The Shape of a Creek

Dear readers,

That last post took the wind out of me. Thanks for your patience.

We've had so much rain lately, my morning routine now includes putting lifejackets on the cats before I head to work. They're not put off by water, but...cat-fish they ain't.

It's not the same as it used to be, the land. I could say that every day, if I'm paying attention, because a range of epic and subtle shifts occur around the clock (sun?) here: dead black walnut and mulberry branches in the driveway, a new mole hill or gopher den right where I'm walking, fresh footprints in the fudgy loam. But attuned as we are to noticing these things, I still expect that the Big Stuff (towering sycamores that line the creek, the old rickety potting shed out back, the bridge that let's us come and go as we please) will remain the same.

The first time we saw the creek break its banks was about four years after we moved here. We were eager to grow our own food on a larger scale than the 5-gallon buckets we were accustomed to in the suburbs, so we paced off and tilled an area in the meadow, wonderfully and dangerously close to the creek, about 70 x 90 feet, and transplanted 165 cherry tomato seedlings (ask Patrick  the next time you see him, "why so many??"), Moon & Stars watermelons, Purple Dragon beans, snow peas, pink banana squash, eight-ball zucchini, Cherokee and Black Krim tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We used 7' t-posts to mark the rows, and weeded by hand like our lives depended on it. I still remember the feeling of satisfaction after scooting down a long row of those cherry tomato plants, one section at a time, on my bum, pulling the tiny sprouts of purslane and catmint until the ground beneath each plant was nothing but beautiful bare brown soil. I'd do this for hours, losing track of time and surroundings. Then I'd mulch with straw and grass clippings, and trudge up the slope to the house for tuna salad on wheat toast with illegally-sharp white cheddar cheese, and corn chips (not every hard-won accomplishment requires a coronation).

Then, late that summer, the rains came down. In a matter of hours, we watched those Moon & Stars melons tumble downstream, bobbing in the rushing water, and had no idea where the cherry tomatoes finally landed. The creek climbed up those 7' t-posts until only the last foot remained visible above water. Our once-grassy meadow was now turbulent and raging. The spectacle silenced us, as it dawned on us that we would not be bookending the hard work of planting and weeding in the spring with the equally hard work of harvesting and canning in the fall. We trudged up the slope to the house and waited for the waters to recede. Thank goodness for local farmers who showed up every Saturday in the town square with their produce, their gardens well-above flood stage all summer. We still ate locally-grown food, including cherry tomatoes. Just not grown by our own hands.

In the thirteen years that followed the first Great Flood (the garden found a new home in the field behind the house), the creek has had a merry bubbling run to it, and also seasons where it was dry right down to it's rocky bed. Time, and tending to other land matters, lulled us into the illusion of "creek business as usual". We'd take our visiting friends' children "creeking", walking right in the same spot where the flood waters raged, and tell the story about the floating watermelons. Patrick even rebuilt the bridge, with our brother Kevin's help, adding to my list of Things That Will Remain The Same No Matter What. We'd walk the meadow, notice the familiar path of the creek as it wound its way through the cottonwoods and quaking aspens, delicate willow saplings and dangling grapevines, and let our eyes land on the curves and bends of its reliable banks. All was as it should be; all was as we'd seen it for years.

A weekend last fall was all it took to strip away our complacency. The sand and the creek banks once again had no choice as the rains fell, in buckets, for days. Dirt, branches, old tires and anything else  that called the creek "home" went rushing through the meadow's once-grassy slopes and flat places. The creek rose again, calling up the ghosts of watermelons and tomato plants from the Great Flood, and eclipsed that event beyond our imaginings. The planks of the re-built bridge now submerged, we were "trapped" on the north side of the driveway, wondering what would be left behind when the waters receded. We put on our tall muck boots and walked through the soggy grass to the edge of all that drama , once again silenced by the power of water. Just seeing it changed us.

And, when the water finally did recede, we saw it had moved the banks of the creek to new places. One entire section to the north had been rerouted past a lovely stand of willows, shifting the banks inward now, and creating a small sandbar right between two flowing tributaries. We would now be able to hop across that section, when the creek ran shallow, and cross to the other side, barely getting our feet wet. Those dry feet of ours hadn't ever touched the ground on the other side of that section of the creek. Wow.

How can we not let the metaphor wash over us? What powers reshape us and the directions of our souls, by chance or by choice? I am not the same person I was before we moved here. I'm not the same person I was before my parents died, or since I took the recycling down the road last week to those large dumpster-like bins that the township put in place more than 6 years ago. It's not about just the big moments, the floods, and the rains. Sure, those are the most memorable from the perspective of scale and magnitude, but...a light bubbly run of water in a creek still carves out new banks, eventually.

I think what matters, dear readers, is what we notice, and how we receive those moments of "hey, this is different". I'm still happily startled by how much greener the trees that line the driveway are at the end of the day than they were in the morning, going about their own work while I did mine, tucked into a window-less office for eight or nine hours. So I slow down the truck in the last few feet of my evening commute, to notice, and to thank them.

The shape of our creek has changed in the last 18 years. So have our lives and our hearts. I say bring on the rushing waters.

For Jeannie...

She had hospitality of spirit that knew no strangers; her life embodied her values of humor, kindness, inclusive and nonjudgmental openheartedness.

When someone dear and beloved to us dies, grief sometimes insists that we try to impress upon others the importance of that person in our lives. I've been on the privileged listening side of a friend's or co-worker's stories of the one she's missing, as waves of urgent detail comes rushing toward me like a dam's water unleashed. If I'm decent and compassionate, I allow myself to be drenched and remain silent while she tries to cross the great gap between memory and the newly-vacant place at the table.

And so, here I am in the unenviable position, once again, of needing to tell stories about someone I loved quite a lot, who died nearly two summers ago. I know already that the words won't stretch far enough, or root deeply enough to match the friendship we shared, but I'm going for it anyway. Some things you just have to do for yourself.

We met in college, in a theology class. I had just changed my major from Accounting/Finance to Theology/Philosophy, and was looking for kindred spirits with whom to celebrate the transition. I found one in her. Our common ground was rich: social justice, silliness, bunnies, creation spirituality, working at a health food store called The Raisin Rack, and writing limericks. As I write this, I can't recall the details of our early conversations, but evidently, one led to another and many more. We were inseparable.

My parents and siblings claimed her as a new member of the family rather quickly, and she became tucked into all those great family jokes and mannerisms that any large family tends to create and cherish. I recall one New Year's Eve at my parents' place. We lit candles at midnight, stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, and sang joyfully into the cold darkness.

 After I graduated and moved back to Columbus, she followed a year later, and we decided to share an apartment just a few blocks from where I grew up. We stocked the pantry with way too much pasta and rice cakes, and the freezer always--always--had ice cream. I introduced her to her former husband and sang at their wedding. When the twins were born, Anthony and Andrew (one on March 1, the other on March 2. How cool is that??), I accepted the invitation to become Andrew's godmother, and of course claimed Anthony as well. Then Rebecca was born, not quite two years later, on my 30th birthday, because Jeannie's due date was just two days before, and I asked her if she'd mind waiting. Only a powerful and content soul would agree to such impertinence from a childless friend and giggling partner. Rebecca's middle name is Elizabeth; a bonus birthday gift I still get to treasure.

The years and our friendship unfolded around our life experiences, growing deeper roots, ebbing and flowing, always connected. We talked a lot about the Important things--love, playfulness, the vastness of the Creator and the universe, Andrew, Anthony, and Rebecca. When Patrick and I were married, she led me to the altar with the beat of a single drum as my parents smiled on either side of me. And every time we talked, she always understood. I remember most of our conversations closed with laughter.

A breast cancer diagnosis in her 30's didn't claim her; she pushed through it with a startling self-compassion and love, setting aside the customary "warrior-and-battle" approach, insisting that she couldn't fight any aspect of herself, and enjoyed life cancer-free for several years after her final treatment. When it returned nearly a decade later as metastatic breast cancer, she embraced it once more (from her obituary), "as a challenge in the adventure of life, engaging it with compassion, optimism, and a student's mind." It never occurred to me that she would die.

There's more to say, as there usually is with a friendship such as ours, and I realize that this blog post will "end" with lots of unfinished business. That's ok. It wasn't ever my goal to tell the entire story, probably because it's not over yet. Jeannie is deep into learning new things on the Other Side, and I try to listen for her voice in my life. Sometimes I hear it as I meander my way around some dip in my self-confidence, or shop the "Manager's Special!!" section at Kroger's (I swear, it would have been really cool at her memorial service to have had a blank roll of those stickers to use as nametags. She shopped for bargains with an unparalleled passion, I can tell you). I haven't written any limericks since 2016, but when I do, she'll be my muse, I know it.

Until then, I will continue to want you, and so many others, to know the depth of what she meant to me. 34 years is a long time to know someone, and, to let yourself be known as the circumstances of your life change and evolve. She was there for all of them, a hospitable spirit who knew no strangers. If you'd have met, she would have loved you too. Of that, I am certain. I wrote to her on Christmas Eve, 2016, in a cabin not far from these acres...

Dear friend,

I miss you.

I feel like I took more than I gave where you and I were concerned, and even as I write this, I can hear you saying, "Oh Liz, of course not". And I agree. If it was that uneven a relationship, you wouldn't have hung around as long as you did.

Thirty four years.

34.

How'd we do it?

I recall your eyes, your voice, when you said goodbye, that I didn't know was goodbye, remarking on the remarkable nature of our friendship. How incredible it was that we remained friends for so long. How unique it was--our words, our shared interests, our mutual respect for and silliness with each other. You used the word "rare".

And I got it. I understood.

And then you hugged me from your command post of a bed, where you made your final "on this side" decisions and shared your "don't forget this" feelings and thoughts with others.

And you didn't let go. For a long time.

Later, Andrew would tell me in an email that watching us say goodbye was the saddest thing he'd ever seen.

You just kept on giving, right up until our final moments together on this side.

How can I possibly thank you for that?

Here's how:

I will continue to love your children. Andrew. Anthony. Rebecca.

I will dance and be silly in your memory and your honor.

I will take risks that help me grow.

I will pry open the cage around my heart and let others in.

I will hug more.

I will cheer people on in their efforts to be good and decent and fun.

I will not let go. For a long time. I will join hands with the people who share this planet with me, and all God's Critters who have a Place in the Choir.

I will sing out loud with my own voice.

I will laugh deeply--throw my head back and let it out.

I will love deeply--throw my arms open wide and gather in all those who are broken and unsure like me, and all those who are confident and happy, like me.

And have wine with dinner.

And pumpkin cake with a thick blanket of cream cheese icing.

And eat all of it.

May her way of being in the world inspire your own growth, creativity, and kindness toward others. Jeannie would be delighted to know she encouraged you in this way.

A Lesson in Brambles

I have survived every bad thing that has ever happened to me.

Of course I have--I'm writing this. And, dear reader, so have you.

I've also won so many of life's lotteries, I've lost count. I am rich in ways I have hoped and planned for, and in ways I could not have imagined. And perhaps, dear reader, so are you. Let's go for a walk.

One of the first land projects we completed after moving all of our stuff and selves to these Naked Acres was cutting a path in and around the old corn and soybean field so we could get a lot closer to the action of our wild neighbors: the winged ones, the four-legged and furry, the legless and slithery, and all the rest of God's Critters Who Have a Place in the Choir (if you're not familiar with that song, remind me to sing it for you sometime). Seventeen of the forty-one acres were cut into an L-shaped tillable field, the long part of the letter running north-to-south, and then making a 90 degree turn west toward the creek. The first path we cut simply outlined the entire L-shape, and we delighted in making that left turn from north to west because we could peer into the deep woods to our right that held onto their secrets, and eventually turn left again, heading south, and come to the Hill that sloped parallel to the creek. From the top of that Hill, we have a lovely view of steeple belonging to the little Baptist church three farms over to the east; it was idyllic and just what two urban transplants were taught to expect from living in the country. We stood on that Hill many times, gazing in all directions for long minutes, letting the full reality of our good luck wash over us and drench us in gratitude. Eventually, something would pull our feet forward, and we would continue our prayer down the slope of the Hill southward until the field flattened out and we could peer into the woodsy meadow to the south (we didn't cut a path through that bramble-y overgrowth until our second year).

With no plans to ever till that field again, it didn't take long for the ironweed and blackberries to lay claim to it, in random patches that pulled at our jeans and flannel sleeves, daring us to move even an inch further. Keeping the path maintained became a regular spring and summer pilgrimage, involving a neighbor's brush hog mower now and then, and, over the years, a series of riding mowers which the land seemed to enjoy eating on an annual basis. In time, we added a new path that cut a diagonal line from the corner of the L-shape back toward the entrance to the meadow (a place we have knowingly and lovingly come to know as "where the worlds meet"), adding twenty minutes to our walks. Nice.

So here we are, 18+ years and thousands of steps later, and the path has evolved as anyone could expect. Storms have dropped some of the black walnuts across the short section of the L to the west, where the Hill is, and we've not been too fussed about clearing them. Blackberry and multi-flora rose vines, thorny and obstinate, are now thick and tangled, and the most anyone has done in recent years is look at it and turn around, offering a thin promise to clear it up "the next time I'm out this way". But this morning, not quite 30 degrees and a blazing sun well on its way across the sky, I put on my chicken-decorated boots and headed down the path once more, taking the diagonal cut through the field heading northeast. I wanted that view from the Hill, thorns and tangles and all.

I hadn't been on the path by the woods in a while, so didn't realize just how overgrown it was. The blackberry vines were especially vicious; crisscrossing and arcing over the field grass, conjuring up images of the darkest fairy tales, where secondary characters were lured into the woods to meet their fate. I came to the edge of the cut path, where we'd stopped mowing last summer, and contemplated, literally, my next move. I didn't have to be anywhere (Patrick was still asleep and would be for a few more hours), I was dressed for the occasion, and had brought with me, as I always do, a full cup of curiosity. I plunged in, thanking my two layers of long-sleeved jackets and my sturdy work gloves.

Making it past the first few feet of crisscrossed vines was fairly simple--I gingerly pinched the end of one branch and moved it aside until I was well clear of it, then stepped to the side to ease around the next one. It felt like part Twister, part Jenga, as the path became more thicket-y. I added ducking and turning to my pinching and side-stepping moves, and "The Matrix" to my list of walking metaphors. The Hill was getting closer, but not quickly. These thorny vines and my maneuvers slowed my walk down to an almost-crawl (hey, crawling...in hindsight, would that have been a better way to go? We'll never know).

As all walks usually do, this one gave me free head space to allow a handful of dormant thoughts to unfold and take root; the slow and careful vine-pinching and advancing forward six or seven inches became a side rhythm to my recollections of my life's hardest times. There's no planning these moments of reflection and awakening--they just come, hoping we're awake and paying attention. One at a time, I considered everything I've ever survived up to this point...how I'd moved slowly and carefully through the shards of broken relationships and innocence lost, and the way the thorns of grief, ignored and untended, eventually caught my heart's sleeve, forcing me to stop and acknowledge there's no running through a thicket like that. Collected and tallied up, the hard times looked an awful lot like the long view of the path still ahead of me on this morning's walk. but up close, one vine at a time, they are conquerable.

In my life so far, I've made my way through, moving things aside, stopping to contemplate my next option, and getting stuck once in a while (sometimes viciously, with scars as evidence). I've reconciled fear and curiosity, forgiveness and indifference, as each challenge gave me the gift of choice in its thorny hands.  And while I haven't always chosen wisely, had the right clothes or tools for the occasion, I've been allowed to keep going, coming out on the other side, scratched and a little smarter about how to navigate amidst the brambles.

I did indeed make it to the Hill this morning, and smiled out loud: it was thick with blackberry vines as well. Huh. I stood among them, guides more than adversaries now, and enjoyed the view of the steeple to the east. In August, these vines would be dripping to the ground with fruit that I could eat.

I'd just won another lottery.

Walking With the Living

The weather-guessers said we're to expect anywhere from 3 - 6 inches of snow. Or not. I smile and tuck that into the way back of my head and step off the porch onto the grass, its blade tips still showing through a light white powder.

I'm taking a walking stick with me this morning, given to me by my dear friend, Jeannie, who, as it's written into her obituary, "entered the Eternal Now" in July of 2016 (let me step out of the woods for a moment to tell you that Jeannie was my closest friend for 34 years, and the gap in our lives since she died still aches, still sits securely in the "I can't believe she's gone" place. There will be a future story about her, perhaps many, in these blog pages. Watch for them. She was, and is, a don't-miss. Ok. Back into the woods we go).

The walking stick in my right hand is only 12" shorter than I am (4' 2"--go ahead, do the math), and has two small black bear paw prints painted just below the soft deerskin "belt" that wraps it's handle like a corset. It was a birthday present; Jeannie knew how much we loved walking the land. But this was the first time I'd really given it a workout.

I've been a walker for decades. In moving here from the suburbs of Columbus nearly 20 years ago, Christmas came early and stayed; it's a two-mile round trip walk from our porch all the way to where our street meets the larger two-lane country road running north-to-south between Mt Vernon and Granville. One of my favorite things to do when it starts getting light out around 5:45a.m. (so...in May) is to lace up my sneakers and walk those two miles before heading off to work. It's a great way to unspool my thoughts, unravel particularly knotty problems, and step back onto the porch with a feeling of being unburdened, refreshed, ready. But until those May days arrive, I'm perfectly happy to walk in the other direction, in the dark or the light. I trust the woods more than the two-lane country road.

On this particular morning, with bear paw print stick in hand, I head deeper into the land that hugs us close, down the sloping hill into the meadow/flood-plain, the tip of the walking stick making gentle indentations in the soft rain-soaked soil. An occasional sparrow zips overhead, and there are communities beneath my feet that I can't even see. I stop at random spots along the path, noticing the fudgy hoof prints of a deer, the way the water has carved new tributaries in the creek that cuts through the meadow, exposing old tires (a spring dry-day project) and the massive root ball of a quaking aspen that was knocked down by the derecho of 2012. Like a prayerful chant, my mind loops around a single thought: how did I get so lucky? To be here, to see all this, to be one of its caretakers? We don't call ourselves "landowners", for we own nothing. We're responsible for 41.1 acres, with the full weight of what that means. We watch for those changes in the creek bed, keep an attentive eye toward where the water pools and floods when the rains are heavy, when the first robins and finches return near the end of February, and which willow saplings need to be freed of the thick tangle of grapevines that cover them like a veil.

If I stayed inside, or never made it off the porch, I'd miss most of that. The farther away I go from the house, the chicken coop, the old goat barns, and walk into all that lives and thrives in the balance of the acreage, the more I understand my place. I am small and significant enough to leave a footprint (fudgy or not, depending on the weather), but not much more. I stand on sacred ground, galaxies above me and below me that know more than I ever will about most stuff.

Walking stick in hand, cherished absent friend in heart, I plod along, unspooling thoughts and knotty problems, letting my gratitude for the turn of luck that has placed me here run the full length of my 5'2" frame.

Among the living is where I am, and where I am supposed to be.