Spring: The Season of Perspective

While we were busy with Other Things, the young silver maple saplings in the far northeast field stretched themselves upward oh, say, another three feet or so and if we get to live here another twenty-three years, the humble and bumpy walking path Patrick carved out with a rented walk-behind brush hog mower will become a shrouded forest path where future fallen leaves will soften our footsteps. Parents reading this, please tell me you understand. Without children of our own, I can only imagine what it’s like to tuck your toddler into bed one night and find her filling out the paperwork for her temporary driver’s license the next morning, asking for your signature in the “parent/guardian” section and hoping you’ll cover her first six months’ insurance payments. Caring for any living thing from the beginning is a never-ending double take and don’t blink existence.

I try to live in the present moment, truly I do, and I fancy myself a fairly decent noticer of my surroundings, but each morning’s walk sends me right back to “Paying Attention" preschool. Whenever time allows, I dawdle and mosey about the paths, stepping off of them now and again to inspect new treefalls and one particularly curious patch of freshly turned and crumbled earth—two holes separated by about seven inches of undisturbed grass. Not sure what the digger was looking for; they appeared to have lost interest and moved on, leaving behind a nice ankle-turner for someone (me) on the day everything is covered in snow and the edges of the walking path are anyone’s guess. Maybe writing it down here will help me remember and save us all a trip to the ER.

If Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately, I walk the land to reset my spiritual password, to freshen up my outlook and scrub off another layer of complacency’s thick skin. Let’s call it mindfulness exfoliation and, guess what? It works, every time. To have a wellness strategy so unflinchingly reliable is both responsibility and pure gift, and it shares the company of only a few others (Patrick, water, breathing). They are mine to employ or ignore, with risks on both sides. But I never regret the decision to suit up and step out, covering the better part of seventeen acres in just less than an hour. If not for a day job that keeps our creditors happy and the fridge full of options, who knows if I’d ever come back to the house? There’s just so much to see out there, to notice and register and revel in, a perpetual party with a buffet that keeps refilling itself to feed each and every one of my senses. My hunger is never satisfied but I don’t feel greedy. Maybe someday I’ll figure out how that works.

Until then, I come to a place on the field path (and in my thoughts) where I realize the impermanence of it all. At some unknown hour, my feet will no longer make contact with this generous and forgiving soil. The box elders by the chicken coop, that we didn’t plant or have anything to do with except leave them alone, will lay down and be finished in their growth, and a different flock of sparrows than the one we currently know will take to flitting from one dead branch to another, their chirps heard by someone else (human or not). The trees I lean against and whisper my thanks to will give shade and shelter to other visitors or be moved once and for all to a different interpretation of who they currently are. I don’t linger in this mind space but for a few moments, long enough to appreciate that what I’m standing on, surrounded by and tending to in This Moment is all there is, and all that matters. Then it’s onward through the meadow to make a note that it might be helpful for me to learn how to use the smaller chainsaw and finish a fallen old mulberry’s dramatic exit, stacking the chunks of its trunk and limbs for a future sweat fire or one of Patrick’s masterful wood-turned works of art. To-do lists have a way of keeping the existential and melancholic at bay.

At last count, 56 of the tulips I planted last fall have zoomed past the soil line, taking in the warmer days with great joy and purpose. The deer have found a handful planted beneath a perfectly shaped mulberry sapling in the garden and after rooting up the bulbs, decided to leave the remaining ones alone. September’s fallen buckeyes and horse chestnuts on both sides of the gravely driveway have pushed themselves up through the scattered leaf mulch, determined to reforest the area that our local electric company slashed and poisoned beneath the power lines strung above the creek. We’ll gently relocate as many of these young ones as we can in the eastern field, along with more volunteer maple and sycamore saplings until we’ve got a going arboreal concern.

Impermanent? Yes, every bit of it.

Still worth the effort?

You bet.

The Calm After the Storm

I clear the path of fallen branches because it’s Sunday and I have more time for such industrious dawdling on the morning walk.

Weekday excursions are a more focused affair, with poetic encounters and soul-cleansing gratitude, to be sure, but always an eye on the inner clock that gets me to work more or less on time. But Sunday walks…ahhh…they are the blank page opened before my willing feet, a time to stroll more leisurely among the coming season’s project list and on occasion, take the trimmers with me, listening to the laughter of a blackberry vine’s thorns echo in my ears long after I return to the house.

A second straight weekend of straight-line winds with 55mph gusts drove some of the arms and fingers of our walnuts and maples into the ground, like nails into soft wood. They poke out randomly along the path at rakish angles and I leave them be, an art installation to surprise our next round of house guests. Large deer hoofprints wend their way among the sticks, crisscrossed with raccoon and coyote pawprints and a leaving or two of their scat, which I’m rather impressed I can identify by now. We are never alone here, and it’s most reassuring to step among the proof of that. The tiniest of twigs carpet the ground and I resist the temptation to build little fairy houses out of them, knowing that a day’s worth of granola baking awaits me in the warmth of our clean kitchen. A project for a warmer, less scheduled day, and in the presence of imaginative children who are dear to us.

There are certain trees that I visit on the walk, one of them a young sycamore sapling I found a couple of years ago, bent double to the ground after an early summer windfest, broken save for a strap of her sinewy bark holding both halves precariously together. I ran back to the house and scrambled frantically among my cotton sheeting scraps like a wartime Red Cross volunteer looking for bandages and found just enough to wrap the wound and set her upright again. I tethered her young trunk gently to a rusty t-post I grabbed from the potting shed on my way back to where she lay patiently wondering what could be done to save her. She took her medicine well and has survived half a dozen such storms since, determined to heal and grow into the unfolding seasons in perpetuity (fingers crossed, touch wood). We have that in common, so I stop and greet her each time I walk, wrapping my hand around the coolness of her slender branches one at a time. I press my cheek against a lower limb that stretches toward the west and tell her how proud I am of her tenacity. I’ll pass by her again on my double loop through the field, so we agree to save our farewells until then.

About twenty feet off the main path, I step into a mixed grove of blue beech, towering black walnuts and assorted ash trees, well-established and clearly the gatekeepers of this diverse vertical community, leaning my forehead against their rough bark one at a time as I exhale a whispered good morning and thank you to start our respective days. The reasoning of the wind is beyond my simple comprehension, so I’ve stopped asking why these sentinels are still standing while others lay at their feet, spent and taken too soon. Since it’s still Sunday, I settle myself onto the huge trunk of a fallen black walnut stripped of its bark and wait for the overture to begin.

It opens with the single staccato tapping of a woodpecker I can’t see, boring a hole into both tree and silence with regular pauses, the timing of which I can’t sequence. He solos for several minutes this way until another one takes up the sound on its own perch several yards to the south. Having made their point, the woods go quiet until a trio of Canada geese honk their way overhead, the leader’s wingspan missing two of its feathers on the right as their song fades into the distance. Next comes the deer snorting section of the orchestra and now we’re in a full on symphony that blurs the line between rehearsal and performance. I realize it would be a tad improper to leap up and burst into applause, so I re-set my wonder and gratitude to an inward place where I will store this scene for all eternity. No intermission in this Concert of All Living Things, and it never, ever ends.

Can it be that it was just yesterday at this exact time the wind was playing the trees’ canopies like so many stringed instruments, plucking at and rubbing their woody fingers together, relentlessly coaxing out mournful melodies for hour upon hour? How can it be, this contrast of motion and near-silence that envelopes us all, as if nothing even happened on the back side of last night’s sunset? We all found our own ways to work around the previous day’s drama—the market managers wisely moved us back inside to the winter season location (we were to relocate outside for April until they saw the forecast), cardinals still scritched out their cheerful calls and white-throated sparrows chased each other in the mulberry branches, while specks of high-flying redtail hawks caught the thermals and coasted across the cloud-scuttled sky. The roaring wind pushed through us all without apology. I left the front deck’s yellow wooden bench on the lawn where it landed, promising to put it back once things had settled down a bit. Patrick and I stooped to gather branches that were everywhere on the grass around the house, snapping them over our knees so they’d fit better in the garden cart that we’d later wheel back to the sweat lodge and add to the kindling pile. I called up the morning’s image of that forest symphony and smiled inwardly at our bend toward activity even while cherishing those moments of stillness.

Out among the hundreds of hopeful silver and red maple saplings in the field just south of the woods, a small nest (architect yet unidentified) sits in the crotch of one of them, securely anchored and unassuming in its durability. I’ve watched it for the past year, unmoved by the storms of the last three seasons, perfectly shaped, intact and going nowhere. Brambles climb toward it now but it seems not to notice at all, just content to be its strong and quietly confident self, having served its purpose last spring as dwelling and incubator for its long-gone temporary residents. I doubt new renters will move in this spring but who knows? Real estate this sturdy won’t stay vacant for very long. Like those select trees I’ve come to know and understand even a little, I pause on the walk and consider what this nest is teaching me, setting aside my own misguided hubris to listen carefully. Whatever storms may come as the next few months unfold, I hope we’ll both endure, with quiet confidence and grace.

Visitors

On the day we turned our clocks forward at that ungodly hour of 2:00a.m. the weather took a step back into the early days of winter, dressing the trees in snow-chalked crime scene outlines and I got to walk among the evidence that I’m really not in charge around here.

Stepping into the pristine silence, tiny flakes of snow clung to my flannel jacket and eyelashes, filtering my view of the fields and softening the edges of our wise maples and black walnuts, their bony fingers still bare but thinking about donning something green. The leaves of our brave and sturdy tulips were just above the soil line, weeks away from blooming but clearly determined to make good on their promise to cheer me in late May and June before Patrick heads out to Sundance. I’ll have dug up their generous bulbs before he returns and have them drying on old newspapers until October when I’ll tuck them back into place like I do every fall. Fall?? Slow down, sister. Let’s take these seasons one at a time.

Twelve days in and March was so far living up to its Ojibwe name of “Snowcrust Moon”. Who am I to complain? The sweat fire was crackling, family had gathered to pray and share food and pour out other acts of intentional kindness while the furnace kicked on at reliable intervals to keep us at a balmy 67 degrees inside. Somewhere upstairs, one of the kittens was napping. Paradise, truly, and not lost at all. I put together a sheet pan of turkey sliders on sweet Hawaiian rolls smeared with spicy mustard and horseradish pickles and waited for the others to troop in the back door, their faces shining with the release and hope that any good prayer leaves behind. They did not disappoint, and even hung their mud-caked towels on the line out back.

That was two weeks ago and whatever they prayed about has lingered around the edges of our lives, catching and holding us tenderly at the end of some pretty rough workdays, smoothing the worry from our tired brows. Now, Sunday morning, in the starlit darkness of what would have been my mom’s 91st birthday, totes of product and supplies are stacked by the front door for a pop-up market later at a nearby brewery. Seven years ago, I could not have imagined we’d be pairing our vanilla chai granola with anyone’s IPA or cranberry mule on a Sunday afternoon, but here we are, six or so of these pop-ups under our belts and the good patrons of this family-run farm and gathering place keep our ovens and mixing bowls busy. When the sun sets on our labors, we’ll gratefully put away the remaining inventory and fill our plates with food they helped us purchase. Yep, the equation is that simple.

Mom and Dad both had birthdays in March (Dad’s was a couple weeks ago; he would have been 93), and I wonder what they’d make of our hectic and cobbled together life here in the middle of nowhere. Up until their tandem declines nearly two decades ago, they cheered us on and marveled at how we kept it all clicking along. Folks from their generation were more likely to have some farm experience in their childhood, so they slipped easily into the scene here when they visited, taking walks with us and letting their gaze settle knowingly and without judgment on our many and varied unfinished projects strewn about the landscape. It was pure joy to see the delight on their faces when the peacocks would stroll up to the front porch where we were sitting, or Patrick would bring them one of the newest goat kids in his arms, all bleating and adorable, eager for the inevitable cooing and head rubs that would follow. Whatever my parents talked about on their way home those days, I’m certain it was wreathed in smiles.

Sometimes it’s helpful and necessary to pause and think how you arrived at your current life’s iteration, noticing the choices you made and turning them over carefully in your mind, looking for clues that will shape your next moves. Patrick and I do that regularly as the future looms all fuzzy and unopened, reassuring ourselves that we’ll figure it out somehow. We have so far, and don’t take the kindness of family and strangers for granted; they’ve featured prominently in our story over the years and show no signs of slowing down. Yesterday, a friend from the market came for an afternoon of art and food, and just as we were hauling out the paint and other supplies on a folding table in the living room, the power went out (is it just me, or has it become windier lately?). A call to the electric company revealed that we were one of several thousand temporarily off-grid due to the storm, which meant it was anyone’s guess as to when we’d be able to flush the toilet again or wash the lunch dishes piled by the sink. So we turned our attention to the paint pouring and bookbinding in front of us, getting happily lost in swirls of wet acrylic color and gentle conversation punctuated by Patrick’s humor. The wind pushed the clouds out of the sun’s way, brightening the space and giving the kittens warm patches of light to nap in on the cat tree by the window. When the gas grill went tumbling down the ridge, tank and all, we rushed out to right it back into place, falling branches from the silver maple out back missing us by inches and random chance. Our friend rolled along easily with it all, her first visit here giving her memories to unpack on the ride home.

Author Hugh Prather once wrote “Letting people in is largely a matter of not expending the energy to keep them out.” For as much as we love our privacy here, we also know deeply the magic and gift of a visitor’s touch on the land, the welcome trod of their footsteps on the front deck, through the living room into the kitchen and out the back door into the mouth of the walking paths that lead to even more wonder. Those kitchen walls have held the whispered secrets of people we love, nourished their triumphs and given them a safe place to be unfinished (as we all are). I might wish I’d taken the damp rag a bit further into the corners to remove the last dangling traces of a years-old cobweb but quickly realize I’m the only one who noticed them in the first place and turn my attention back to offering drinks and setting out placemats for the feast that awaits (forks on the left, a hand stitched cloth napkin beneath). I’ve been lonely before and I’ve known soothing solitude often enough to distinguish between the two. As Patrick and I both collect more days and years, my money’s on the company I keep, opening our door to visitors and letting the land we all stand on transport them away from the troubles.

As our friend left, carrying a crate of her paint-poured creations and leaving us to predict when the power would come back on, we were already planning the next gathering, graced by the presence of others who have as much to gain as we do by spending time in each other’s company.

What can I offer you to drink?

Moving Parts

I’ve given up trying to describe the colors of the morning sky; no dictionary can even come close to what I see. Words like “pink”, “orange”, even “periwinkle” fall short and land on the page as an insult rather than the tribute I want them to be. At this moment, a copper disc of moon is slipping into the wide embrace of the west and it’s hard to concentrate on writing.

Miles from my spot on the couch, a friend is hurting deeply and almost nothing can touch it, yet I’m imagining a small basket of tea things and a comforting mug of some sort, a gesture from a helpless and caring heart.

My right arm is injured and it’s my own fault. I tried to shift a stack of market supplies in the back of the car (two folding tables beneath two packed and heavy totes of product) on the strength of two fingers and felt the tendons in my forearm stretch and tear. Patrick massaged in some capsaicin cream ever so tenderly after we’d unpacked and settled in for the afternoon and that carried me through the night. But it’s morning now and I’m hoping I can grip the handle of my walking stick before I head out to the woods to survey the wind damage from a couple nights ago.

Over-easy eggs sound good for breakfast, the way my mom made them—butter melted in the skillet, then slide in the eggs yolks with their opaque and clingy whites, let them just set before adding a splash of cold tap water and hurry to put the lid on while the bread toasts. Ten seconds in, remove from the heat, keep that lid on and don’t peek until another thirty seconds have passed. Magical, because the water loosens the whites from the pan so there’s no wrestling to get them out with a spatula and risk breaking those golden and perfectly set yolks. If you’re feeling indulgent, mash some avocado on that warm toast, drizzle with olive oil and a sprinkle of salt and nestle the eggs in close (a little white hanging over the edge of the plate adds curb appeal). Sit wherever you’re most comfortable and fall into it all with anticipation and gratitude.

We’re noticing lately at the market that folks are lingering past the point of sale to talk. Sometimes it’s rather weighty and important, not granola-related at all, and we’re humbled at the outpouring of trust that accompanies their heartbreaking stories. We listen carefully and remember their names as if they were family (which they are, in a way), make note of what they bought and wonder how we might be more helpful. It was never about the money when we began this whole market venture; more about connecting with community and offering something relevant and uplifting, with a side of crunch. We think we’re there on the granola end of things; the rest is pure gift and grace. Who are we to be the guardians of their troubles, giving them our undivided attention and abiding reassurance that they’re safe with us, even in the open air of a bustling and friendly market filled with nourishment of all kinds? Sometimes the ride home is quiet.

Mind you, I’ve not done the hard research but it seems our bright scarlet cardinals (the birds, not the clerics) have found their voices again and insist on telling me and everyone that the days are slowly getting longer so why are you still sitting inside? I don’t recall them being this excited when there was a thick comforter of snow on every walking path. I do plan to look into this a little more, but for now it’s enough that I’m not singing in the morning by myself. You don’t even want to get me started on the return of the spring peepers, who made their audible appearance yesterday afternoon under and alongside the narrow bridge that gives us safe passage over a tumbling creek. Hypnotic doesn’t begin to touch it.

If we are the constant thread that connects this busy hive of a life we live, then well done us. But it’s not a mantle we wear with arrogance or self-importance. Sometimes I marvel that the deer and muskrats even let us walk the land with them and most days I feel like a respectful intruder (if those two qualities were to ever team up). When the creek breaks its banks with the greatest enthusiasm and then, days later, it all recedes to a manageable flow, I get to stand where the water combed the young spring grass flat on the rich soil. I see evidence of a deer’s less-than-graceful slide down the Hill to the west and wonder if other deer nearby snickered as they observed the spectacle on their morning run. What’s left to our imaginations here is vast and it’s not like we’re wanting for topics to discuss over dinner, but what does go on in the meadow after we’ve turned off the porch light? Somebody snarling over shared territory or hunting privileges, perhaps, or one of the kittens almost meeting one of our skunks and wisely deciding to leave that relationship for another day.

For the past several weeks, our work-life balance has been in a chaotic free fall and we’re working on finding our surefootedness again. We know we have choices as to what we set our hands and hearts to but…what to set aside or pause for a while? Not the morning walks, for goodness’ sake—they’re my sanity and without them I’d be intolerable and the opposite of helpful. The granola business? Not if we want to pay off the truck early. And this year’s garden is well on its way to stocking our pantry, plus it’s great exercise and grounding. The kittens are economically soft therapy within arm’s reach and somewhere down the road is a place I get to go every weekday to work in exchange for health insurance and selfless colleagues who companion the dying.

Guess I’ll keep doing what’s been working—stay in motion, sit for a while when it’s necessary and wake up tomorrow in the lap of another chance to get it right.