Hard to Say Goodbye

Goodbyes are tough.  No matter how long I have to prepare, it’s difficult for me to embrace the finality of a particular period or relationship…even when it’s with a cow.  Last week, Weldon and I sold Bambi, our milk cow.  When we purchased her two years ago we were eager to jump into the delicious possibilities that home dairy would offer.  Though our plate was fairly full at the time, we didn't expect that after only one full season of milking, life would require us to take a sabbatical and force us to say goodbye to Bambi so soon.

Bambi first came to our farm in the summer of 2011.  Nearly a year later when it came time to dry her off in preparation for the birth of her next calf, there were big changes brewing for Weldon and me.  Weldon’s defenses against Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) were obviously crumbling – a prospect we could not stomach.  We had begun making peace with the fact that our retail farm business needed to close.  As this process unfolded throughout 2012 we were faced with more ultimatums than we could have ever expected.  Every activity around which we’d expected to define our homestead was put on trial: our business, livestock, gardening, employment, house plans, starting a family, income streams, and milking, among others.  One by one, we let go of most of what we’d accumulated and planned for our homestead farm.

Bambi went to pasture with a small herd of my in-laws’ cattle.  She had a heifer calf we called Zoe, but we decided not to milk.  The daily commitment to hand-milk and the fairly overwhelming effort to use the multiplying jars in the fridge were more than we could take on.  Last month we agreed that the most prudent move was to find another good home for Bambi where she could be what she really is…a milk cow.  While an uncomfortable one, the decision wasn't a difficult one to make.  We knew there was no shame in acknowledging that our home dairy efforts would have to wait until our other ducks were in a row.  Of course there is no way of knowing when that will be.

As if the wind carried our intentions with it, we learned a couple weeks ago that a small local dairy (owned by friends) was in desperate need of another good cow.  They wanted a Jersey who produced rich milk, lots of cream, and healthy babies.  Our Bambi was a perfect fit.  Weldon and I heaved a sigh of relief, agreed on a price, and planned a pick-up date.  The deal was done and it was as good a situation as we could ask for.  But it still made me sad…

When we started milking I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it.  It sounds a little kooky, but the feminine aura of milking was something that deeply resonated with me.  More than most of our livestock, there needed to be a kinship, an intimacy with this animal.  As soon as I was confident with the process (and my aching forearms had time to adjust), I took pleasure in the quiet morning routine: the smells, her warmth, the percussive streams of milk against the pail, the slow passage of thirty minutes’ time.  Sometimes, after milking was finished, I would rub on Bambi’s face and ears as she drowsily melted into the “massage”.  She’d nuzzle into me and lick my jeans like a mammoth, prickly-tongued dog.  Weldon would shake his head and smile.  What a pair she and I made!  In time, the convenience and practicality of once-a-day milking became more and more appealing.  We took what we needed and let her calf load up on the rest of the nutrients.  I did most of the morning milking and Weldon was the dairy master in the kitchen.  He filled our larder with butter, cheese, buttermilk, ice cream, and yogurt.  Unfortunately, just as we got a good system in place and grew accustomed to the culinary treasures, we had to leave them behind.  This, like all the others, became a price we were willing to pay for a healthy future.  

I am learning that there are difficult seasons in life when letting go is the only way.  Saying goodbye can be the difference between freedom and captivity.  Knowing when the time has come to let go makes all the difference in the world.  Weldon and I could have stalwartly stuck to our guns and kept “living our dream”, but the emotional, physical, psychological, relational, and financial cost would have turned that dream into more of a nightmare.  What had been pleasures of our life would soon be weighty shackles.  Many individuals have found themselves in the position of taking on too much or holding on too long -- for us, the grim realities of CFS demanded that we all but completely unload. Though sometimes painful, our goodbyes have become hopeful steps in a healing direction.  Someday soon, without the shadow of CFS, our landscape will unfurl like the vitality of spring.  I realize that many situations are neither this dire nor this complex, but the lesson remains the same:  What is the whole cost?  Is it truly worth it in the bigger picture? 

The day before Bambi left I clomped out to the pasture to see her.  She and Zoe were grazing in the early evening light.  Zoe spooked and ran off at the sound of my footfall, but Bambi stood calmly when I said her name.  She listened to me talk.  I thanked her for her friendship and for teaching me to milk.  I assured her that the new farm was a good one and her future would be productive and peaceful.  And then we said goodbye.