My two little wildlings wear so many hats and flow in between them, it is hard for me to keep up on the best of days. They float and multitask and I never know whether I’m dealing with Elsa, Fiona or Merida, I never know if there is a tiger coming for tea, Spirit to be tamed or wolfs and owls to be kept from eating our piglets (that’s a true story though). They have no problem with being one and all at the same time. So often in our everyday life we find ourselves trying to be true to ourselves, stand for something, and so often we forget, that the owl can be called eagle, and sometimes a wolf is called ‘I don’t know’.
We are just in the process of butchering our pigs and I have to admit, the transition from caring for those animals to being the executioner is a hard one. While I’m lucky enough that Scott pulls the trigger, I am still part of the process, the killing, the gutting, skinning, butchering, packaging and cooking in the end. We have cared for these animals all summer long. We have moved them onto fresh grass every week so they would never have to live in their own excrements. We built wallows for them during the hot days and fed them the best food we could find. We have poured our heart, blood and sweat into them, just so they would grow big enough for us to eat. Some days I doubt the sanity of the whole project, until I cook a pork chop, render down the lard and then I know. I know we can wear more than one hat at the same time, we can care for our pigs, name them (the wildlings always ask whom they are eating not what) and make sure they live a meaningful life, and we can kill them so they can be turned into nourishing food. Our pigs have purpose in life and in death. While alive they turn our soils so our seeds can take, they poop and pee and fertilize our soil and feed our microbiology. They grow healthy and strong so in their death they can nourish our bodies. I can only hope my life has half as much purpose as our pig’s in life and in death. When the final second in their life has come, they drop dead over their last feast, they have no idea what hit them and neither them nor their mates care. That is one thing I truly wish to learn from our pigs, the presence of death is nothing they fear, it is nothing they care, it is part of being, it is part of life, in the end we are all born to die. When those pigs end up on our plate and in our soaps and candles, I know that I can wear more than one hat at the same time. I can deeply care and take care and I can appreciate the sacrifice, I can be an owl called eagle, whether the wolf knows or not.
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