Building Rivendell Sanctuary has made me more appreciative of my time at Rose Hill Farm. Having been the chief designer and developer of Rose Hill Farm's magnificent gardens and successful animal rescue for more than seven years, I stepped into Rivendell's start-up with massive amounts of self-trust and confidence.
Much has changed since the early days of Rivendell, when I confidently walked into the Riverside Planning Department with a 20-plus page sanctuary development plan and another 30-plus page code and compliance manual I created. I reckon the biggest change since then is that everything fell apart. My confidence crumbled; my self-view of expert, gone; self-trust, collapsed.
This brings me to my new sense of appreciation for Rose Hill, which I built when I was younger, in better shape and a lot slimmer, and had so much less on the line to lose. Back then, there was a greater willingness to open myself fully to vulnerability and the unknown. That version of me hasn't been present for a long, long time.
I barely recognized myself yesterday, my inner-world has become small, full of self-doubt, shame, and an unwillingness to open to life. The day previous, we damaged our car trying to bring home some extra-long wood for the chicken coop. I couldn't let it go. It rattled in my brain all day, like a pesky gnat, and I found the distraction made my tolerance to my outer world, missing.
Chewing on the accident as I planted seeds in the well-loved greenhouse, I came upon the cutest little frog in a seed tray, and I tried to move him someplace safer. He jumped onto my chest.
I screamed.
Thinking about how hot I was, while watering the grapevines I've tended to all summer and am wild about, a mouse ran across my foot.
I screamed.
Criticizing my weight as my breath became difficult while bending over to gently move a tender vine closer to its trellis, I almost picked up a baby rattlesnake.
I screamed.
Frustrated and giving up, I walk towards our temporary shabby-not-so-chic home and see a large black beetle crawling up my arm.
I scream-cried and didn't stop.
My son, who was helping me in the garden, ran toward me, yelling, "What's wrong?" I showed him the black beetle now scurrying away on the dirt by my feet. He looked at the beetle. He looked back at me.
Blink. Blink. Blink. "Mom, I thought you were hurt."
In that moment, I felt it all. I wanted to tell him, "I am, son."
I am heart-injured. I am soul-injured.
I'll share one of the biggest surprises of building Rivendell. Scratching something out of the earth, under the most beautiful sunrises, sunsets, and twinkling stars you've ever seen in your life, has a way of stripping a girl bare. The core, raw and exposed. Deep inner-thoughts, wanting out, surface. Wondering what my lost baby, who would be turning 18 this month, would think about Rivendell. Wondering what it would be like to watch him working alongside his older brother. Wondering what it would be like if my dad could be here, sitting next to my mom, watching his two grandsons build a legacy and working hard, shoulder to shoulder, to protect and care for a small slice of this earth, building a home for small hearts that beat loud; the same hearts that continuously share joy, despite the cruel hardships they've endured.
Yes, I screamed-cried.
Just let me. The scream has been stuck in my throat for a long time.
Rivendell is being built with everything we have. It's all been placed on the line so that we can save lives. I just never imagined, my life would be its first saved.
Peeling away the layers is painful. It's messy.
I'm messy and it's part of my story that's being folded into this sacred place we call Rivendell Sanctuary.
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