Looking for the Phoenix

Between the humid and breezeless hours of midnight and 6:00 a.m. on Sunday, July 15, our 24’ x 48’ pole barn burned.

Down.

We slept through the red-orange flames eating every inch of wood framing and trusses, the sounds of shattering glass as the side windows exploded, the melting of Rubbermaid totes that held camping gear and bundles of magazines, the acrid smell of plastic electric fence insulators surrendering to the intense heat.

And we didn’t hear the last soft, short peeps of 35 chicks that Patrick picked up at the post office the Friday before, tucked into their brooding pen for the night.  Forget about the other stuff we no longer have. It’s that image I cannot bear.

I tended to my morning routine as I usually do: wake up around 5:00 (seriously, it’s my body’s clock, and there’s no ignoring it), straighten the living room, wash the previous night's dishes, and go check the rabbits' water and food. With the delivery of our next round of meat chicks—Rainbow Rangers this time—I would naturally expand my morning chores to include checking their water and feed, stooping to gently scoop a couple of them into my hands, saying good morning and then resting my palm flat as each one decided whether to hop back into the pen with the others, or stand on their tiny new legs, surveying the pellet-floored landscape from a perch two inches above their peers.

But not this morning. As I made my way down the path behind the house and turned the corner where a stand of cherry saplings and pokeberry stalks jutted out just past Patrick’s wood-turning shed, I saw the remains of the metal siding, buckled from the heat and leaning inward, and swaths of blackened grass stretching 15 feet on each side. Random still-smoldering “hot spots” sent wisps of smoke upward where the wood-framed trussed ceiling used to be, beyond the spine of the metal roof that now dipped toward the dirt and ash-covered ground below. A willow and a sycamore framed the doors of the south entrance, and now stood charred, their leaves crisp and black, waiting for a non-existent breeze to carry them to the ground.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Over and over, my vocabulary limited by a filter of shock. The magnitude of the scene filled my every sense, and I just stood, unable to register what had happened.

Then, Patrick. Must tell Patrick. NOW.

Barefoot, I ran back to the house, my feet covered in wet, dew-drenched clippings (he had cut the grass Saturday). Just because this is how my mind was working at the moment, I wrenched open the mudroom door, and looked for a rag to brush the wet grass off of my feet first before walking through the living room and then upstairs. I didn’t want to leave a trail I’d have to clean up later. Irrational thought can sometimes hold the gift of practicality in its hands.

Out of breath by the time I reached my still-sleeping husband, I knelt gently on the edge of the bed, his back to me, and touched his shoulder. “Good morning, sweetheart”, I trembled, “I’ve got something shocking to tell you”.

I’ll remember the look on his face for quite some time, as he turned the same corner I did on the path, past the stand of cherry saplings and pokeweed stalks, and saw…

Then, a flurry of movement—9-1-1 calls, pacing back and forth from the front porch to the kitchen for coffee, out back again to stand in disbelief before a middle-of-the-night story that had written its own ending, listening as the wailing strains of volunteer fire department sirens drew closer and sounded like they were right in our driveway. They were.

Our good and trained neighbors put out the remaining hot spots, and marked their paperwork with “cause undetermined”. We'd made previous plans to visit with friends that day for lunch two hours away, and decided that, with the scene declared safe, we could leave. A little windshield discussion time would be good trauma therapy.

But my mind stayed fixed on the image of those chicks, and the growing reality that I didn’t truly know, immediately, everything that we stored in that barn. It would be several days before our list was drawn up and comprehensive, and a few more conversations interrupted with "you know what else we had in there...". I felt the “filthy” part of “filthy rich” in a humiliating way. To have so much stuff that it took days to remember and list it all...

It’s two weeks to the day, and I walk past the scorched ground and dangling metal on my way out to the woods. It still renders even my inner voice silent, and the full image rests uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. How could we have slept through this? Then more questions surge forward: How could two people accumulate so much stuff that has so little to do with their every day survival needs? Why didn't the dry grass catch fire and burn more of the field and the trees on the meadow ridge? Can we still use those blackened t-posts? Was our tipi liner stored in there? (yes, it was). Where did the tires on the riding mower go? And the tiller? Is that the leaf blower? Wow. 

Change, in any form, slides along a continuum of refreshing to shocking in its impact. We've been living more on the shocking end these past two weeks, as items we knew and used no longer look like they did (if they were metal), and others are simply gone. Yes, we were raising the chicks to eventually harvest and eat them, so death was on their calendar, like it is on every living thing's calendar. But not like this. We'll never know exactly how it started, or how many other living things succumbed to the licking flames. 35 chicks and two trees. At least. Sudden loss of life, any life, is hard.

Put this where you will in the magical thinking part of your mind, but at dinner the night before, I had just mentioned to Patrick that I was looking forward to cleaning out that barn as a great project on a cool, sunny autumn day. I imagined myself sorting and organizing (it brings me such peace), and reorienting the barn's purpose toward next year's chicken enterprise, making it easier to access our gardening equipment, and creating a place to work on thrift store furniture finds that begged to be re-purposed. The unseen, unheard fire did my work for me, and in less time than it would have taken me, I'm certain. Underneath the lingering shock was a small and weird glimmer of gratitude. 

I wonder what that area of land will look like, once the remains have been pulled down, the nails and metal truss brackets pulled from the ashes with an industrial-sized magnet, and the rest back-hoed into the tolerant soil. It's been nearly ten years since anything blocked our view of the field to the north. Over the years, silently and steadily, behind the skeletal sagging remnants of that once-proud barn, a new landscape has been emerging from the old seventeen-acre corn and soybean field. Fast-growing sycamores and black walnut trees, alongside vast thickets of blackberries, ironweed, and nettles, fill in the space easily and without boundaries. In a matter of hours, in the dark of night, we re-gained 1152 square feet of visible field and sky. 

We will most likely rebuild, but it won't happen overnight (creation and destruction live on opposite ends of the reality spectrum). In the meantime, a simple haiku I heard in college gently and profoundly floats to the surface.

Since my house burned down

I now have a better view

Of the rising sun.

Amazing Grace

Sitting on Mac and Audrey’s porch-deck, listening to the calls of birds I don’t recognize. Yet. Could be in the mourning dove family, for the three “ooh, ooh, ooh” calls at the end of a sequence, but they throw in a high-and then-low series of notes, and I’m trying to imagine what they look like on perch. 

It’s great to be here in Dupree, South Dakota. 

The trip out was brutal the first day—17 hours on the road, and Patrick’s driving stamina wearing thin in spots, but he rallied, after I had helped where I safely could (2 1/2 hours’ drive time while he napped in the shotgun seat), and rolled us into Pipestone, to rest our weary traveler bones at the America’s Best Inn for at least eight hours, until checkout time at 11:00. We missed the free continental breakfast, and felt smart about choosing sleep over waffles. 

It takes me longer now to recover from a day of hard miles on the road. I suppose I must accept that I’m really not thirty anymore, and won’t be again on this Side. But I still expect that I can do all the activities I used to do, and at the pace I used to do them. My body is trying to coach me through this period of denial, and she’s a patient, but sometimes harsh teacher. She knows what will get my attention (the episodic sciatica, blood sugar drops, and edema in my feet), and plays those cards with precision timing against my arrogance. Eventually, I submit and stop moving, as she tried to tell me to do, nicely, four hours previously. 

I’m struggling with this whole aging thing. Not any different from anyone else in that weird mid-life phase that is going on its fifteenth year now, but it’s mine for the first time, and so I get to plead resistant newcomer status. Does anyone really “age gracefully”? I’m stuck on the “gracefully” part of that misnomer. Understanding first what grace is seems to be essential. Then we can tack on that aging part and see if they really fit together to describe the experience.

When I hear the word “grace”, I imagine it as a mantle on the shoulders of a person who is also peaceful from the inside out. This is someone not fussed by external adversity, because her soulful core is anchored in the solid fact that she is good, and capable, and strong. Grace means that she doesn’t let petty annoyances move her to harsh-toned words. Grace chooses her words for her, and they are compassionate ones. She isn’t immune to the sharper side of own human-ness; she simply doesn’t allow it to lead her actions, or even her thoughts. On rough days, when she’s tired and irritable, she directs the conversation inward, soothes and talks herself through that with ample helpings of self-compassion. She accepts that there will be other days and moments like this one, and so she can keep her eye on how she’ll feel when those moments pass. She also knows how to apologize and ask for forgiveness.

I see grace as a practice toward compassionate acceptance, and a deep desire to invite others to relax into the reality that surrounds them. Grace understands that no one hits a home run the first time or every time at bat; she cheers the rules of the game that allow for second chances. She is the grandmotherly “there there”, the comfortable and wise lap that I crawl up and into when I feel misunderstood, done wrong, injured, and excluded. Even if my circumstances are the result of my own misguided choices, she loves and accepts me anyway, and encourages me to see things differently, starting with my own unfinished self. 

If any or all of that is even the slightest bit true, then the idea of  “aging gracefully” is completely plausible. So is “growing gracefully”, and “forgiving gracefully”, and “accepting gracefully”. Grace softens the rough edges of those and other challenging human experiences, and inches us forward to our intended origins as individuals (whom did the Creator imagine us to be, before we Became?), and as a collective of people trying our best to hang together in service and celebration. Let the bone aches and gray hair come. We will be ready for those moments, from the inside out, and show the young ones they’ve nothing to fear, really, as their own sciatica awaits delivery in the coming decades. They will still be valued, still belong to the tribe, still be loved and treasured for who they are, not what their bodies can or cannot still do.

In this moment, sitting and not moving, no miles racing beneath the tires of the truck, I can let all of my aging self rest secure in the knowledge that I’ve earned this spot, I’ve worked hard for it, and be grateful I’ve been given one more road trip with the man of my dreams.

Today, Dear Friends, I'm Grateful For...

Facebook, February 17, 2015, 8:14 a.m.:

"Today, I am grateful for...

Patrick. Being bathed in blinding sunlight. Creativity. Scoring the best pair of winter boots at the Goodwill in Delaware. A job that means something. What are you grateful for today? Let's chat!"

If hope is the thing with feathers, then gratitude must be the thing with roots. Have you ever expressed your thanks to someone, for something, and felt like you hadn't completely exhausted your vocabulary, even reached into other languages to find the most form-fitting word or phrase to let that someone know just how deeply grateful you were?

Happens to me all the time. Almost daily. And I'm not even bilingual. I know enough Spanish to order a meal and find the town square, and a handful of American Sign Language. Still, the roots of my gratefulness remain just below the unexpressed surface. Perhaps it's my life's work, to explore just how many ways I can say "thank you". Cool. I can do that.

And so I started, back in February of 2015. Not prompted by any particular event, or scientific research on the health benefits of a thankful heart. I was new to Facebook (again, late to every party. Facebook started...when? 2004?), hesitant to put too much of myself out there due to my wrapped-tight private nature, and I'd read somewhere that folks were keeping gratitude journals, writing five things they were grateful for on a daily basis. I suspect the number was arbitrary, and I liked that I could offer up a handful of thanks each day, and still keep the other hand on the steering wheel.

So I let thoughts come to me rather randomly, from my perch on the couch, with my laptop resting comfortable on my, well, lap, the sun yet to make its appearance over the tree line past the 17-acre old cornfield. Patrick. Yep, definitely grateful for him. Being bathed in blinding sunlight. Hey, sunlight in February? You bet your britches I was grateful for that. Creativity. Check. To my right at the time was a studio filled with all manner of crafting implements, from fabric and thread to book board and handmade paper, with jars of beads almost too colorful and numerous to count. When a day ended heavy and unfinished on my mind, I could come home and sink into my supplies until I emerged with a completed item in my thankful hands.

Scoring the best pair of winter boots from the Goodwill in Delaware. Timberlands. For all I could tell, barely, if ever, worn, and a perfect fit (hard to find for this 6 1/2 size gal). I still have them, and do they ever look loved. They are.

A job that means something. I've been in volunteer resources management for going on 36 years now--pretty much all my professional life (with the exception of one brief stint at a health club, folding towels in the women's locker room. It lasted three days. When I caught a glimpse of a former neighbor in a state of undress, it was time to go. I'm still not ready to talk about it yet). In the simplest of descriptions, I connect people who want to help with people or causes that need help. I've done that work in a variety of settings, from parochial schools to faith communities, to national organizations. At the time I included that in the February 17 Facebook post, I was in a hospice setting, working with surviving family members and others in the community who wanted, from the depths of their grateful hearts, to comfort someone else as they themselves had been comforted, in their poignant time of need and vulnerability. What an honor, to stand in that middle place, between gratitude and grief, appreciation and exhaustion, and make the introductions. I direct the traffic of selflessness.

Those five "things" came to me rather easily that February morning at 8:14, and I've kept that List of Five going since then, missing only one day (October 8. 2015. I'll explain in a future post), and, get this--not repeating anything. Sure, I've been grateful for Patrick's many different qualities in subsequent posts, and have included enough food and meal descriptions to publish a cookbook, but...I've found something different to give thanks for each and every day since February 17, 2015. Forgive me if this sounds a bit self-congratulatory, but I think that's pretty cool. I have no plans to stop. Quite frankly, I don't think I could. Through the simple morning ritual of sharing a short list of "grateful for's" in a rather public place, I've learned that gratitude is as necessary as inhaling and exhaling always have been.

Sometimes, I suspect folks may draw conclusions about my life or my outlook, as they read through these daily five. Of course, what others think of me is none of my business, but I do feel compelled to make the point that my life is as filled with struggle and pain as anyone else's. The List of Five isn't a denial of those experiences. If you only knew, and if I were courageous enough to spill the backstories to some of those posts, I would hope you'd nod in understanding that life is a both/and proposition, and that I've chosen the thankful approach to guide me through my days. Gratitude has no chance trying to grow in an either/or mindset. Indeed, gratitude has its deepest roots below the layers of hardship, when we pushed through the gut-wrenching and the unimaginable-turned-real, carrying a small flame of "thank God we have each other", or whatever we're thankful for in the moment, to light the way to the other side. However worn and well-used, gratefulness is a sturdy, enduring tool in our traveling set of coping skills. It's wise to keep it oiled and ready to hand.

It's not always easy to call these five up. And I will admit that not having listed any item more than once, I'm now driven to maintain that self-imposed standard (I'm fairly certain I'm the only one tracking that, the only one who cares). Some days, I have to pull myself back from needing the words to be arranged most poetically and just say it like it is. In those posts, you'll see the end result of that struggle: I'm grateful for dental floss, a window fan, or being able to flex my toes. Simple things still speak the loudest.

But when I return from my daily walk with the land, it's just as challenging to keep the list to five (another self-imposed standard that is quite practical. I could keep going beyond five things, and then I'd be late for work). Waves of gratitude wash over me as I move through the meadow to the open field to the dark woods. Seriously. I can barely catch it all, much less put it into words. The bird calls, the always-different cloud formations at sunrise, a mysterious absence of mosquitoes and no-see-ums...if I stood still for too long, I might drown in the wonder of it all. I gather what I can and let the remaining steps back to the house become a rhythmic companion to how the words form in my head. That's where the poetry comes from.  

There's been plenty written about the helpfulness of developing a daily gratitude practice, and it's mostly good and well-researched, so I'll leave you to find that on your own. However you come to your thankfulness, I encourage you to start. Or continue. It's simultaneously personal and portable, a great way to sharpen your wordsmith-ing abilities, and good nourishment for your supportive relationships, starting with yourself.

Look closely, and deeply, at the life you've gathered around you. Surely there are at least five aspects, elements, comforts that have eased a burden, given you a spritz of spiritual Bactine for your skinned soul. Start with those. Then, go through the rest of your day and collect some more.

Most days, it's simple.

Gather. List. Repeat.

You're most welcome to check out my Facebook page, where the daily List of Five appears, usually before 8:00a.m. Later on the weekends.

And if you feel so moved, please share in your comments for this blog post what you're grateful for today. I'd love to read them, and celebrate them with you.

How Bad Do You Want It?

It's a delicious 75 breezy degrees, at the end of a long work day, sun shining around and through the bright, brand-new spring green leaves of every tree I pass as I drive responsibly home. I've been in a windowless office for 9+ hours, my head filled with the echoes of discussions from meetings, and some rather emotionally intense conversations with volunteer applicants. I've used every accessible part of my brain to plan, to actively listen, to synthesize ideas. I've sent print jobs to the copier repeatedly and retrieved them, loaded my car with supplies and interoffice mail to take to Columbus, and restocked bins in the storage room. Foot on the gas pedal, a persistent thought pulls me forward: Get to the woods. Get to the Hill.  I can easily picture in my mind how that sun looks as it dapples its way through the black walnuts and cherry saplings that line the path up the Hill to the west...all cool and ready to soak up the day's tension with different shades of green, a noisy mish-mashed chorus of robins and catbirds to take the image over the top.

But I'm really tired, bones and limbs aching for a good lie-down and no thinking at all. If I want what awaits me on that Hill, I've gotta walk about 2000 FitBit steps to get there. It seems as far away as it is beautiful. I push away the new contrasting thought that has popped up like an annoying Whack-A-Mole, competing for my attention: A nap sure sounds good, doesn't it, honey? Just you and the recliner, bingeing on Frasier via Netflix. C'mon, you can walk later. Talk about a battle for my soul. I roll down the car window as the front tires meet the gravel-y edge of our driveway and let the breeze make the decision for me--little tired feet, we're walkin'.

What needs to happen next is clear: open the door to the house, keep my head down and don't look at the socks that landed where Patrick peeled them off his tired little feet last night, and sure as heck don't go into the kitchen to put away those dishes in the drainer. Just head right to the bathroom, change into your after-work leggings and t-shirt from off the hook on the back of the door, slip on socks and your chicken boots, and keep moving out the door to the mudroom. Oh, and stop by the potting shed to get the lopers--if we're gonna walk to the Hill, might as well cut back those multiflora rose stalks that laughed at me the last time we had a trimming session. I'm out the door and greeting the chickens pecking ticks out of the grass where Patrick was just splitting wood two days ago. Whew--that was close.

Walking down the wide path towards the woods, I can feel the day's meetings and critical thinking evaporate, surrendering to the early evening sunlight. I'm still tired, but less so, both mentally and in my muscles as the Hill gets closer and Excel spreadsheets get farther away. Two thousand steps later, I stand on the path in the middle of the sacred grove of mockingbirds, and exhale.

Anything good and worth having requires us to work for it.

This isn't new. I know from experience the rewards that await me when I fold the footrest of the recliner back into place, and cross the distance between the living room carpet and line of trees to the west. The view through our front screen door is charmingly framed, and beckons every day, most enticingly. Half of the mulberry tree is visible, a vintage camper birdhouse hanging from one of the delicate branches. Behind that is the next row of black walnuts, then even taller sycamores (I know the creek is down there somewhere), and finally the infinite blue sky. When I choose the wide expanse of that sky over the comfort of the recliner, I'm glad, every single time, and a bit sheepish--how could I have even struggled with such a choice? The fresh breeze combing each strand of my hair, silken threads of spider webbing lightly stretched across the tips of grass blades beneath my bare feet. How could any seat in the house compare to this?

But compare and compete they do, and so the sometimes brief, sometimes prolonged back and forth debate continues: inside or outside? Certainly, the weather influences what option I pick. I've got too many winter coats, scarves, pairs of boots, and thick gloves. I'd be well-insulated if I ventured out on cold days. And draped there on the arm of the couch is the most buttery of flannel quilts, and I cave. One quilt is easier to put on and take off than all of thrift store-acquired L.L. Bean gear that almost match each other. The framed view from the front door will be fine. After all, I've also got two front windows with bird feeders in clear sight. I'll suit up and be out in it tomorrow, I promise. Tomorrow never comes, though, does it?

For me, the choice has deeper impact than just comfort. Each day here is an unrepeatable carnival of movement, color, and evolution, as the seasons slide seamlessly into one another. 19 years later, we've collected indelible images of nature at its best (the only time nature is truly at its worst is when it inconveniences us, right? Viewed without that bias, nature is glorious always), and I know, intimately, the difference in my soul when I choose to be a participant rather than a spectator. I understand there's a cost--convenience vs. quality. Once-in-a-lifetime views vs. regret. The computer will most likely outlive the meadow. And the land will never look this way again. I'm a fool when I forget that.

I can't recall now, as I write this, the weight of that 9+ hour day. It's gone, and I take off my chicken boots in the mudroom, pulling together the list of ingredients for tonight's dinner. Resisting the siren call of Frasier reruns and footrest has cleared a path for other important thoughts, even those as simple as food, and I feel lighter in spirit, not tired, calmer.

Meanwhile, on the path by the woods, there's a patch of wild strawberries growing bravely among the poison ivy. In a few weeks, I'll teeter briefly on the sharp edge of decision, empty yogurt container in my gloved hands.

Stay tuned.