The goats that saved me

Sparkle again

Goats. Is there anything they can't do? Hungry? They'll give you milk, cheese, or even meat. Cold? They'll give you a sweater. Weak? Pack goats will quite literally carry your load. Weary? Your goat friends will figuratively carry the load.

I started this Substack a little over a year ago, partly because I felt lost (still do) and partly because I felt like I had found one thing in my life that was so precious I felt an overwhelming desire to share it.

Maybe you know, or perhaps you don't, but I work (for now) in a callous and polarizing industry: politics.

I have promised here that this Substack would not be a place for my politics, so don't close the tab just yet. I'm not about to preach on the political front. It's not what you signed up for, and this space is my personal reprieve from the daily barbs of that toxic political world. Nonetheless, the years I spent in politics give context to my life as an urban farmer and goat evangelist.

I've dedicated nearly two decades - half my life - to politics. Some days, many days, I'm not entirely sure why. I started the way so many do - plucky, naive, and believing I could change the world. When I started, I still had a MySpace page that would auto-play a song when you pulled it up. That world felt like a different place than one where digital assassins lie around every corner, poised to attack.

Fast forward to now - politics feels like a sad, pointless and masochistic bloodsport. Is it because of social media? Is it because of a degradation of faith in our institutions? Education? Doom scrolling? Depression? Pandemic? Pick your poison. It feels like we're all lurching around, trying to get back on a path forward.

I repeat one of my husband's favorite mantras, "chaos is a ladder," several times a day. As a person who loves stability, I keep recalibrating to an ever-changing landscape.

A little over four years ago, when we moved to this little urban farm nestled on the north side of Denver, I was fully immersed in the political world. It was what I did and thought about from the time I woke up in the morning until the moment I went to bed.

Don't get me wrong; I was building and growing a family with my husband, trying to grow in my faith and friendships, and even trying to work out sometimes, maybe. At my deepest core, though, I was a political animal.

Enter: goats.

I got the gateway animals once we moved here. Quail turned into chickens. Chickens into ducks. A night when my husband admitted he liked Guinea fowl turned into a flock of those, too. But then, I finally negotiated my way to the quadrupeds. I got goats.

Goats changed my life.

Goats are complex enough that they can keep your attention. I have met goat people who have dedicated their entire lives to the animals. After I got goats, I met "goat people" and found they have strong opinions about goats - sometimes as polarized as the Democrats are from the Republicans.

The more time I spent with goats, the more I loved them.

After I milked a goat the first time, I started to dream about it (which sounds completely bananas). I would crouch into the quiet of my milk shed and emerge with this elixir that could be a latte, yogurt, or cheese. It was magic.

It started to consume me in a familiar way - it felt like politics - but more wholesome. And I got cheese. Bonus.

The sparkle behind my eyes, worn dull with resignation, started to return.

I remember the day I called one of my best friends and fellow politicos, Mary Katharine, and exclaimed, "Goats make me realize there's a whole world of people who care about other things. REAL THINGS!" It was like I was a baby, finally discovering I had feet.

Of course, until then, I knew there was a world of people who cared about things other than politics; it just never made sense to me. It seemed almost cute. How could anyone ever care about anything other than politics? It was THE MOST IMPORTANT thing in the world. Until it wasn't.

The first time I ate my own goat cheese, I was hooked. There's no zealot like a convert, and there's no conversion like the first taste of a fresh chevre.

I can discern the sweetness of the grass, the brightness of the sunshine, and every ounce of work and love in a spoonful of cheese. Having goats is a constant grounding back to the real world. I can close the laptop's clamshell and walk outside to run my fingers through their fur and bury my face in their necks to breathe in the comforting musk. I’m transported back to the real world.

Last night, I was called in to comment on a political rally. One of the speakers referred to my friends and me as "whores."

I can soothe myself with self-talk and thick skin - "politics isn't beanbag," "what doesn't kill me makes me stronger," "I signed up for this because I speak out," and "you're only getting flack if you're over the target." It's a constant loop.

We must harden ourselves until we're almost unrecognizable to engage in a world where we make an impact. But, in doing so, we can lose what brought us to it in the first place.

I didn't even know how much I missed the drumbeat of constant joy until I had goats. They're tangible. Their real. Sometimes having goats is heartbreakingly brutal, but always honest.

Here's the thing about this Substack - it's not about politics or even about goats - I'm here to remind you that out there, somewhere in the real world, there is still the unexpected glimmer in your eye.

You might find it baking bread, in a latte, or just reading my weird stories here. Find it. Seek it. It’s there. Politics and the internet are real and powerful, but so are the seeds bursting through the soil and the fresh milk that turns into cheese.

Every moment we spend in the world comes with an opportunity cost: the cost of the next best alternative that we could be doing. Calculate your opportunity costs wisely because there is so much more out there than what’s on this screen.

This Substack isn't really a "how-to" on urban farming. Yes, please try some new stuff. Plant some herbs on your windowsill. Start a garden. Maybe even get a few chickens. I don't expect anyone who reads this will necessarily go out and buy goats - but if you do, I hope they make you sparkle again.