“You kids just want to shove me into whatever version of myself is most convenient for you!”  I lash out at Saoirse.

She doesn’t deserve it.

There’s a jazz concert tonight.  I want to look nice.  Last summer I bought some pretty new clothes that might fit under the harness for my bari.  I’ve yet to wear them.  I try them on for her in the morning.

Saoirse will be wearing a purple a sequin dress with fringe when she performs tonight.  We picked it out over the winter at a thrift store on the lower East side.  She will look glorious.  I twirl in a pair of black slacks, a black shirt  that might or might not be too hot, and the new, colorful, knee-length vest.  She wrinkles her nose.

“I think you’ll be more comfortable in jeans,” she tells me, studying the slacks.

“And maybe that cotton long sleeve t-shirt you usually wear.”

“And maybe lose the vest.”

Her fashion advice to me in my moment of need:

Just keep looking like I expect you to look, is what I feel like she tells me.

So.  Yeah.  An outburst.

She’s horrified that she has caused me such distress.  “I just think you’re beautiful as you are!”  She exclaims.

“You don’t even know who I am!”

I shout back.

I stomp back to my room, dump the slacks, the vest, the shirt.  I yank on the jeans, pull on a tank top, throw on an over-shirt and stomp out the door.

I went through menopause a few years ago.  I don’t think I have hormones to blame for my outbursts any longer.

But there’s still just so. Much. Change.

My kids don’t need me like they used to.  Corey is nearly finished with college and he’s off and making his own decisions.  Saoirse is gone to her boyfriend’s most weekends.  Ula completed all her home school requirements last winter.

And the truth is, I don’t want to be needed right now.

I’ve spent the past few decades putting the kids’ needs ahead of my own.

Putting the farm’s needs ahead of my own.

Putting my parent’s needs ahead of my own.

Putting my husband’s needs ahead of my own.

And the pandemic just magnified it all.  Looking back, I worked so hard to lift spirits, to keep the business running, to create routines, to maintain safety protocols and nourish bodies and souls, it’s as though the only thing I was left knowing was how to be needed.  How to be essential.

I’m beginning to find that idea just exhausting.

But the trouble comes as I try to shed it.  As I literally try to change my clothes.

My daughter doesn’t know me if I don’t look like she expects.

But worse than that, I feel like I don’t know myself.

As I stomp out the door and head to town, I’m confronted with this cold hard fact:

I don’t want to be needed.  I want what Shannon wants.

But, see, Shannon wants for the land, for the family, for the community.

Shannon wants for the farm to thrive, for her customers to be happy, for the bills to be paid, so that the care of the pastures and the livestock and the cafe can continue on and on and on, so the community will always have a good farm, so that it will always have a good cafe for a gathering space, so that there will always be a place to buy food and be in good company.

Shannon wants for the good of the whole.

That’s how a farm woman rolls.

But what does Shannon want for herself?

Can a farm woman operating a family business make that distinction?  Can she peel herself away from all the greater good of the whole long enough to ask herself that question?

Does she dare?

Because what if she did?  What if answering that simple question brought everything toppling down?

I’m driving my car away. I don’t even know where to go.  It’s hours before the concert.

I could go anywhere.

I have the car.  I have the gas.  I have the money.  I don’t even have anywhere to be for the next few hours.

I could do whatever I want.

I’m not needed anyplace.

And I nearly double over with agony, because…

I can’t think of anything.

Is this what life after 50 is like?  We climb, we build, we give ourselves to the job, the business, the family….And then – gasp — and then — What?  We get to a point where we can do something for ourselves, and we’ve lost touch with what ourselves would like?

Think, I tell myself, think.  Something.  Do something for yourself.  What. Would. Shannon. Want?

I approach the grocery store.

Then I think of something.  I’m hungry.

But I’m not home where I can cook.  And I don’t like to spend money on junk food.  Maybe I should just go get a granola bar.  It wouldn’t cost much, it would give me some nutrition.

No.  I call myself back.  I’m not asking what I should do.

I’m asking what I want.

And finally I come up with something.

I want a banana peanut butter coffee smoothie.

I draw my breath in.  Yes!  I’ve done it!  It’s a small step, but hey!  I’ve come up with something!

Trouble is, there’s no one in Cobleskill who makes banana peanut butter coffee smoothies.

But there is a tiny cafe along the Cobleskill creek, Tagua Nut.  Sometimes Ula and I go there for lunch.  I know for a fact that they don’t sell banana peanut butter coffee smoothies.

But I think through their menu options.

I know their kitchen has to stock bananas.

And coffee.

And peanut butter.

And a blender.

And ice.

And I know something else:

The cafe is owned and staffed by a few women who just seem to love to take care of people.

I know what that’s like.

I also know how annoying it can be when someone orders off-menu.

But I decide to take the chance. I pull in.  It’s mid-afternoon, so the place is empty.  I walk up to the counter and make my request.

“Let’s do this!”  The cook smiles and starts peeling a banana.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting beside the Cobleskill Creek, reading a book and sipping the most delicious smoothie I’ve ever had in my entire life.  I hear the cook’s blender going again.  She’s decided she’d like to try a banana coffee peanut butter smoothie for herself.

I cry a little as I drink.  I feel guilty that, in order to get what I wanted, I had to find someone who probably has a disposition similar to my own….a pleaser, a rescuer, a doer…. and get her to serve me.

But what she has done is medicine in my body.

I feel so loved.  I feel so cared for.  I feel so grateful.

I gaze at the sunlight reflecting off the water as it washes over the cobbles in the creek, gob-smacked about how powerful that simple act of caring can feel in a moment of need.

In receiving the medicine of another, I taste my own.

And it’s worthy, and lovely, and potent and healing.

In this moment of sifting, of separating Shannon’s wants from Shannon’s values, the two are reunited once more.

Only, not quite.   A tiny seed has begun to grow inside me.  Shannon’s wants are starting to take root.  They are entwined around the sturdy trunk of Shannon’s values, but they definitely are reaching for the sunlight more and more.

I finish my smoothie and drive over to get ready for the jazz concert.  Saoirse meets me there with a bag stuffed with wardrobe options, wanting me to look at feel my best, wanting to make up for our morning row.  I laugh and apologize to her for my outburst.  “Nothing fits under the saxophone harness anyhow,” I tell her.  I stick with a tank top and jeans, pull on my leather harness and strap on my bari.  This horn, latched to my body, is the only outfit I feel like wearing these days.    I bring the sax to my lips to get ready for a night of music, knowing that this, too, is something Shannon truly wants.

If you enjoyed this, please share this podcast with friends & family to get the ideas to spread.  Better still, you can help make the magic happen for as little as $1/month by hopping over to Patreon and looking up Shannon Hayes.  Or, if it’s easier, you can also donate to support the podcast by sending a check to Shannon Hayes, ℅ Sap Bush Hollow Farm, 832 W. Fulton Rd, West Fulton, NY  12194.

And that’s a really important thing to do, because all of this— the podcast, the blog, the books and the creative recharging that happens over fall and winter—   are a result of the support of my patrons on Patreon.  This podcast operates much like public radio.  It is freely available to all, made possible by the gifts from our patrons.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons Tonja Palmer and Anne Howe.  Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you!

To explore Sap Bush Hollow Farm & Cafe, visit https://www.sapbushfarmstore.com.