Anger is an odd emotion. A quick google tells us it owes its existence to our very basic fight or flight mechanism, and there exists a near infinite number of well-researched, hugely funded, experts-in-white-coat-ed studies of it; hell, even Disney’s had a go at explaining it! It burns and rages, explodes, erupts, and seethes; and this week it has been very much in evidence on the Homestead. Yes, it’s pretty safe to say it’s been one of those weeks.
Sometimes it’s worked in our favour, providing the fuel for The Goat Herd and Milk Maid to manhandle the south side chaos into some form of order
and other times the result has been the opposite and it’s ended in rants, tears, and a great big heaping helping of a loss of dignity (nod to another bunch of misfits). It’s first thing in the morning, while six people attempt to locate their breakfast and off-Homestead lunch requirements in the jumble of shelves, dressers and drawer units that make up our temporary kitchen that it really rears its ugly head
and even the animals have been subjected to the odd harsh word as we go about our daily doings.
Thankfully, we have identified the cause and the antidote was administered last night in the form of good, ol’ fashioned sausages, spuds, coleslaw, cauliflower cheese with fruit sponge for afters and accompanied by loud, raucous, table-thumping, belly-laughing, full-on dialogue. We’re all feeling much better now, thank you.
This all-round disgruntlement is what happens when the world intervenes and communication is reduced to snatched conversations in the Homestead mobile enroute another engagement, or in that moment, last thing at night, when we wish each other goodnight before stumbling bedwards. When our irks and piques aren’t able to be aired and examined along with the triumphs, disasters, and hilarious happenings of our everyday life, we Homesteaders tend to go a little doolally.
Although rapt to welcome representatives of the family formally known as the Spanish Division (watch out Staffordshire!), their arrival heralds the confrontation of some very tough issues regarding The Elders. It’s hard not to boil and churn over the waste, injustice, and mind-bending of dementia, but giving it voice helps you make peace with this new reality we’re all facing.
The ability to flick our written word through the ether is a wonder, but it can also be ambiguous and clumsy. A string of such communications regarding our very own Farm Girl and her perceived social requirement shortfalls had us individually raging with indignation and feeling a tad besieged. It took only a few moments of table talk for reason to reassert itself. So what if we’re choosy about who we let into our lives? We take pride in being who we are, marching to our own tune- with a little help from our select group of wonderful friends.
There were other bits of grit in our cosy oyster this week, too, like a dysfunctional bike, a “lost” item or two, and fateful double bookings, but pearl production has now commenced, the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, and the world is looking rosy again.
No longer is that bad mood rising.