When life is so full it hurts and you feel like you cannot carry it all any more, tiny miracles bloom.
A super moon washing the land in blue light as you steal through the cold quiet night with your baby strapped to your chest, hunting cria in the wee hours.
A baby who stays asleep when you put him down (this has happened only 3 or 4 times in 8 months) so your husband, who has literally not slept in 3 days to meet a work deadline, can watch the baby while you try to save the life of a tiny creature that is all spidery legs, dark chocolate poodle hair, and a neck that goes on for days.
A farmer neighbor who brings you sheep milk replacer formula so you can walk in tiny circles inside the hot confines of a sauna, using a syringe to force feed a creature who can curve its long next backwards in a C so it's head is upside down.
A friend who comes over to help treat an alpaca and check her teats, offering levity, joy, and a sense of adventure to a task that could otherwise feel overwhelming.
A place inside of yourself where confidence blooms and you handle a large alpaca effortlessly (normally this part of homesteading terrifies me - personality wise, alpacas are like cats who are bigger than you).
And most especially, that magical moment, when you glide down a frost covered hill with a baby bottle. In the warm glow of the alpaca hoop, past the large bodies of friendly sheep, you see a cria tail curled up and a baby who might finally be nursing 30 hours after birth. The baby seems to try to nurse on some fur, too, but it licks its lips before cushing in the deep hay in front of the space heater. You dare to hope this tiny creature might live and might live without you becoming its surrogate mother. And so you wander back into the house and write, because today has been so long and in a short piece of time, you need to go outside again, to make sure the baby is still okay.
Some days feel like a whole life. Like a journey. An emotional odyssey that takes you from despair to gratitude.