crashed. 
How can there be dawn? 
Flowers vanish, spring does not come.
So much love, yet empty hands.
When weeping abates, I will rise and plant something. 

(adapted from Dogen)