On Wind, and Trees, and a Friend Named Evelyn

The weather-guessers predicted heavy winds to begin at 4:00a.m., so on my first trip to the bathroom before dawn (there are usually at least three), I opened the front door to stillness and a couple of blurry stars beneath wispy veils of cloud cover. Maybe they meant 4:30a.m. But I’ll be asleep again by then. So I crawled back into bed, and the next time I opened my eyes, the sun was about two hands above the field line, and the trees had clearly been waving their branchy arms for a few hours now (they looked well into it with no signs of stopping). I put on my farm chore clothes and got to work.

I’ve always wanted to experience the moment when the winds pick up during the night. I’ve had the privilege many times to stand on our deck in daylight and face the gathering clouds to the west, watching as the limbs of the blue spruce and yellow maples along the ridge received the rolling unfolding of a good thunderstorm. It’s the most gorgeous of dances—long branches waving back and forth as thick trunks stand firmly planted in the ground. I look for the place where the trunk itself begins to sway, and it’s about one-third of the way up.

But at night, when such details are shrouded in darkness, I’ve only been shaken awake by the bang of our metal roof, never on the porch listening to the breeze become a howling crescendo of fully-engaged atmospheric rapturous symphony. In such a moment, I’d have to rely on my ears to capture and interpret the meaning of whistles and howls, my hair and skin to register the fierceness of a gust, while my eyes, sans glasses, squint through a muted ombre of grays that gives only hints of the shapes around me—the stand of young mulberry saplings just off the front deck, the bricks that form a circle around the hollowed out standing stump of the dead apple tree, the outline of our two trucks parked on the slanted driveway. All of it is familiar in my memory but indistinct at 4:00a.m. I’m grateful for the extra hours of sleep, of course, and look forward the next cold front that brings such a wild gift in its hands for my other senses to enjoy.

On a somewhat related topic, have you ever wrapped your arms around the trunk of a tree during strong winds? Rather a personal question, I know. But if you can, please try it today before the winds die down. It won’t necessarily make you a Tree Hugger (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but the sensation of swaying along with something whose roots are embedded way below one’s unattached feet is simply unforgettable. And a bit dizzying. I recommend selecting a tree big enough to catch the wind and distribute that movement throughout its lanky frame, but not so large that your fingertips can’t touch when you reach your arms around the rough bark. It also helps to press your torso and legs into the trunk of the tree, like the squirrels do when they’re resting mid-climb on their way to the nest at the top. And finally, close your eyes. I accept that I may have taken our relationship to a new and unexpected level. I appreciate your patience and open-mindedness (and, I want to hear how this goes for you. Please comment here at this post, or via the contact page on this blog).

Those same weather-guessers have announced a High Wind Warning, to “remain in effect until 10:00p.m. EST this evening” (guess where I’ll be at 10:01?), “with winds out of the west 25 - 35mph, and gusts up to 58mph.” I have no way to confirm the accuracy of that windspeed prediction, but if we have hatches to batten down, they have indeed been battened. The rabbit hutches are wrapped in blue tarps that are now flapping and snapping in the wind (do rabbits need earplugs? I wonder…), which is testing the strength of the bungee cords I bought at a local dollar store. I’ll check them again, long before 10:00p.m., and more than once. In the meantime, I’ve decided to work on a couple of inside projects: hauling some old bookshelves from the attic and setting them up the studio/downstairs guestroom where I’ll reorganize and store my art supplies. That should take me through lunch and just before dinner. And then I’ll make a few books.

A friend of mine, Evelyn, showed me the art and craft of bookbinding shortly after my father passed away. His death took the creative wind out of me for a couple of years. Let me just say how rare that was, to not put my hands to any sort of artistic pursuit for that long a time. Art quilts were my thing for over a decade, and I dabbled in painting and other projects that required the occasional use of a glue gun. But when dad died, so did the motivation and curiosity. Until Evelyn came out to the farm for lunch, and brought her tote bags full of book board, PVA glue, waxed thread, jute, and a handmade cradle for punching holes in the creases of the signatures that would become pages. In between bites of chicken salad and raspberries, and by the end of the weekend long after Evelyn left for home, I made twelve blank journals and never looked back. I think I heard dad cheering…

While the wind rearranges the landscape and the trees dance on the other side of the living room windows, it’s satisfying to be about my own windless rearranging inside, following a gentle muse wherever it leads me, and making note of the relationship between the Creations outside and the creative impulse that ripples and stirs within each of us. There are lessons only a windy day can teach us.

By 10:00 o’clock tonight, I wonder what will look different…on both sides of the living room windows.

Now, go hug that tree and let me know what you think.

Where The Worlds Meet

I have a new plush throw, 50” x 70”, with whimsical kitties frolicking all over it, pattern-wise. It’s brightness caught my eye at a rare “pay-full-price” retail experience after work last week, and I wasn’t surprised at all that it came home with me. It’s washed and currently spread out like fluffy royalty on the bed. The living cats who own us have been schooled: not one black hair is to be found on this one. We’ll see how long that lasts (sigh…).

In the wake of Valentine’s Day, I am still trying to make good on the self-promise to send little dried lavender-filled heart-shaped sachets to people we know and love. Years back, I bought a red tin full of die-cut fabric hearts, all pink or magenta or faded rose, with the intention of making a pretty large applique quilt for our bed. With that quilt still a dream on my pillow (sheesh, I didn’t even sketch out the design like I usually do, on 1/4” graph paper that Patrick often borrows for his woodworking projects), I dug into this colorful stash, matched the random pattern samples, and stitched pairs of hearts together, leaving a small opening so I could spoon in the lavender flowers. That’s what I did most of the day yesterday. A day sewing, sitting on the couch, getting up once in a while for water and snacks. As rare as my paying full retail for anything. It was delicious and slovenly all in one moment.

But when I woke up today, the voice that calls me to the walking paths was clear, loud, and urgent. And the sunrise, with its pink and gray stripes against a glowing blue horizon, beckoned gently as I quietly hurried to put on my boots and layer up against a chilly wind. After a few distractions (fixing the fence on the north side of the chicken run, where clearly they had stood on each other’s shoulders and pushed against it until it gave way, squawking gleefully at their effort and newfound freedom; then, refilling the birdfeeders while the blue jays told me to work faster), I kept to my normal route, starting from behind the house down the path past the sweat lodge to the corner Where The Worlds Meet, then taking a left toward the western edge of the property fence and a sharp right up the Hill. By this time, my nose was running, and I knew I’d be washing my thick fleece gloves when I returned to the mudroom/laundry room. I didn’t mind. It felt as if I’d been gone from this path for a lifetime. Work and after-work tiredness, plus some below-zero wind chill days kept us both inside the past couple of weeks, save for the essential outdoor tasks of feeding and watering animals. Things change every day here, but I’m not out in all of it every day, so I miss things, and then have to rely on my memory to bridge the gap between what I saw on the last walk and what the fields and woods are showing me today. A great anti-Alzheimer’s plan if ever there was one. So far, it seems to be working.

I want to pause for a moment here and go on a bit about that spot Where The Worlds Meet. That’s what we call it here, but it could refer to any place in the wild where an open field meets a tree line. I’ve been told, and have tested it enough to feel comfortable saying it’s true, that these places see the most animal activity. If you’re patient and willing, you can sit there and watch how the birds congregate in the trees whose branches reach out across the spot where the woods end and the field begins. You’ll find deer tracks, evidence of raccoons and foxes and the elusive coyote. There must be something about what these spaces offer to our wild relatives—food, shelter and protection, hiding places, and whatever a fox might dream of as she travels the land. When we cut the first path through the field and around the edge of the meadow woods, we paid close attention to how we carved something so human in the midst of what had been theirs since the beginning of time, and we gave thanks for their tolerance. It immediately became a favorite place, this particular corner on the land, where we’d stop in our tracks and just look about in wonder and amazement at all that it represented. We wondered how many souls had traversed it’s grass-covered loam. One year, Patrick surprised me on our “the day we first met” anniversary (August 11, 1992, at precisely 8:38p.m.), with an al fresco dinner served on a folding table placed carefully at that corner. Tablecloth, napkins, and a resplendent feast from Bob Evans—Wildfire Chicken salad, rolls, mashed potatoes, and strawberry pie, while we talked into the sunset, remembering first impressions and the sacredness of that life-changing moment for each of us. “Where The Worlds Meet” indeed…

So back to my runny nose and this chilly walk, where I look hard and close for changes in the landscape, eventually giving into what every good land walk does—pulls me into its here-and-now magic, shows me just how hard the wind was blowing two nights ago (tree limbs everywhere, some less sturdy black walnuts snapped in two and cradled in the stronger arms of the buckeyes that caught them as they fell), and where they deer had been. I love finding this stuff, this evidence that we’re not alone here. And, as usually happens on a cold day, I begin to feel sleepy and imagine myself just curling up on the ground, nestled in a thick patch of fallen sycamore leaves, drifting into a dreamless slumber and waking up somewhere else. I’ve not tried this yet, but…it sure is tempting this morning. I think I’m dressed warmly enough, but not brave enough to test it. So I keep walking.

Waiting for me back at the house is a sink full of last night’s dishes, what’s left of the rustic loaf of bread I baked last night, and blueberries in the freezer that will find their way on top of my morning oatmeal. While that colorful kitties plush throw is still keeping Patrick warm as he sleeps, I’m grateful that I subscribe to the philosophy that no one in my home during winter should be more than two feet away from a quilt or blanket. I’ll take off enough layers to be comfortable indoors now, gather my breakfast things and settle onto the couch for vitamins and reflection. The walk stays with me, lingering on the edges of a busy mind and a full heart. I hold on as long as I possibly can.

Being. Friends.

The eastern sky is a solid wall of pinkish-orange, verging on that only-at-sunrise red, and the clouds make a fish scale sort of herringbone pattern. If I was a sailor, I’d be taking warning.

Rabbits are fed and watered (including our free-range skipper, Oscar, who gambols about the back yard, pushing snow aside to get at the tough grass below), last night’s dinner dishes are drying in the drainer, and my mug of green tea is warm but not too hot, safe now to drink without scalding my mouth. A fresh ball of no-knead artisan bread dough is tucked into an old yellow Pyrex mixing bowl on top of the fridge to rise all day, and I’ve just scraped the last spoonful of plain yogurt mixed with dark chocolate cinnamon granola out of the little ceramic bee bowl I bought from Gina at White Swan Studios—a favorite artist I met a few years back at a Country Living Fair. All in all, a glorious start to the day.

We’re going to visit with friends later this morning for brunch, and it’s impossible not to bring gifts (we’ve tried). The common ground between us is rich and beloved—Patrick worked with both of them in medical supplies sales, and shortly after their first daughter was born, we began gathering around food. Our first dinner together was Mexican-themed. Jen is an incredibly skilled cook and baker (ask me sometime about the macaroons she makes); no one went hungry that night. They have two daughters now, and that’s where the gifts come into play. They’re adorable (the girls, not the gifts), and I’m a sucker for their squeals of delight when they reach into the paper bag and pull out something with their names on it. We’ve checked in with their parents on all this, and continue to receive a gracious green light. The older daughter shares my affinity for anything Hello Kitty, the younger one is all social and loves Elsa from Frozen. Patrick and Russell share mechanical interests. There’s always lots to talk about, and today will be no different. We’re bringing everything we need to make panini, some macaroni and cheese for the girls, and a paper bag filled with joy.

When we moved out here, coming up on twenty years ago, we stretched the bonds of friendships that were more city-based and nurtured, not realizing that, over time, the visits and phone calls would wane and move into months, then years without much contact. No deliberate event tinged with anger or offense, just everyone getting on with the lives that were immediately in front of us. I suspect that if we all found ourselves in the same room again, we’d bridge the gap with smiles and curiosity, make good on promises to get together with food between us, and keep the storytelling up for hours. When a friendship can do that, it’s pure gift.

That’s not to say we don’t need to work at these long-distance relationships. I’d not be so casual and cavalier to expect that I bear no responsibility for the essential maintenance that all healthy human bonds require. But the rules of engagement must be elastic, and mutually agreed-upon. Then all parties involved can get on with it and collect the memories that good friends cherish as sacred currency in the economy of love. My purse, so far, has never been empty.

So we drive to Columbus or Delaware or Rochester, NY, or they come out here (wearing boots and jeans most times, because long walks are on the agenda), we eat like food was just invented, and talk about the important things. There is always laughter, sometimes tears, and a decent helping of philosophy with a few guaranteed ‘this would fix the world” strategies tossed in (followed by a sighing of “if only we were in charge”…). It’s a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, giving us all something to look back on when we’re slogging through an especially slow Wednesday.

Not bad for a bag full of Hello Kitty and Frozen, and a hot panini press on the counter.

Let’s eat.

Anticipation

Sybbie crouches below the dragonfly shepherd’s hook planted firmly in the frozen ground on the ridge to the west, watching as the red-capped plastic bird feeder dangles in the chilly wind. Her whiskered expression shifts from concentration to hope, as if one of her winged quarries will simply drop from the breakfast buffet into her mouth. Fortunately, for the fat cardinal busily cherry-picking at the sunflower seeds, his hunger hasn’t distracted him from keeping an eye on the furry ground below. He eats his fill and flies off. Sybbie shrugs her shoulders, scouts out the prospects at the other feeding stations along that same western ridge, and sighs into the memory of dry food waiting in a warmer place by the kitchen stove. Friday’s 7” snowfall is now a melting shell of its former self, and I smile as Sybbie picks her way across the yard to the porch, making sure to place her paws exactly in the prints she made two days ago in her first attempt to dine al fresco. I open the screen door to let her in.

The entire scene takes place at the start of the third day of February, where we can almost see spring’s fingers curling onto the edge of our hope and grabbing hold, to pull itself up and over into our winter-weary souls. Last week, I stood in the middle of a polar vortex as the truck’s engine roared to life almost defiantly in the -28 degree air. Today, it’s supposed to get up to 51 degrees. Sybbie’s footprints will be harder to find by the time the sun goes down.

You’ve heard my position on complaining about the weather, so I’ll be brief: it’s not about us. I also know full well the joy of un-hunching our shoulders, after weeks of being locked into position against the cold, to relax into the first “no jacket needed” day of spring (I know people who would sacrifice limbs and almost children for that, though I’m grateful they don’t. A good change of season needs both to be fully enjoyed and appreciated). But in the end, nature will do as it pleases, and we’ll do it better if we relax into all of it as best we can. I watch the birds at the feeder, and Sybbie below it, for guidance. They work with it.

In the meantime, I glance at the weather app predictions on my phone, and trust that I have more than enough layers to put on and take off as the temperatures dictate. I don’t mind. I have plenty to keep my hands and brain busy if I choose to stay inside—there are journals to be bound, granola to make (a new recipe this just this morning: Dark Chocolate Ancho Chili Cinnamon, with toasted pumpkin seeds. See? You’ve forgotten the melting snow already). Two dear friends came over for cooking and lunch yesterday, and we walked down the path past the sweat lodge, taking a left into the meadow. We came across tracks in the snow and gave our best Animal Planet explanations about who made them. One thing we know—there’s a rabbit out there who is an Olympic-trained jumper. Such distance between each long-footed impression! The weight of my boots reminds me of my place in the Big Picture as I leave a trail of size 6.5 close-together tread marks in the snow. Even with the warmer temperatures this week, I suspect we haven’t seen the last of it, so I’ll keep those 6.5 size boots close to the front door for a while longer.

After our friends left, I meandered down to the bridge, and looked past the railings to see two elongated melted spots where the thin ice was giving way to the creek’s insistent movement. It was like peering down into a white-framed window, where an entirely different world was arranging itself and getting on with it. Barley audible, I watched as gallon after gallon of icy water rushed onward beneath the layer of unmarked snow-cover, enchanted. Branches from the black walnuts stretched across the banks trying to touch each other, and I hoped the warming trend this week wouldn't trick them into budding too soon. But hey, they’re trees and know far more than I do about such things.

I gave the scene one more achingly grateful gaze, and left them all to it. Rushing creek water, smart cardinals, and leaping meadow rabbits are all the signs of a longed-for spring I need today. It will come, and I’ll be ready.