Beware of busy nothings . . .

Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. - Jane Austen

Here at the ranch, we brand calves the Old Fashioned Way, cowboys on horseback, twirling lassos, and red-hot branding irons. It’s dusty, dirty, and the fragrance is reminiscent of a barbecue. Of course, that depends on the talents of your chef.

               

A few weeks ago, at our last branding of the year, I noticed there were six branding irons in the “pot." (It's our one concession to technology, a propane torch heating the irons instead of a “real” fire.) 

Why so many brands, I wondered, since only two irons are required to compose our brand? (Some days, I have time to ponder random thoughts, depending how handy the cowboys are at roping.)

I watched the brand handler. He replaced the just-used irons at the end of the pot and slid the next set of irons closer to the flame.

Ah, so there’s always a set of hot irons ready. Makes sense. 

Considering this, then, I wondered where the old adage "too many irons in the fire" came from. (Obviously, I had too much time to think that day; the cowboys must have missed a lot of loops.)

What would happen if the branding pot was cluttered with too many irons, not just those of the ranch, but all the irons represented by the cowboys helping at the branding. And pile in a few more, just for good measure. How about those of the neighbours? And maybe some famous historical brands?

There’s gonna be a wreck.

Too many irons in the fire and they won't heat properly, so brands will be botched by using a cold iron. In the chaos, that calf might end out sporting a Rafter Lazy M instead of a Circle P. And if the grass doesn’t get set ablaze first, some unsuspecting cowboy (or helper, like me) might get the left hip of his Wranglers scorched.


Right spot. Wrong critter.


It seems to be the norm nowadays to have many irons in the fire, and the more, the better, and that busy-ness is a virtue that is synonymous with godliness. I'm not denying there are tasks and responsibilities that must be done, done well, and regularly. We all have families, jobs, school, homes, or farms.

(Is this where I mention the many organizational books on the market that are supposed to help keep our lives simple, but really give us more time to cram more stuff into our day?)

How much is too much? When is it time to draw back, delete that which is just so much busy work or just plain old time-wasting? What really matters in the light of eternity?

Keep traditions alive, but choose those things that will leave a positive mark, not a botched scar of weariness, irritation, and disappointment across your memories or the memories of your family.

  It's not so much how busy you are, but why you are busy.The bee is praised; the mosquito is swatted. - Marie O'Conner

Maybe it’s time to let some irons cool. The world won’t spin off its axis if we whoa up a bit on our going hither and yon. Take a few minutes . . .  or hours . . . to smell the roses . . . or at least get a good whiff of branding smoke. 

Less is always more.
Finding simplicity is sometimes difficult.
Pull some of those irons from the fire, before someone gets burned.

    Beware the barrenness of a busy life. -Socrates

A murder . . . or . . . 
embracing a happier state of mind 


A few weeks ago, I saw a murder  . . . of crows. It's the  term for a gathering of the raucous black birds, and according to James Lipton, author of An Exaltation of Larks, the expression dates back to 1450 as "mursher of crowys." By 1476, it had evolved into "murther of crowes." Whether or not the phrase was inspired by the folkloric belief that crows were harbingers of death, or if it's a poetic creation, or if it's simply a translating mistake, it's an etymological mystery.

But, one thing is for certain.                                 
Gathering crows herald the coming of a new season.


Today's warm breezes are the last sweet breaths of summer.


Soon frost will lace the petunias and fringe the edges of the water dugouts. The air will be tinged with woodsmoke and the sad, sweet scent of moldering leaves, reminding me of my childhood, of first days of school and the fragrance of new crayons and Macintosh apples, of still-crisp white blouses and sharp, unchewed pencils. The softness of misty morning fog.

                                            
I'm in a season of being a grandma to two wonderful and beautiful girls, of painting, writing, and keeping The Cowboy happy, whether it's baking an apple pie or going with him to take salt to the cattle, but most of all, of bending, like a willow, to the demands each season brings, from the urgency of calving time to the dark days of winter.


It's all part of the cycle of life. Seasons of rainfall that bring refreshment . . . or flooding. Seasons of sunshine that produce a harvest . . . or drought. Spells of sadness or joy, lively years with children or the quietness of the empty nest.

“To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.”  George Santayana

I'm sure we'd all love a perpetual spring or summer, to never have to face the driving snows and bitter cold of winter. And likewise, there are times we'd love to return to our past, to sunnier, happier days. But to wish back the past would be like hot cocoa on a summer day or a robin in the snow. Everything has its rightful time.

A new season replaces the old, and maybe it won't be better than the last one, but it will be different, with a fresh opportunity to see the hand of God, to be part of the plan He spun into motion at the touch of His finger, just as He's touching the leaves today, gilding them with gold and scarlet.                                      


I hope you'll join me as the seasons come and go here at the ranch. The coffee's always on. 


Goodbye, crows. I know you'll be back.