Deep Autumn

We’re at that spot in the season where “Naked Acres” is living up to its name.

I walk the fields this morning, after a far-too-long absence, and tree limbs are bare, their leafy clothing laying in mostly tidy circles around the base of their trunks, rings of fading color that give one the idea of where Christmas tree skirts were first imagined. The woods reveal their secrets, carefully hidden since June busted out all over with shades of green not found in any Crayola box. Now, mid-November, I can see where the land rises and shallows out, where the swampy puddles thick with those fallen, faded leaves and soil sit in reflective stillness, and wash out the deer tracks I was following. My late-August melancholy has moved into a cozy first-snow anticipation (not the dusting we had week before last, but a thick white icing that holds my footprints), and a renewed gratitude for warm socks and waterproof boots that only surfaces this time of year.

All seasons are beautiful, no matter how the weather may inconvenience our ability to experience them comfortably. It’s not about me. It never has been. A woolly gray blanket of sky, a stiff and cleansing north wind, and the soft clacking of chilled-to-the-bone tree branches are gorgeous all by themselves. If I didn’t exist at all, they still would. I take my place in the scheme of things easily, and without disappointment.

As I made my way back from the woods toward the house, I checked on a few things—the old turkey pen, which we plan to repair and transform into next year’s meat chicken house, complete with an open, high-fenced run where they can, well, run in all directions until the chicken wire re-directs them. I tidied up this year’s empty chicken pens, put the detachable corrugated roofing on top of the sturdiest one and bungeed it down hopefully, against those January north winds. The day before Thanksgiving, Patrick moved both pens, with chickens still in them, all the way from the field behind the house, down the hill to one of the egg-layer coops—a Herculean feat that I wish I could have witnessed (I was at work, moving less formidable piles of paper). He made half a dozen of these pens as our meat chicken enterprise grew, so that we could pasture our birds comfortably and safely, moving them and the pens around on 3+ acres of grassy field. The pens are open-bottomed, about 2 1/2’ tall, and wrapped in chicken wire. We cover them with a thick corrugated plastic roof panel that we can remove to replenish their feed and water. When it’s time to relocate the chicks, we remove the roof panels, step inside the pen, and grab hold of the top frame, lifting it just a couple of inches off the ground, and gently nudge the chicks along to their new section of fresh grass. It’s slow and careful work, with much flapping of wings at our feet, and it feels like we’re wearing the clumsiest of wood-and-wire skirts above our ankles, leading the birds in some weird sort of poultry dance. I wonder what we look like…

One of the chicks escaped in spite of Patrick’s slow and careful pace, and I found her this morning, having taken refuge in the branches of the willow tree that died in the summer’s barn fire, and now lay patiently waiting to be turned into sweat wood. She pecked here and there at the ground where the pens used to be, and wondered where all her friends had gone. I followed her to the edge of the thickest cluster of willow branches and gathered her up, crooning that she’d soon be reunited with her pals as I carried her down the driveway hill to the old cinder block coop. They seemed happy to see her, and eager to hear tales of her harrowing survival in the un-penned wilderness.

A pale sun is now making its way across the sky, and I finish up my morning chores of feeding and watering the egg-layers (a Speckled Sussex sneaks out between my feet as the others shove and crowd each other around the feed tray), and raking up sopping wet leaves that have collected by the back door to the mud room. I’ve got a list of indoor projects that I’ll get to after breakfast. But I’ll be taking images of this morning’s walk in the door with me, fully and deeply aware that it’s going to keep getting darker until that quiet moment in late December, when the solstice brings us the gift of incremental light, one frozen day at a time.

I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Make Something

How’s this for a book title: Losing Teeth, Saving Face: Conquering Dental Anxiety

Or this one: Clothing Naked Emperors: Surviving Middle Management

Stuff like this comes to me unbidden, usually while I’m driving, and it’s neither practical nor safe to write it down, steering with one knee while I look for a pen. But when I reach wherever it is I’m going, I do jot a few into a small flip-pad I keep in the console between the front seats, or better yet, I record them on my phone. Gotta love those little computers in our pockets.

At home, I have as many blank journals as filled ones. I suppose I collect them, but not as bookshelf decorations. I really do want to write in them. Someday. For now, they hold a place of prominent promise on my book shelves, and give me encouragement daily. Not even the vitamins I take can do that.

I cherish how my life is filled with opportunities to create something that hasn’t existed before. And I think it’s wonderfully reckless to imagine giving into every creative impulse as it comes, to the exclusion of work, food, and almost bathing (this would be a difficult one to ignore—I love how I feel after a shower). But alas, I park most ideas in a secure mental holding pen until that elusive “later” comes along, and then spend at least an hour looking for them. Is this what it’s like to live an artist’s life? Geez, I hope not. But if it is, I suppose I’ll put on my big girl smock and get on with it. Life is too short NOT to create, and lately, I’m feeling my purpose is to help folks—myself included—rescue the word “creativity” itself from the narrow realm of arts and crafts.

I facilitate conversations about creativity, and when I ask people if they consider themselves creative, there’s a reluctance in the room that makes it necessary for the discussion to move forward toward reassurance. It’s not whether we’re creative, but how. And boy, do I mean HOW!

Being creative looks like this:

Planning your day. Making breakfast (or lunch, or any meal). Finishing the question “what if…?” Replacing the not-so-jazzy black buttons on a chunky warm sweater with really cool hand-made ceramic ones you found at a local shop on a chilly Saturday afternoon. Writing a tender expression of gratitude in response to someone else’s tender expression of sympathy. Rearranging your living room because you were just bored with the recliner always being by the door to the kitchen. Working with your accountant to prepare your taxes. Looking on Pinterest for photos of Thanksgiving table decor ideas, and then deciding to keep it simpler than that. Making your first quilt or your fiftieth one. Turning a Ghirardelli Double Chocolate Brownie Mix box into a handmade journal. And selecting what color nail polish you want to see on your toes for the next couple of weeks. I think you see where this is going.

I’m certainly not the first and only person out there proposing a wider interpretation of the word and the concept. I’m happy nonetheless to join their cheerful chorus and add more chairs at the table of inclusion where creativity is concerned. And I sit patiently, in love, while the reluctant among us push away whatever is holding them back from claiming their divine birthright, whether it’s shame, or incessant comparison to others, or fatigue.

You see, dear ones, our relationships with others need us to own our creativity. So do our workplaces, our brief and important transactions with bankers and healthcare providers and the person ringing up our groceries, and the discussions at our town hall meetings. Thankfully, creativity doesn’t require a rigid time frame or supplies (like paints and yarn). It’s ready-to-hand in our words, our inner posture of compassion, and our incredible brains. For me, the challenge is more about sorting all that out and not becoming too overwhelmed at the depth and breadth of choice that I live in each moment. I can handle that, though. Bring it.

The compelling urge to do, or be, or bring something into existence is powerful, bubbling expectantly deep within us and also close to the surface. It’s once again reckless, and now also liberating, to let ourselves be carried away by creativity’s capable, enduring flow. Will you let go? Will do allow yourself to own what’s already yours?

Meanwhile, other book titles I’ve played with:

Leave the Titanic Where It Is: Getting Past Your Family’s Dysfunction

Underachievement As a Self-care Strategy

Couldn’t We All Just Live on Chocolate?

Figuring Out the Real Point of Groundhogs

Waking Up Laughing: Life With Patrick

What could those stories look like? What if I picked just one today, and started writing? Where would I end up?

Somewhere fun, I know. Come with me?

Finding the Phoenix: Epilogue

In the southeast corner of the uncut field. we buried what was left of the barn.

Nails, truss joiners, leftover melted bits of canning jars (antique blue ones with the wire-top lids--ouch), anything that withstood the furnace-y heat and didn't fit in the demolition crew's dump truck is now beneath a crumbly mound of black and rust-colored clay, resting in the earth's tolerant embrace.

Also nestled in that embrace, uncomfortable and restless, is our shame. We had too much stuff. So much that we couldn’t remember it immediately when the insurance company gave us the chattels form to list it all.

We didn’t start the fire, but…we kept feeding it things, and it ate our stuff with impunity.

A local handyman business did the dirty work of clearing away what didn't burn--the metal siding, clanging in sheets as the vice grip of the loader grabbed hold and pulled. Seeing the bulky skeleton of our old riding lawn mower rocking slightly atop the other twisted debris in the dump truck, its rubber tires, gear shift knob, and vinyl-covered seat not even a memory now, I wondered what other tolerant soil would receive this latest deposit of our human consumerism. It might have been leaving the land we live on, but...it wasn't going anywhere, really, not for a long, long time.

 Now, every morning, I can see the barn grave site from the bathroom window, and the contours of the path leading to it. It pricks my conscience in ways I didn't expect. All of the other paths that wind through the field and the woods are soft grass-carpeted walking paths. You could almost wander them in your bare feet if not for the blackberry vines. But the path to the buried barn detritus is rough-cut and stubbly, a mix of bare soil and knobs of bull thistle; the first time I make the trek, I tripped over the fibrous stalk of a mangled iron weed plant, and landed humbly on my knees. Huh. Isn’t that interesting.

At the end of that first long walk down the new path, the mound of clay looks tired and spent. I find a mostly flat clump of dirt to sit on, and look to the north. The young goldenrod waves gently back and forth, and I can’t see where the barn used to be. It’s just me and the rest of what we used to own and didn’t use much. The morning after the fire, I went on a purge binge. I sorted with extreme prejudice, packed the truck with bags of it all until no more bags would fit, and our local Goodwill patiently priced the things I brought them. It felt like progress, albeit akin to tossing bricks into the Grand Canyon. We still have three other outbuildings full of old wood, garden tools, and enough supplies to host “make-and-take” craft retreats well into the Spring.

Because he likes a project that works the deepest part of his critical thinking skills, Patrick spent the days and weeks after the fire pouring himself into plans for the rebuild. He sketched out the new barn’s footprint, obtained estimates on lumber, labor, and electrical wiring costs, imagined a new space to ply his wood-turning craft, and made sure there would be ample room for the lawnmower (yes, we owned two) that we store in the old old goat barn, thank goodness, and a brooder for future chicks. He was so excited about the possibility of new space, more space. Every day after work, he’d greet me with a revised draft of his blueprints, a slight tweak to the layout, his eyes bright with new barn expectations.

Then demolition day came. Patrick saw it all come down, get loaded up, and hauled away. It took three trips across our little bridge, until only the two trees remained. And he saw the kind, thoughtful handyman pull the dying trees out by their roots. The willow gave up easily. But the sycamore held fast, determined not to leave the only soil she’d ever known. It was a poignant tug-of-war and we knew who would eventually win, but not without her pulling the 4,000-lb backhoe loader’s rear wheels off the ground. Patrick would later tell me it was hard to watch.

We were building the new chick brooder behind the house one sunny evening after work, and he said “Now don’t kill me, but I’ve had a new thought on the barn rebuild”. He’d shared so many revisions with me in the past several days, this didn’t surprise me. I looked at him expectantly, as the words “you know, we don’t have to rebuild right away” came to rest in the space between us.

He was right.

We could wait. Let the land rest from her trauma. Clean out the other barns (again, with extreme prejudice) and see what remained, and decide from there just what sort of new barn or shed we really needed. Watching that sycamore reluctantly give up its ghost triggered an epiphany in Patrick, as did the long, slow procession and burial of whatever didn’t burn or melt. Hadn’t we learned our lesson? he asked. Did we really need a new barn that we’d fill with more stuff, when we already had more than we needed?

Out of the ashes came the phoenix of a gentle but clear lesson.

As only the land can teach.

Overhead Lights

I stood on the deck facing south the other night, and felt the familiar late-August tug of melancholy that settles into my gut for pretty much the remainder of the summer season. The field to the east is uncut, but also un-planted, a thick tall carpet of weeds too high for the zero-turn mower. I love its wild and abandoned appearance, and also wish I could just walk right through the collection of soft and prickly stalks to the sycamore saplings that mark where our responsibility ends and the next farmer's begins, and not emerge itching or carrying multi-legged stowaways in my socks. 

To the south, at the end of a graceful lawn slope, is the old old goat barn, not to be confused with the former new old goat barn, that burned to the ground July 15th while we slept (see the July 29th post for that story). The old old goat barn runs west to east, it's sliding doors opening to the north and south, and still echoes with the ghosts of our Boer goat-raising days, specifically kidding season, and I smile, remembering the blond triplets we caught one winter and had to bring into the house for the night, because their mother wasn't quite taking to them enough to feed them, and the temperature was dropping into the teens almost as we watched. The three of them fit in a laundry basket on the floor by my side of the bed. I awoke the next morning with my hand resting on a sweet small furry head that was bleating for room service. 

But tonight, the barn is quiet, and empty of livestock, and as my gaze sweeps from east to west, I notice there are no more lightning bugs blinking their hypnotic mating dance that welcomes the start of summer. I ache with missing them, the memory of June still fresh and green in my mind as I stood on that same deck, mesmerized and clapping as their flashing lights signaled "hey baby, whaddya think of me now?" in rapid-fire succession. Their arrival, after nine long months of peering into the blank inky wooded canvas, is the end-of-winter confirmation I hunger for. No turning back now, no chance of one last, errant snow squall. Spring bursts open all around us, heralded by these 1/2" floating sparklers, by the thousands. An on-deck standing ovation seems the only appropriate response.

In my late-August funk, it's easy to forget to look up on a cloudless, moonless night, and see the thick swath of the Milky Way that arcs overhead. Stars, arranged and set into black velvet precisely, wait patiently for my attention. When I do look up, it's always the same--my eight-pound head falls gently backwards, and my mouth slowly drops open, not just by the architecture of the human skeletal construct, but also in awe. Lightning bugs, thick and fast for the past three months, have passed the torch upwards so that mere mortals can still be dazzled and stopped in our tracks by tiny lights, some blinking, some resting. A streak of meteor draws a thin bold line in the dark sky, and I realize that my neck will start hurting soon, because I'm not dropping my gaze until I see a couple more (c'mon, I know you're out there...). Five minutes become thirty, and I promise to do extra yoga stretches in the morning to put my neck and shoulders right again. I collect six more streaking meteors, wish one of them would make contact and land in the open field to the east of the old old goat barn so I can be late for work the next morning after talking to the press, and then go back inside.

This is why we live here. This is why we had the electric company take that darn security light off the pole by the driveway. This is why we wake up in mid-August, and mid-November (Persieds and Leonids, respectively) at 3:30a.m., stumble groggily out the back door and make our necks hurt for thirty minutes. We happily hand over the mortgage payment for our front row seats at an almost-nightly light show.

As long as we remember to look up.