Many times I've been told that I should go
But they don't know
What we got baby
Then they not see the love in you
But love I do
And I'm staying right here

Ummm, sweet, sweet baby—life is crazy
But there's one thing
I am sure of
That I'm your lady
Always baby
And I love you now and ever.
Macy Gray, “Sweet Baby”

Y’all, I’m having some balance issues. As Chicken Apocalypse has continued (too many born, not enough coops) and now I’m headed right into planting season, I reckon I’ve given over all of my remaining energy to my job and the podcast. But . . . I do miss blogging. I need a doppelganger!

Iffin’ you liked my post from last July entitled “Loving Harriet,” I thought I’d share where we are today:

Harriet is having balance issues, too—somebody keeps jumping out of the coop to hang out with me and a glass of wine on the porch . . . and then refusing to go back. Can’t blame the gal, really. Punk ass kids get on my nerves, too.

But, I don’t have that excuse anymore. I reckon I’ve just thrown myself into my podcast so deeply that I’ve forgotten that I’m a writer. There’s a certain jouissance that bubbles around the edges of my writing time that I miss rambling long in front of a microphone. It was my first love affair and it will be my last. As I started the podcast last September, I don’t think I was ready to juggle the work of it against my writing, my paid work and my garden. The problem is: I love it all. Nothing is on the cutting table, so . . . time to balance.

All of this to say that, without my partner, there would be no hope of balance. He brings me coffee in the morning, builds chicken coops for me, hauls hay and picks up wine. And . . . he leaves his socks on the floor, junks up the yard, is a Cancer sign (yes, alone that is notable for me) and forgets EVERYTHING. Years ago, he literally fell apart—and it was hell—but, I wouldn’t give up on him. While the details are private, I have to say that I watched almost everyone I knew walk away from me as I slipped into the dregs of that hell. I was . . . too much. My grief, my wailing, my pain was all too much. My insistence on saving him was too much. Close to the end, I almost caved under the weight of it all and let go—but then, my dear friend Marian sent me a text that changed everything.

She said to hold on. She fought for love, regardless of the cost, and shared her own regret from long ago. She spoke of radical forgiveness—sometimes the only necessary companion of radical love—and reminded me that no one knows the interior of a relationship but those present. When I forget that I’m the daughter of the Great Mother, that my feet spark clover into life as I walk, that I belong to the moon and that the trees knew my name the day I first screamed my way through blood, my sweet baby reminds me. I never believed that I could love someone as much as my own children. I was horribly wrong.

Today, he knew that the plague had me hard in its grip. I’m tired, ornery, snotty and a bit overwhelmed by the news that currently reads like a Stephen King novel. And so, when I went to fussin’ and bitchin’ as I stumbled past him in the yard (he’s building another coop for me), he turned his eyes into the sun and waited. When I hushed, he turned and smiled at me. Balance. Boom.

So. Because of him, I’m able to remember who I am, who I should be, and who I can never be again. It is an equal distribution of my weight. Of course, it’s all work I must do myself . . . it’s just that . . .

He’s a friend of my mind.

This old witch needs a friend like that. So, whomever brings you balance—or incites it within you—consider their worth. Those of us out front depend upon folks you might never see, but they are there. Right there. Smiling into the sun and waiting for you to balance again.

Blessed Be,
Seba