You get it. You have a moment of brilliant clarity. You know what you must do. But you can't. Yet.
This happens to me all the time. Today I went to the doctor. The main issue having been dealt with, she cunningly cut to the chase - my slightly obsessive fear of cancer.
My father died of cancer, my mother died of cancer. Last year, my brother died. Of cancer. I am a bit obsessed. I admit it.
Now, today was the day a doctor told me, good food, more exercise, less stress ... and actually applauded our raw milk. Good grief. She recommended that I buy a book - an anti cancer book - and I came home, and looked at it online and realised, it was not a book I needed. It was in fact, a simplified, general public sort of a book, on a subject about which I have read at heavyweight, insider level and into which I have waded in real life ... but somehow ... I lost it.
The real deal is 'Nourishing Traditions' and I immediately knew. I had it. I needed to reclaim the joy we had in that most radical of expressions of freedom - the growing, rearing, fermenting, preparing, loving of your own food.
How is it we have these insights, as part of our own intentional journey, and then - well - lose them?
So I come home, filled with joy, passion and a reclaimed understanding of my mission. Only to realise that we have the family visiting this weekend, as well as a horse show to go to, and what I actually have to do, for the moment, is turn out the vast quantities of food I've planned for the weekend, yes planned, mind you - at my lowest ebb of intentionality - not even going to list it all - I have however just peeled, parboiled and frozen in bags, 80 potato pieces which over the course of the weekend will be mashed, boiled, roasted - and I have puddings (spelt, yes, and honey, but even so ...) and peanut butter cookies stacked high. Oh dear.
Now, this is always happening to me. I know what I must do. But there's a stack of committments between me and ... it.
About to go into a tailspin of self pity, I realised, hey. We eat at least two or three meals a week produced entirely by US. (That's us, with God's grace) The meat, the eggs, the milk, the vegetables, the bread (OK, not growing the grain yet) We grew it all. I lost it a bit. But it's not the end of the world. I still have children who prefer not to eat shop bought bread at all, and eat raw vegetables for fun.
And my goat herd is about to be registered and named (watch this space) and I am going to get fresh, local vegetables into the hot little mits of local children if it kills me. So it's not all bad!
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