Surprisingly, driving 25 minutes across town to an airbandb
CAN transform your perspective. I has betting on that when I booked the studio
apartment at Tikkun Farm in Mt Healthy as my Mother’s Day gift. After weeks of
non-stop family health issues and care giving, my body and spirit demanded the
break.
My departure was timed to coincide with the close of Sunday’s
Quaker worship, grounding me in a richer, deeper retreat for two nights and
three days.
Choosing to spend my precious time at Tikkun (meaning repair
or restore in Hebrew) was no accident. Mary Laymon, who runs the non-profit
farm and healing center with her husband, had been my spiritual director
sporadically over a couple of years and I had participated in her retreats. She
has gifts for hospitality, listening, facilitating healing and collecting
people and animals. I needed to be here.
You book one of her three spaces on airbandb. I had selected
the larger farmhouse room and watched it fill as I waited to ensure family
members were out of danger. Yet, I knew I could linger no longer and my husband
convinced me to rent the apartment, it was a gift and cost shouldn’t matter, he
said. And so I hit purchase. Of course, life became more complicated, but this
was nonrefundable – as if I needed an excuse as a boundary – and I went.
A jaunt over Cross County Highway quickly landed me the
other side of town, which may as well have been another city. There is
something about a drive to soften the transition from the busyness of everyday
life to a contemplative rhythm. As I eased off onto Hamilton Road, my mode
shifted as the speedometer dipped. I ambled through a modest neighborhood of
solid WWII houses, turned off onto a sleepy, leafy street and found the house
with the split-rail fence, just as Mary had promised in her airbandb response.
I parked in front of the milk house, where the penthouse
would be my cozy and comfortable headquarters for some alone-time and R &
R. Mary was on vacation, so I let myself in via the lock codes, dragged my
luggage up the steps – I had been forewarned – changed into farm clothes and
decided to explore. I was enthralled with the Bhutanese men and women amassing
trimmed honeysuckle branches in the garden and gravitated toward their children
near the barn. They directed me to meet Spike, one of eight resident alpacas
and the mayor of the farm. They nudged me to enter the pen. Spike was resting
on a bare patch of circle, but arose when I called his name. He came forward, sniffed
me, granting permission to pet him. When my hand went to his head, something
slimy flung at my face. “He spit on you,” the kids called. That was a new
experience. I later learned he does not like his head touched and was probably
mad because I had no feed for him. Lesson learned. I will admire Spike from afar.
As I returned to my treetop space, I unpacked, opened my
bottle of Bordeaux (I had stopped by Trader Joe’s for the basic food groups:
red wine, chocolate and reduced-fat potato chips) and headed to my private
patio to savor the New York Times, my Sunday treat. The sting of heat and
humidity had dissipated during worship and it was gloriously cloudless, sunny,
cool and windy. I spent hours reading before heading in to cook my dinner: a
free-range chicken breast, steamed asparagus and herbed new potatoes. The thick
breast took a bit of cooking, but I had all the time in the world. Over my rooftop,
I observed the Bhutanese building structures in the garden and the rumble of
cars coming and going over the gravel drive. I reveled in the air moving
through the apartment.
Dinner savored, I made a cup of decaf and headed out for an
evening jaunt as the sun began to set. The Bhutanese had gone, but I was
greeted by Gypsy Rose Lee and Wesley, two hairy Chinese Cresteds belonging to
CJ, who tends the garden, teaches yoga and helps with summer camp. I played
fetch with Gypsy after she’d warmed up – she’s the shy one – while CJ weeded. A
punk of incense laced with citronella smoked in her corner, warding off bugs
and providing a gentle ambiance. She gave me a more formal tour – the gardens,
pasture, milk house with a kitchen and art space – ending in the barn as we perched
at the front window of Tikkun, overlooking the pasture, alpacas, chickens and
guinea fowl. We watched the sky grow dark, a satellite dip lower and the
fireflies turn on. Magic was in the air. CJ says she feels the imprint of the
sacredness here. I do, too.
I was primed for tranquil sleep in the fluffy king bed and open
windows. I’d set the alarm for 8 am to make yoga, but the natural light woke me
earlier. I laid in bed a bit, emerging from my cocoon with enough time to drive
to College Hill Coffee, grab a cup and change for the yoga donation.
Unfortunately, the coffee shop is closed Mondays, so I landed a not-so-good,
fast-food blend to tide me over. Wesley greeted my return; CJ and Gypsy were
not far behind. We sat on the patio until Cassie arrived to teach yoga. I’ve
done yoga at the beach and on the pool deck, but never on a barn floor. With
two layers of cushion and a bright breeze flowing through the chinks in the
barn’s armor, it was delicious; yummy as my beloved first yoga teacher, Renee,
would say. Cassie was gentle and CJ showed me some better alignment. Yoga at
the gym is not the same as in a smaller, hands-on session. Cassie reiterated that
self care was essential and nudged us toward an intention. I chose to be
peaceful here and now and to carry that with me, away from Tikkun. Her skilled
hands smudged with lavender oil relaxed my shoulders, cupped my face and
cradled my head. Her touch was healing.
CJ escorted me to the main house for breakfast eggs and a
cup of coffee. There I met the housemaid Lissa and a contractor/farm friend dressed
in a kilt preparing for the summer-camp onslaught. Lissa, too, had been an
airbandb guest and stayed on. “So, Mary added you to her menagerie,” I said.
She laughed and agreed. I dawdled over two cups of coffee, an introduction to
alpaca-wool production, then collected my beautifully dirty, unrefrigerated
eggs to head back to my quarters.
I putzed around, read, wrote and showered, then headed out
for a walkabout in the neighborhood. I wanted to explore on foot where I was. I
traveled down the lane, grabbing a good view of the farm, doubling back accompanied
by one of the Bhutan farmers. We parted ways as I headed toward downtown Mt.
Healthy, three blocks away. I waited an eternity at the intersection of Adams and
Hamilton. The Animal House pet store lured me across the bustling artery. The
bright blue Victorian clapboard is filled with a multitude of furry pets –
dogs, cats, rabbits, Guinea pigs, gerbils, hamsters and, sadly, feeder rats. I
steered clear of more slimy creatures. If you’re over 18, you can handle the
pets. The employees seem to care about what they do and it’s a pleasant
antidote to the big-box pet marts. I had no idea neighborhood pet shops existed
outside of Marc Brown’s Arthur books. A brown-and-cream teddy bear bichon/shih
tzu clamored for my
attention and I carried him around the pet store. Wesley had broken me in the
night before. I can see myself in the future with something similar, although
the hairless Chi-chi would be better for my allergies. Petting him was not
pleasurable, more like rubbing my hand on sandpaper.
After visiting the Animal House, I ventured back across the
street to Mt Healthy Dairy bar for a cool drink on another, dry, breezy, sunny
day. I met a local woman, feeding her 18-month-old great niece ice cream. I
never witnessed a bigger smile. I piddled back through the neighborhood of
eclectic houses and down the lane to the farm. This is a neighborhood I could
embrace: a bit more edgy, working-class than mine with some eccentricities such
as a small dairy-farm turned retreat center, refugee families and native
Westsiders.
I sipped a glass of wine of on the patio and read til
dinner, tossing my leftovers into a festive salad. CJ turned up, naturally
after Wesley, and we chatted. Karen, who rented the room I originally wanted,
returned from a full day in the sun, dressed in long sleeves and a becoming
Indiana Jones hat. Turns out she really is an archaeologist and peruses
public-works construction sites to ensure they’re not displacing history. While
she could not reveal the location, she said despite advanced technology, the crews’ human experience
located an ancient farm site. It was a good day, she said. I agree.
After another cool, breezy night in the treetops, I awakened
early with the sun and began packing. I relished time for yoga, connecting with
Mary, whom I heard return late from vacation, and getting ready for an afternoon
work assignment. Cassie opted for yoga inside the farmhouse for fear of the
pestering guinea hens. Mary told her she just had to stomp hard and they’d
flea. “You should not be afraid of any animals on the farm.”
We pushed aside furniture I the communal living room and,
instantly, we were transported with Cassie’s subdued style. Again, she ended
her class with gently touch ad lavender oil.
I cooked my farm egg, readied for work, packed the car and
took a final stroll around the farm, breathing in the relaxation to hold for
when I needed a reminder. I found Mary in the barn giving a tour, thanked her
and drove off to the world of work, caregiving and busyness, certain to return.
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