On The Farm: Prologue

By the time Mom, Tom and I piled into the car to drive to Logan airport, so they could catch their flight to Indonesia, we were all a little on edge and ready for some downtime. After all, the past few days had been a flurry of packing and organizing before they left the house in my hands for three weeks. Also, though none of us admitted it, I think we were all a little worried about how this digital girl was going to make due in an analog house all by herself.

Not to worry, my mom took precautions. She gave me detailed instructions about how and when to water the plants, how to care for the chickens and what to do if the basement flooded. When she was through, I had bright pink Post-IT notes with scribbled instructions scattered throughout the house. Tasks like, “On X day, do this” and “If THIS then THAT.”

I suddenly wondered how I’d survived on my own for so long.

Just in case the instructions fell through, my mom had a back-up plan: she purchased me a man. No really, she was so concerned about my ability to manage the house that she actually paid her contractor to be on-call for me in case anything happened. Then she told all her neighbors that I was going to be alone in the house and that they should “pop by” to say hello from time to time.

This was going to be a long three weeks…

Even getting out of the house took a lot of effort. Once everything was loaded into the car and we were ready to go, no one could find the cat. After 10 minutes of searching it turned out we had locked her in the garage. Then mom left the barn door open, which can only be accessed by walking out of the driveway and partway up the hill. I volunteered to close it, but instead of letting me run up, Tom insisted on driving 2 miles an hour past the door and then turning the car around before I could get out.

Then we had to stop at the gas station to fill a leaking tire with air. I volunteered yet again, which ended up being a mistake because Mom and Tom could not agree on whether the tire should be filled to 32 or 33, and neither would concede to checking the manual to confirm. As I stood by the tire with Tom next to me and mom hanging out the passenger window, I decided that I would not volunteer for anymore tasks that day.

And this was only the beginning. The car ride itself was going to be a long one, and I knew it. Tom was driving, which meant we weren’t going to move much above the speed limit and definitely weren’t chasing anyone out of the fast lane. Not to mention, it was 4PM, so I could only read my kindle for another half hour before it got dark and I hadn’t adequately prepared my electronics, so I only had a quarter of my phone and iPod batteries charged.

As my mom gabbed away on the phone and Tom drove too slow, I sat crammed in the backseat wondering how it was I got here at age 29. I recalled this time not too long ago when living at home was cute. When I returned home from Bali I spoke proudly of it, and most people didn’t flinch, because I’d just taken this trip to volunteer and that was admirable. It made sense that I was home now, getting my bearings and figuring out what to do next.

The problem became when I never did figure that out. After 6 months at home, a plan has yet to materialize and I certainly haven’t thought of one. Not a “grand” one, anyway. My only decision has been to throw away all the new my money I made on another trip abroad.

Now those same people that thought my circumstance was cute have started to become a little uncomfortable. They’re like, “Well, what are you going to do long term?” And I’m like, “Gee, I still don’t’ know.” And then they give that nervous laugh that’s meant to say “No worries, you’ve got time,” but the expression on their face speaks louder and says, “I wonder if she’s going to be okay.”

Sometimes I wonder that too, but at the end of the day, I don’t see how I couldn’t be okay if I am following my heart. And apparently The Universe concurs, for the morning after I delivered Mom and Tom to the airport, it sent me this message to my inbox:

“It’s not from the known, but the unknown, Devin, that creativity and inventiveness are born.

Turn away from the predictable, cliché, and reliable. Brave the void where the darkness is greatest. Trust the quiet, find the stillness, feel the calm. Then steadily think, speak, and move as if you were led. Behave as if your vision were clear. Anticipate the emotional rush that will come with your triumph. And as if by magic, as you raise your pen to write, you’ll find the words have already been summoned, flooded in light that was there all along, in a world that has just as anxiously anticipated your arrival.”

Tallyho!

Review of Chocolaterie-Turned-Speakeasy in Vermont!

By: Yours Truly!

Much like an old school speakeasy, “Bacon Thursdays” at Nutty Steph’s in Middlesex caters to forbidden desires. It’s an evening of sensual pleasure in which the chocolaterie/granola manufacturer is transformed into a family friendly European-style pub featuring live music, beer and wine, chocolate, and the evening’s namesake: bacon.

Read the rest here!

Ibu Robin is CNN Hero of the Year!


“Every mother counts, and healthcare is a human right.” -Robin Lim

Thank you to everyone who voted, donated, offered words of support or simply rooted for Robin Lim, founder of Yayasan Bumi Sehat. Your efforts paid off, because last night she was named the 2011 CNN Hero of the Year! As a result of this award, Bumi Sehat will receive $250,000, in addition to the multitude of donations that have already begun pouring in due to the publicity surrounding this award.

The money Bumi receives will go in part to fund the building of a larger, earthquake-proof clinic to accommodate the ever-growing number of patients that come to us for free, quality healthcare.

As I sat in the livingroom of my mother’s house with Bumi volunteer and home birth midwife Erin Ryan, former volunteer coordinator Jessica Wilkerson, and my mother and her husband, the collective shriek could be heard miles away as Anderson Cooper spoke Robin’s name on stage. Tears fill my eyes even as I write this, because last night I learned that the efforts of individuals is powerful enough to make a big difference.

I never knew what it was like to care about something so much, besides family and friends, until this year. But after spending a year and a half with Bumi Sehat and Robin, I now know that supporting their tireless work will be a part of my life forever. I’m just grateful to have been given the chance.

Congratulations Ibu Robin! I love you!

Time to Vote

As most of you already know, I spent a year and half volunteering for a by-donation birthing clinic in Indonesia. This year, the founder, Robin Lim, has been named a Top Ten CNN Hero and is in the running to win CNN Hero of the Year. If she wins, the clinic will be awarded a large and much-needed donation. In order for Robin to win, she needs to get the largest number of votes out of the other top ten heroes.

Today is the last day to vote, so I’m using this day to ask you to please vote for Robin and increase her chances of winning this award.

You can vote ten times with your Facebook account and ten times with your email address. I promise you won’t get spam from this, nor will it get posted to FB unless you elect to (which would be great!).

VOTE NOW:

It takes 5 mins, so I’m going to shut up, so you use the time you would have spent reading to vote for my Bali mom and the organization that is so close to my heart.

Much love,
Devin.

When you’re done, check out this video recording of a love song that Robin’s husband (and my Bali dad), Wil wrote for her. It includes footage of their home and the clinic. It made me cry to see so much love between two people that I care for so much and that spend so much of their lives caring for others.

Kismet

This is the text version of a live story I told at the monthly event Extempo in Montpelier. Enjoy!

I’ve only lived in Montpelier for 4 months, so I still don’t know that many people in town. However, the one group of people I became acquainted with right away is the local law enforcement.

Our relationship began with minor offenses in the form of parking tickets. I actually got one on the very first day I drove into town. It’s true: I parked my mom’s Toyota Prius on Main St. and came back an hour later to find that I not only forgot to feed the meter, but I also left it unlocked and still running. Then of course there was the time I got a parking ticket while I was in City Hall paying a parking ticket.

But it turns out, those love notes were just the beginning, and the real quality time we would spend together would be by the side of the road.

On the night of our first meeting, I actually chuckled as I passed the cop parked between the fire house and the Rite Aid. You see, my mom is a midwife, and the bumper sticker on the back of her car makes that very clear. So I thought, Who pulls over a midwife?

Apparently, Montpelier cops do, because no sooner had I turned off Main Street onto the Barre/Montpelier Road, than the blue lights started flashing in my rear view mirror signaling me to pull over.

“Ma’am, I pulled you over this evening because your tail lights are out,” the cop said to me.

I looked up to find that not only was the policeman incredibly handsome, but he was also the youngest police officer I’d ever seen in my life. No really, this guy was so young, I thought he might be pulling me over to ask me for a ride home.

I tried my best to keep a straight face and not flirt. “Oh really?” I said. Then I asked to get out of the car to get a look. In reality I just wanted to give him a chance to check out my ass.

“This is my mom’s car, and she just took it to get inspected, and it passed, so I’m surprised that something is wrong with it,” I told him (which was actually true).

“Well, just make sure she takes it in to get looked at. If you’ll give me your license and registration, you can be on your way.”

While I waited in the car, I called my mom to let her know what was going on.

“He-hello?” she mumbled, half asleep.

“Sorry to wake you up mom, but I just got pulled over, because your tail lights are out.”

“Oh okay,” she cooed.

“No, mom, do you hear what I’m saying? Your tail lights don’t work and I just got pulled over by the cops.”

“Uh huh, okay, see you in the morning,” she said and hung up.

When the cop returned to the car to return my license and registration he told me that I had to drive home with my hazards on.

“Really? But I’m going to look ridiculous!” I argued.

“Ma’am, it’s for your safety. Your tail lights don’t work. That means you are practically invisible from behind.”

At first I was offended until I realized he was still talking about the car.

“Alright, fine.”

Two nights later I returned to Montpelier to have drinks with a friend. When I picked her up from her house, I told her that I couldn’t stay out long, because I didn’t want to get pulled over by the cops again.

Around 9:30PM I dropped her off at her house and drove down the hill towards State Street. That was when I saw the police car pass me going in the opposite direction. I was relieved, because he was going the other way an wouldn’t notice my broken tail lights. However, just in case, I kept my foot on the brake so he couldn’t tell that the tail lights were out.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help. The policeman turned around and followed me until I had to step on the gas and reveal my broken car.

“Ma’am, I pulled you over this evening because your tail lights are out.”

“I know.” I said. “You pulled me over for the same thing a few days ago.”

He bent down to take a closer look. “Oh yeah, I remember you,” he said.

“You just wanted to see me again, didn’t you?” I said with a flirtatious smile.

“The light is still not fixed, huh?”

“Officer, I swear I told my mother about it the very night you pulled me over, and she’s already taken it in to get looked at,” I lied. “It’s just that we need a special part to get it fixed, and so we have to wait for that to come in. You know these electronic cars – they all have fancy parts.”

“Uh huh,” he said, unconvinced.

“Actually, I think it is a fuse or something. Yeah that’s what it is. That’s why they have to order it.”

“Really? Because a fuse is just a piece of metal. That shouldn’t be something you have to special order.”

“Oh, well then I don’t know what it is. And anyway, I don’t really speak car, I’m just trying to sound like i know what I’m talking about. You know how it is, it’s my mom’s car, so I just ignore all the problems with it and let her handle them.”

“Yeah, but you are driving the car, so it is your responsibility.”

At this point, I began to giggle.

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing because I think this is funny. I’m laughing because I can’t believe the coincidence. It’s like, ‘Oh, fancy meeting you here like this.’ I feel like it was meant to be.”

“Ma’am, why don’t you give me your license and registration again, and then you can be on your way.”

“Okay, but seriously, I wasn’t entirely sure when you pulled me over the last time that it meant I couldn’t drive the car or if it was just a recommendation not to.”

“Ma’am I’m telling you this time, you cannot drive the car until the tail light is fixed.”

I nodded in agreement and took my things back.

“This is going to come out wrong,” I said before he walked away. “But I hope I don’t see you again. That is…unless it’s under better circumstances.”

He wasn’t amused, and I’m pretty he didn’t buy my story either, because he followed me all the way home.

When I got there, I texted my friend and told her the story.

“Was he cute?” she asked

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Did you get his digits?” she asked.

“No, but I know how to find him: Late night, no lights.”

My Love(s) At The Price Chopper

My favorite thing to do in Vermont is to go to the Price Chopper grocery store. I’ve started going there for everything. Sometimes I go even when I only need one thing that I could easily get from the corner store. Every chance I get, I’m there looking lost and acting helpless, so the cute, young boys who work there will come to my rescue.

I know it’s un-PC to have such a crush on the puny PC workers, but I can’t resist. After all, who can think about fresh fruit when the soft, succulent sweeties of the Price Chopper are all I’ll ever hunger for.

Forget the deli, all the fresh meat I could ever want is stocking the aisles, bagging my groceries or calling for a clean-up in aisle five. Yeah, all the tenderness I could ever want just told me I owe $43.27 and asked me if I have a Price Chopper card.

One time I caught Freckles staring at me as I bent over to pick-up something I “dropped,” so I asked him to show me the chocolate sauce. When he started to list the aisle, I stopped him. “Could you please show me?” I asked wide-eyed. “I’m terrible with directions.”

Sometimes I ask them for items I’ve bought a hundred times and could find with my eyes closed. Like the other day, I asked the curly haired blondie where the coffee was while standing in front of the aisle where they keep it.

I’m getting sloppy.

Upon returning from weekend away, I couldn’t wait to get back and go the grocery store. Monday morning I rose from my bed and bounded down the stairs to get myself ready for my sexy schoolboys. Only when I opened the cupboards I discovered them fully stocked. My mom entered the kitchen smiling. “I went to the store already, isn’t that great?”

After that I hid the grocery bank card. So long as there are cute boys at the Price Chopper, I’ll be doing all the shopping.

You Have No Events Scheduled Today

One of the things you learn very quickly when pursuing your dream is that (at first) the amount you are busy depends entirely on you. Since no one makes your dream for you, once you initialize, you must put forth a lot of energy (both physical and mental) before it accumulates into a force that will drive itself.

I’ve had this point driven home twice recently. The first was during a massage I received in Boston last weekend. The masseuse sees my father regularly, so knows my story. As she dug her elbow into my hip, trying to work out the tension that had built up there, we discussed my routine and habits.

“Well, since you have no structure or purpose, it is probably difficult to maintain a routine,” she said, unknowingly crushing my soul.

My mom tried to console me when I returned to Vermont with my tail between my legs, but it was no use. This woman saw through the hopes and dreams, the excitement facade, the bullshit, and identified what is really going on: I’m riding out my sabbatical as long as I possibly can, sans goal or desired outcome.

Last night I was hanging out with a friend from my writers group, who is my age and on the same writing path. Only the difference between he and I is that he works and lives in his own place.

As we sat trying to make plans to hang out again, he began reciting his work schedule and thinking about when he is free.

“I’m, err, pretty flexible,” I admitted.

“Right, because you have no schedule or plan,” he said, nonchalantly stamping on my last bit of pride.

Darn, I thought, is this a futile pursuit? After all, I don’t even have a clear idea of what I am pursuing. Right now it is just some nebulous future in which I write and get paid for it, which sounds pretty good, but I don’t know how to make that happen. All the steps I’m taking feel like random movements based largely on chance. I’m like a bird being tossed around by the wind, going this way and that, at the mercy of a force beyond my control.

Someday I would like to be more like a bee, who darts here and there in swift movements that appear random, but if observed closely, reveal a predetermined path and clear destination. Someday I would like to look back on this time and giggle at how worried I was. And on that day, I’d like to be able to say to the person in my shoes:

“You can do it too.”

Please vote for my story on Readers Digest! Takes 2 seconds, and it would really help me out :) Thanks!

A Fowl Snack

I came home from a bike ride yesterday evening to find my mom sitting on the stoop having a late afternoon snack.

“I’m feeding chicken to the chickens,” she informed me.

I paused as the chickens pecked at pieces of their fellow fowls. Then watched as the chickens devoured the snack without an ounce of recognition that they were, in essence, eating themselves.

“If chickens eat chicken, does that make them cannibals?” I asked.

My mom shrugged. It was the kind of shrug that says “I don’t know” and “I don’t care” at the same time. Then she kept on throwing pieces of their dead relatives to the chickens.

And the chickens, they just kept on eating.

I had to turn away, because all I could think about was a giant chicken throwing arms and legs to a crowd of hungry humans. There’s probably a greater metaphor in there, but I just keep going back to people and animals eating themselves.

Maybe the chickens are just too stupid to know the difference between corn feed and the flesh of their fellow fowls, or maybe they don’t care. Or maybe both. In which case, even if they could talk and I asked them what they thought, all they’d need to do is shrug.