Touched

Surgery went well. Pretty much textbook all the way.

Much of last Monday morning’s experience is blurry around the edges, but I remember the anesthesiologist telling me from far away to “take five deep breaths”, and someone slowly stroking the back of my right hand and wrist in the most soothing way (almost like they knew I was a bit anxious). I woke up in a small recovery bay, curtain drawn, throat scratchy from the intubation tube, my inhales shallow and ragged, and my sister, Jane, holding my hand through the bars on the bed’s safety rail.

I felt reassured, safe, precious, loved.

On the way home from the hospital, she stopped at a small market and bought me chicken and wild rice soup, dill pickle potato chips and nitrite-free turkey. I was looking forward to a light lunch and a heavy nap when we got home. I don’t remember getting out of her car, walking up the porch steps, or changing my clothes. But when I woke up from that heavy nap, she was still there, sitting in our great-aunt Louise’s platform rocking chair just outside the doorway to the kitchen. Her gentle presence touched my soul. Indelibly.

That was one experience of thousands in my short lifetime of being touched, at all levels, from all dimensions, and the key moments that stood out. I accept that the rest will be blurry around the edges, retrievable at some later and final hour, perhaps. The significance of touch is well-researched, and the findings consistently reaffirm this primal need of ours, to be in contact with each other, closely and regularly, to the benefit of our health at all levels, from all dimensions. Social convention still silently requires us to offer apologies for accidental contact—bumping into someone in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store, or at the concessions stand at a concert venue, but hopefully, we wrap our “sorry” in smiles of reassurance that we meant no harm. For that infinitesimally tiny connection, we are given the chance to remind each other that proximity matters and can see those brief encounters as a portal to the simple understanding that we’re one family and, for the most part, are good and decent members of the same tribe. We lean more toward kindness than violence, no matter what the headlines say (for evidence, please see the footage from the rescue efforts in Venezuela, or go to any local farmers’ market).

Blessedly, this power of touch and connection spirals out to include all living things. Several times each day, I register the comfort and softness of my cats’ fur and can tell, just by touch, who is who, based on their fur’s texture and length, the shape of their spine, size of their paws, and how Bumper has a notch in his right ear. On my morning walks, I reach up to feel the velvet-like side of a new sycamore leaf (more established leaves are smooth) and on my fingertip, I catch a single drop of dew hanging securely from a slender branch. It feels cool as I rub it into my cheek. Baptisms come in all forms.

The grass beneath our bare feet, the solid wood of the family dining room table, the reliable arms of a parent holding their sleeping child, a firm and friendly handshake from our new supervisor, an unbreakable embrace with our one true love… We need this stuff on a daily basis, no holding back. In those reels of the survivors being pulled from between the cracked concrete walls of collapsed buildings in La Guaira, Venezuela, I watch all the hands that pass a dusty litter along a human tunnel of support, carrying someone’s 12-year-old son and placing him carefully, joyously, into the back of a waiting ambulance. I think, “this is what community looks like”, while a packed crowd, standing shoulder to shoulder, no space between them at all, claps and cheers. It’s who we are at a cellular level—caring, eager to help, hungry for the kind of celebration that only true human connection can offer. Disasters bring that out in us, of course, but it isn’t necessary to wait for tragedy in order to feel the urgency of our need to touch and be touched. We were made to fasten ourselves to each other’s benefit, well-being, and deeper purpose. We need only pay attention for the opportunity to do so and accept—or extend—the invitation.

I know it’s hot this week, and the idea of being in someone else’s personal space might seem pretty low on the list of desirables. But the heat dome ain’t gonna last forever, and maybe in a few days, you’ll find yourself standing next to that living invitation to connect, if only for a small moment of your life. I know you’ll be kind, and reassuring, and sincere.

And better for saying “yes” to the opportunity.

In Between

I love how the morning fog makes the air look soft.

From my customary perch on a massive fallen black walnut tree just ten yards in from the walking path, I sit silent as a rock while the mist mutes the rough edges of a shagbark hickory and pulls me into all sorts of imaginings and stories, as only the a fog-draped forest can do. A crow overhead laughs his way across the canopy, joined by his sisters in cackling merriment. It’s encouraging to hear the songs of those early returning bird relatives and my heart feels softened too with the promise of another spring just behind the curtains.

Winter still has us clutched in its chilly fist—who knows what that cagey ol’ March will bring?—but we know we’ve turned that corner just an inch. If you haven’t started tomato and cabbage seedlings, better get a move on. And those fingerlings, they can be pushed into the cold soil in a few weeks; please don’t let the mud put you off. They love that (you can always hose off your boots later, like…in October when you’re done with the harvest). The garlic bulbs my sister and I pressed into small holes of dirt last fall are still sleeping but, I suspect, with one eye open in anticipation of that “go!” trigger that will send their best shoots upward and on their way to being garlic scape pesto for our early summer pasta dishes. Sometimes I walk ‘round their raised bed just to cheer them on. Over my shoulder, the patient volunteer mulberry tree that claimed her spot smack in the middle of the garden holds herself in readiness, dreaming, I’m sure, of the loads of fruit that will bend her branches toward the thin grass in the first weeks of June. I’ll be ready with that berry juice-stained white sheet I spread at her feet to collect them all.

Living in the space of not-yet, the in between of two stark and generous seasons, it’s hard not to anticipate what’s next, what could happen, what might make itself known, and suddenly, winter will melt the last of her icy-fingered grip on our souls, giving spring all kinds of room to charm and delight us once again. I’ve welcomed this transition 60+ times in my short life and she always catches me by surprise with her birdsong and flowing creeks and slippery mud. Moles push mounds of crumbly rich earth through last year’s matted old thatch, dotting the slope down to the old goat barn like chocolate sprinkles on an elaborately decorated farm-themed cake. The mower is in the shop for its annual tune-up and my dreams are filled with the scent of freshly cut grass.

I suppose we’re always in between something, aren’t we? This season or that one, last year’s birthday and this year’s Christmas, sunrise and dusk, beginnings and endings (whether we know they’re coming or not). And it’s in that middle place where life happens—to us, through us, and with us. The weather just makes it a little more real and stirs the longing in our hearts toward a future that isn’t promised to anyone. Sitting in the old red chair from the lake house, the one I happily inherited when Mom and Dad could no longer spend their summers there, I am here, now, pulling words into sentences and grateful that two of the four kitties are romping outside beneath the stars. I’m in between hours spent in the studio and a clean, comfortable bed waiting to cradle me off to sleep. I need nothing more than what I have in this moment, and the next, and the next. My lungs work beautifully, I fed myself a wonderful dinner, my teeth are brushed and there’s a stillness surrounding me that only the house can give.

If now is all we have, I can live with that. So can the robin perched in the uppermost branches of the silver maple sapling behind the house, singing as if she never left. And the creek, filled with last month’s melted snowfall, gurgles its way over the rocks and fallen branches-turned-bridges, knowing only her need to keep moving. Funny, isn’t it, how the space in between moments is so darn full? As if it isn’t “space” at all.

In so many ways, spring is already here.

The Sheer Luck of Location

Sparkles everywhere I look. A magpie’s paradise, spread out at my feet.

Last Sunday’s fourteen-plus inches of snow got a middle-of-the-night fluffing while the cats and I were sleeping and now the rolling expanse of land looks like a cake decorated with edible crystal glitter. It’s too much for my eyes to bear without squinting and thank goodness for my sunglasses. One of the stems is bent but they still cling fast to my head as I make my way through a tunneled path from the porch to the coop. The girls have been feathered troopers this past week, huddled and hunched in the darkness of their protective shelter during the subzero nights, waking to my gentle calls and the promise of warm water in their repurposed restaurant steam pan. I’ve taken to checking the marked down produce at the store, scoring bags of nectarines and peaches that never quite ripened, and tossing them into the feeder with the cracked corn. I’ve also been mixing in handfuls of chili pepper flakes—advice from a poultry magazine—to help the girls generate a tad more heat in their little bodies as insurance against frostbite. It seems to be working.

The sun is cold and big in the sky and that means more fantastical ice sculptures dangling from the eaves later today. I have this crazy idea that I could probably get out the aluminum step ladder, climb just high enough with the push broom in one hand, and move some of the snow off the small section of roof that hangs over the kitchen window. No trips to the ER is my motto these days, but wouldn’t I bring a fun story for the suture techs to pass around at lunchtime after they’ve sewn up my cracked skull? I’ll see how much I can brush off from my tiny place on the ground below; the ladder voted to remain in hibernation until April. At least.

It’s important to note that I haven’t walked the land in almost three weeks and it’s making me feel restlessly reckless. There’s a foot-wide path around the house (later this morning, I’ll sweep off the propane tank and lift the lid on the gauge so I can get a proper reading to submit to the energy co-op), and, finally, I see deer tracks in the field around the sleeping garden. There were apples in the produce mark-down section too; I’ll rest a few on the log beneath the silent mulberry tree off the porch and hope they’ll be gone by morning.

Staying put doesn’t mean lack of movement, just a limited orbit for my feet and me. It’s not what I’m used to and I listen for the lesson in it all: be in the moment. Look around and appreciate where you are and what you have. What I have are four cabin-fevered cats who have turned the living room into their own parkour playground with no regard for the carefully positioned throw rugs trying to keep the floor warm. I also have a freezer full of soup, chicken tenders, frozen peas, gluten-free everything bagels and English muffins, black bean burgers, butter, garbanzo bean rotini pasta, and lemon raspberry Greek yogurt bark broken into thick shards with a flavor that reminds me of summer. The tea cabinet is also well-stocked; visitors (if there were any—there’s really no place for them to park without getting stuck in the snow) wouldn’t go wanting for a hot beverage steeped in a mug with bees painted on it. On a whim this morning, I made a perfect batch of hummus and boiled cubes of tofu (all the rage these days, apparently) for a sesame ginger stir fry. My heart longs for a trek north to the woods soon, and what a joyous reunion that will be. Until then, the floors are swept, eggs gathered and washed, kitchen faucet dripping just enough to reassure me to sleep at night, and window quilts holding in as much heat as they can.

Last week, I acknowledged my luck in living here and that’s a refrain I keep on repeat. It never gets old and keeps my gratitude practice humming along. Wherever I am on this slice of homestead paradise, there is beauty and humility in abundance. The cats know it, the chickens know it, and of course so do all the deer and squirrels and foxes and those invisible coyotes who yip and howl their way through the meadow while the moon gives them a well-deserved spotlight. Sometimes, when I’m at work downtown, surrounded by concrete and towering glass buildings, I walk the land in my mind, disappearing into the tree-lined paths and not wanting to return, ever. Wherever I go, she comes with me, this expanse of soil and vegetation, wildlife and avian sanctuary unparalleled.

In a few weeks, the creek will swell beyond its banks with snowmelt, singing her way along the rocks and sycamores that hold her close. I’ll walk beside her, happy for the sound that will come to rest in my grateful ears, and add another day to my collection of being in the most beautiful place on earth.

Signs of Life

When it’s too cold to walk, the birds still sing.

I long for their resilience and sense of purpose, so I step out onto the front porch for about eight seconds, my hand never leaving the chill metal doorknob that assures a return to warmth and purring cats. The sparrows cock a knowing eye in my direction and return to their feeding frenzy. Humbled am I, at every turn.

I don’t even know if we’ve passed the midpoint of this winter storm’s trek across the affected 40+ states these past 72 hours; time itself seems to have stopped, not making any tracks in the snow that keeps piling up higher now than the two-foot high edge of the porch. I’ll head out soon for the third round of shoveling in as many hours and be grateful that I’m no good at estimating by sight how many inches have fallen so far. The furnace is doing its job (the sump pump too, thank goodness) and the studio crooks its creative finger at me seductively. After breakfast—for the chickens and for me—I’ll be lost in the cradling arms of all-that-hasn’t-been-made-yet, sewing needles, batik fabric, and glue gun at the ready.

The land hasn’t seen a storm like this in my lifetime here. It’s stunning to witness, a tad intimidating, and strangely reassuring. How cold and white can also look so soft is winter’s privilege and paradox. She covers the bare sepia and dark brown branches of our black walnut and crack willow trees effortlessly; I look away for a second and return my gaze to see thick sleeves of snow on their slender limbs, posed and waiting for someone to sketch them. As of this sentence, no deer tracks in sight. For all I know, I’m the last person on earth. The quiet swallows me whole.

I think of the trees I usually visit on my walks back to the woods and imagine a gray and white tableau, groves of sycamores with their bark peeling in random patches up and down their long and sturdy trunks. Their peace, even in my mind’s eye, settles my heart and reminds me that movement is overrated. They stand silent and tall and teach me about the value of waiting. For anything.

I’m worried about the plumbing in this dear old farmhouse. There’s heat tape wrapped round the pipes under the kitchen sink and the water still flows, icy at first in a finger-numbing sort of way as it slowly turns hot-to-scalding, perfect for getting the last slicks of olive oil from the corners of a container that once held a hearty vegetable soup. On my trips downstairs in the middle of the night, I make a detour to the sink to lift the faucet handle for that reassuring trickle before heading back to bed where two of the kittens are waiting.

The day’s hum has been steady and attentive. Much as I enjoy getting lost in time and art supplies, this weather event has pulled my gaze up and outward through the studio windows for delicious moments of presence and wonder; watching the falling snow makes me sleepy and I’m grateful for the antique solid oak sleigh bed mere steps away from the worktable. The hours have passed easily between us, the snow and me, and I’ve deepened my respect for the power of winter. There are two juicy mandarins left in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. That’ll get me to Wednesday at least.

As the last slivers of gray light make their blurred exit from the sky, I whisper the tiniest prayer of thanks from a soul expanded by this nearly indescribable beauty that wraps me and holds me close. Beneath it all is the pulse of a life force greater than I’ll ever understand, that somehow, in grace and infinite kindness, loves me back.

And I get to live here. Wow.