When Homesteading is Heavy

Homesteading has a way of keeping us moving, even when our hearts aren't ready to move on. There's always someone that needs to be fed, watered, or milked, and something to be repaired, harvested, canned, cleaned, or put away. This year, some of that work felt especially overwhelming and heavy after several significant losses on our homestead. 

North Woods Lilac

Lilac, one of our beloved cows, broke her left front leg in a slip and fall accident in April.  Without a surgical unit at the veterinary school, she had to be put down. Artemis, one of our livestock guardian dogs that was 12 yrs old had a debilitating stroke in June, and Little, a pup from our 2018 LGD litter, was diagnosed with bone cancer in May and lost her battle in July. Those losses are heavy, layered on each other in such a short span of time. 

Only Aphrodite remains.

The familiar stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, often don't happen in a neat order, and they certainly don't happen on a schedule. One of the hardest things about homesteading is the significant amount of death.  Yes, some of it is planned but some of it isn't. At first, there can be denial: Maybe they can recover. Then comes anger at the circumstances, at the timing, at the unfairness of losing an animal we've invested so much love, care, and money into. Bargaining can look different here, too. What if we try to flush some eggs from her, call a different vet, call the university INCASE they opened the surgical unit again... We find ourselves thinking about what we could have done differently, what we might have noticed sooner, or whether there was something else we could have tried. Animals get hurt. They die. It has to be faced. I avoided the barn for almost 2 months after Little died. The quiet stretches of sadness when even ordinary chores feel exhausting was too much. Not seeing Lilac or Little was, is, overwhelming heartbreak. You can stand in a garden full of beautiful produce and see only another job that needs to be done. Something more pulling you away from the animals you love. The work hasn't changed, but you have.

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Homesteading doesn't give us much opportunity to stop grieving. When the garden producing faster than we can preserve it, and we're  researching curriculum for another homeschool year, gathering materials, and planning lessons, there's not time for processing grief. Normally, I love these things. But grief has a way of taking the joy out of everything that you usually enjoy.

​The cows still need hay made and stored for Winter. The garden, chickens, and herd still need tending, and supper still needs to be made. Sometimes acceptance, simply means doing the next necessary thing without pretending that I am okay. Because I'm not. Maybe this is part of the rhythm of homesteading, too. I'm learning that there are seasons for abundance and seasons for loss, seasons when we build and seasons when we simply endure. The animals don't expect me to stop loving the ones we've lost.

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North Woods Syringa

And then, in the middle of all of it, a new little heifer is born. There's something about a new life arriving to love that reminds you that the story keeps moving forward. Of course, a new heifer means more work. There will be another mouth to feed, another animal to train and care for, and eventually another cow to milk. Fresh milk means more work, too, but it also means fresh butter, homemade cheese, and all the wonderful foods that will make their way onto our holiday table. The garden will soon be put to bed for winter. The canning jars will be lined up on the shelves, and eventually the pace of the homestead will slow. I know I will come out on the other side of this grief in time. I don't have to rush the process. For now, I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other, caring for who is still here, remembering who we've lost, and being grateful for the new life standing in front of me. That's homesteading.

With love,
​Milkmaid Lorinda

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