The Piano and the Sun

Some days, joy is just brisket, sunlight, and the quiet promise of something long overdue.

Some days, joy is just brisket, sunlight, and the quiet promise of something long overdue.

Yesterday was a good day.

Brisket with Dad. Hot sun. Animals all around me. That’s it—that was enough.

I’ve got too many irons in the fire.

And that’s okay.

I’m working each one as I can. I refuse to rush. I won’t push myself to the breaking point. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. I’m just trying to get as much done before winter as I can—and still remember to breathe.

It’s too easy to get swept up in the stress of life and forget to find those quiet, joyful moments.

To laugh.

To sit in the sun.

To eat brisket with someone you love.

I don’t think I’ll ever dance again—not like I’d like to.

But Monday? My childhood piano is finally going for a tune-up. And in two weeks, coming home.

After years of hearing “no” because someone else “wanted to learn,” it’s coming back to me. It’s getting tuned and cleaned, and then—she joins me here.

I’ve wanted this for over twenty years.

Soon, I’ll be playing again.

Not for applause. Not for recitals. Just for me.

With only the animals to hear.

I’ve already picked the spot—right by the window, where I can see the world I’m building while the notes pour out.

It’ll help my hands, too. Keep them moving. Keep the music inside me from going still.

I’ve missed it more than I realized.

Just like I’ve missed other pieces of myself.

Growing up, we let parts of ourselves get buried under the daily grind.

Under “responsibilities.”

Under pain.

Under survival.

Under the weight of others relying on us.

We forget that joy can be quiet.

That laughter can be silly.

That music doesn’t need an audience.

I’m over worrying about the mundane.

Over just surviving each painful day like a chore list.

Over the pressure to stay busy, stay useful, stay productive.

Over letting others dictate what is success or failure.

Over fake politness.

Over obsessing about others judgment.

Over others opinions.

And over all the rest of the fakeness plaguing the world today.

Screw society’s addiction to stress.

I want more fun. More silliness.

More quiet moments that make me smile just because.

And if that means carving out a little bubble in this chaotic world where I can just… be—

Then I’ll be quite content.

Find your joy with those you care about. Hold it close. Cherish it.

And if you don’t feel there is enough of it in your life…

Make time for it.

And make time for those in your life that could use more of it as well.

Love & Laughter are infectious. Spread that instead of spreading the societal norms of stress & chaos.

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A Cheep Surprise by the Muscovy Brooder

(I forgot to post this last week.)

Yesterday morning, while making the usual rounds at feeding time, I heard something unexpected: extra cheeping near the Muscovy brooder.

Now, I’ve known for a while that one of the hens had been sneaking off to lay somewhere in that area. I just could never seem to find the nest, and it had been quietly driving me nuts for weeks.

But the cheeping was getting louder… and more desperate.

I followed the sound until I finally found it—a single, determined little peeper nestled among a clutch of eggs. Not far from that? A second, cold nest. My heart sank for a second, but I scooped up the warm chick without hesitation.

Momma hen was nowhere to be found, and while I know she’ll likely return soon, there’s a wildcard in the yard, my daughter’s Malamute. And let me tell you, I trust that dog about as much as I trust a great white shark not to bite.

This little one is special. Really special.

The mother? One of my original Cornish hens.
The father? Could be the White Leghorn rooster… or the Alaska Ninja Roo. Either way, this chick is a mix I hadn’t planned on until next year at the earliest, but nature clearly had other plans.

So today, Momma Hen’s getting a private suite, and any new hatchlings that follow will join her there safely. For now, the lone chick is in with this year’s freshly arrived original Cornish batch, warm and content.

And yes—I’m definitely marking today on the calendar. I’ll be watching this one and its future siblings closely. Who knows what kind of traits and temperament they’ll carry?

And the best part?

I’ve got a broody Cornish hen.

Can we say AWESOME?

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A Note to the Woman Who Feels Broken

Standing on the Edge | Wednesday Dispatch

You don’t owe the world strength today.

If all you did this morning was rise enough to feed what depends on you, that is enough.
If you lay back down in pain, exhaustion, or ache, that does not make you lazy or less.
It makes you human. It makes you tired. It makes you in need of gentleness.

I know, because that was me yesterday morning.

I saw to the goats and flocks, the dogs & cats, made sure everyone had feed and water, and then I crawled back beneath the blankets. My body ached in too many places to count. The weight, not emotional or even mental, but physical- the weight of pain was nearly too heavy to bare.

Sometimes, being broken doesn’t look dramatic.
It looks like feeding the animals and then curling up in bed with a heating pad.
It looks like whispering “I’ll try again later,” and meaning it with all the tenderness you have left.

And later, I did.

I rose again. Slower this time, but steady. By noon, the bouts of intermediate sun had burned off the last of the morning rain, and I made my way out to the duck and goose pen. The air smelled like mud and wet feathers. They greeted me with chatter and splashing, more curious than demanding.

There was no grand moment—just a quiet rhythm returning. One scoop of peat moss, one emptying of their mucky pool, one task at a time. And with each small thing, I felt a little more like myself again.

The happy honks and quacks as crisp clean water filled their pool, and fresh soft peat moss covered their mud soaked run were evidence enough. They were happy. That’s all that mattered.

The animals don’t expect perfection from us.
They trust us in small doses, with muddy boots and soft voices.
Maybe we should trust ourselves the same way.

So, to the woman who feels broken: you are still good.
You are still trying. You are still here.

And that is not failure.
That is faith.

One step at a time, even if the first is from your bed to the barn, or wherever you need to go.

— From the edge of the world, with care and understanding
🪶 Eden’s Edge

Be gentle with yourself, be forgiving of yourself, and above all—love yourself, even on the rough days. 🌿

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🌿 About Me: Farming From the Edge of Everything

I live on the edge of the world — in rural Alaska — and I farm with a body that many doctors gave up on long ago. I’ve been told to stay down, stay still, and stay quiet.

I’ve never been good at doing what I’m told. Ever

🩺 What I Live With

I have Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis (PPMS), a form that I can’t treat conventionally due to severe allergic reactions. I also live with:

  • An unknown form of Dysautonomia (undiagnosed because insurance won’t cover the specialists)
  • Hemiplegic Migraines that mimic strokes
  • Myoclonic Seizures and a handful of neurological conditions that tag along like bad company
  • No sensation in my legs, arms, shoulders, or upper back — not numb, but gone

Once, a rancher accidentally parked a skid steer on my foot. I laughed when I told him. I couldn’t feel it. He panicked. I didn’t. I walked away with a bruise and a story.

🛠️ How I Survive

I’ve had 21 surgeries and major procedures, many performed without numbing due to emergency situations and allergic reactions.

I walk with forearm crutches, AFO braces, and arm supports — when I have to. Due to fall risk. I fight this and try not to use them.

I can’t feel most of my body. But I can feel the pull of purpose.

And so I farm.

I treat myself holistically — with herbal remedies I make, by eating only farm-raised food, and by refusing to give up.

🐾 Who I Am

I’m stubborn. Willful. Fierce. Independent.
I was that way as a kid, and I’ve only doubled down.

I’m a problem-solver, a creative thinker, and a deeply loyal soul.
I love helping people — especially those who are dismissed, overlooked, or shoved aside by the systems that should care for them.

My animals are my world.
They make me think, laugh, and get out of bed when the pain says otherwise.

I love:

  • Making cheese
  • Skinning and tanning hides the old-fashioned way
  • Growing, harvesting, and learning from the land
  • And this winter, I plan to teach myself leatherworking using my rabbit hides — so I can donate warm gloves and gear to the same people I feed
  • Spinning wool I sheer from my sheep

🥛 My Next Goal: The $1 Milk Share

One of the things I hear most from the families I help is this:

“Do you have any fresh milk?”

And it breaks my heart to say no, because I know how powerful fresh, whole milk can be, especially for seniors, kids, and those with health struggles. So here’s my next dream:

🧡 A $1 per month milk share program, for low-income families, veterans, and elders across the Kenai Peninsula.

The idea is simple:
Once I have enough dairy goats in milk, I’ll meet state guidelines and offer gallons of healthy, raw goat milk for just $1/month to those in need.
No markups. No gimmicks. Just clean, fresh milk, hand-milked and delivered with care.

🌾 Why I Share This

Because people assume too much about disability. About farming. About strength.

I don’t farm in spite of my conditions. I farm because of them.

This life — hard, bloody, cold, and beautiful, is the only one that ever made me feel truly alive.

If you’re new here: welcome.
If you’ve been knocked down: I see you.
And if you ever need to be reminded that broken bodies can still build beautiful things — come visit Eden’s Edge. In all its mess. One day it will be an Eden. My Eden.

We’re still standing.

Even on the edge.

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💥 Why I Built a Farm I Can Barely Run

The truth behind Eden’s Edge, food injustice, and fierce determination in rural Alaska

People tell me I’m crazy. That farming with chronic illness, seizures, and a body held together by pain is reckless. That being on disability means I should sit down, stay quiet, and accept what I’m given. Don’t live. Give up. Accept doing nothing. Being nothing.

I tried that once. I almost didn’t survive it.

So instead, I chose sweat, straw, and the stubborn heartbeat of something bigger: feeding people who are constantly overlooked.

🥚 The Problem

Food banks hand out moldy produce and spoiled bread.
Pantries run dry before the end of the month.
Seniors live on cereal and fear.
Veterans go to bed hungry.
And if you’re disabled, like me, you’re expected to be grateful for whatever scraps come your way.

That’s not okay with me. So I started growing food — real food — and giving it away.

🐐 The Solution

I raise:

  • Chickens for eggs – Future meat production
  • Rabbits and goats for meat
  • Ducks and geese for joy (and more eggs)
  • Sheep for future lamb production (I have a ram lamb and yearling ewe!)
  • And a whole lot of hell when needed

I deliver food directly to those who need it — no shame, no strings, no secondhand rot.

This farm isn’t fancy. It’s not outside funded. It’s run on grit, compassion, and a whole lot of duct tape, blood, sweat and my tears.

✊ Why I Keep Going

Because when a senior cries over a dozen fresh eggs…
When a vet hugs a frozen rabbit and says it’s the first meat they’ve had in a week…
When a kid sees a goat for the first time and laughs…

I know this work matters.

💬 This is Just the Beginning

If you’re new here, stick around. Read the stories. Meet the goats. Share the mission.
And if you’re in a position to help — with feed, livestock, funds, or connections — I’d love to hear from you.

Because at the edge of the world, we grow more than food. We grow hope.

Inspiration is the ultimate goal. Disability doesn’t define who we are. Or limit what we can accomplish.

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👋 Welcome to Eden’s Edge

Where the edge of the map meets the heart of a mission.

I’m Dana — a disabled woman, nonprofit farmer, and fierce believer that food should be a right, not a luxury.

Eden’s Edge is a micro-farm based in Nikiski, Alaska, built on grit, resilience, and the power of giving. I raise goats, chickens, ducks, rabbits, and sometimes a little hell, all to feed those forgotten by broken systems.

Every egg, every pound of meat, every bundle of straw matters, because every person and animal matters.

🌾 What We Do

We raise, rescue, and redistribute food & animals.
We partner with other farmers and like minded organizations across the Kenai Peninsula.
We fight food insecurity not with handouts, but with community-grown dignity.

🐐 What You’ll Find Here:

  • Stories from the farm — the funny, the fierce, and the feral
  • Ways to donate, volunteer, or partner
  • Blog updates from the frontlines of rural, disabled farming
  • A glimpse into Wintress the goat’s weekly misadventures

❤️ Join the Work

Whether you’re here to follow the story, support the cause, or donate a few laying hens — you’re part of something that matters.

Because here at the edge of the world, we don’t give up — we grow.

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