We made it, my friends — our passage from one calendar year to another is complete! Our celebrations were merry indeed: nachos and bingo at the legion, late night pizza made in my new outdoor pizza oven, and then watching the ball drop in NYC in eastern time so we could all be in bed by 10:30 p.m.
Mid-20s me might have scoffed at the celebration, (including that “late-night” pizza at 9 p.m.) but mid-40s me thought it was perfect. The kids did, too, although my son insisted next year is the year he definitely should get to stay up until midnight.
If you’ve been here for a while, you know I don’t usually put much store in New Year’s resolutions, or even the idea that this is a particularly potent time to celebrate anything “new.” (Spring, with all the new buds and baby animals, seems like a more logical time…)
In fact, coming into 2024, I wrote an essay titled: ‘New Year, Same Old You.’ I stand by the idea that we don’t have to change just because numbers on a calendar do, but both this year and last, I could feel it — the change. Even in the depths of winter, when all seems to be lying fallow, transformation is possible — it may be so far underground you can’t see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
As just one example, my ewes are currently with a buck. For many of them, that means there’s a tiny baby growing inside their bodies now. We won’t get to meet those babies until May, but they are already here with us, quietly gathering material form.
As for me, I feel like I’ve finally broken out of some old patterns. This is due to a lot of things, including the chronic illness journey that slowed me down and taught me how to take better care of myself, as well as enough time spent human-ing to have a decent data set for a guide.
The result is a new way of working that better honors the unfurling. Here on the Northern Plains, we are still very much in the wintering phase of the year. The buds and the blossoms aren’t ready to burst open yet; the sap is still quietly resting, too. It’s not the time to begin the heady ascent to the leaf crowns. And I am tending to the roots of several projects, one in particular I’d like to share with you all.
At the heart of all human life are stories that connect us — to the land, to one another and to the sacred. Much of my work over the last decade has been informed by the word ‘kith’ as a way to name the deep relationships that shape belonging. Kith (as opposed to ‘kin,’ which implies relationships that carry a genetic component) includes not only the people we live with, but the animals, plants, even the weather. Modern life encourages us to live “in our heads” — disconnected from the physical and spiritual wisdom that comes from being rooted in place. This year, I will be digging even deeper into stories that explore how wisdom becomes embodied — a roadmap for how people can rediscover spirituality through their hands, their senses and the places they call home.
To that end, I’m beginning a weekly field recording series called “Keeping Kith: Notes from the Living Prairie.” Each episode is recorded outdoors — while I’m with the flock, in the barn or walking across the prairie — and left mostly unedited on purpose. I won’t clean up the wind noises. I won’t remove the bird song or the sheep baaaaaaas or the long pauses. Whatever arrives gets to stay.
The result, I hope, is a series that feels intimate, surprising and alive — part field note, part listening exercise, part quiet companionship, because these are not abstract ideas, but felt practices that reflect what it means to be in a reciprocal relationship with our kith… and I’m so excited to share this journey with you! I will share more details about how to listen next week.
(Eliza Blue is a shepherd, folk musician and writer residing in western South Dakota. In addition to writing her weekly column, “Little Pasture on the Prairie,” she writes and produces audio postcards from her ranch and just released her first book, “Accidental Rancher.” She also has a weekly show, “Live from the Home Farm,” that broadcasts on social media every Saturday night from her ranch.)
