Tucked In

It’s 4 degrees outside and the furnace just kicked on again, cycling the temperature in the living room up to a more comfortable 67. I’m gathering the momentum to suit up and head down to the coop where the water in the repurposed metal steam pan is a miniature skating rink for our fourteen feathered Hans Brinkers. It’ll take a gallon of hot tap water and about 30 seconds to break it loose before I can add another gallon of slightly cooler water. If I had warmer boots, I’d stick around to watch it slowly refreeze but I’ve also got a customer who wants a tray of our new lemon honey rosemary granola. Duty calls.

For the first time since we took on a flock of layers, we’ve got a hardy crew that seems happy to keep us stocked in omelettes and quiches well past November, when most of our previous breeds powered down to take a break from supplying our breakfasts. Not these ladies. They’re averaging five to seven eggs a day, and I’ve found only a couple that were frozen rock-hard and cracked. The rest are buried deep in a nest of pine shavings on the coop floor, some of them even still a little warm (which means they were either just dropped there or we’ve got a broody hen in the flock. I’m fine either way). I tuck them into my coat pockets and as I’m leaving the fenced-in run, remind myself out loud that I’ve got eggs in my pockets, lest I become distracted by some random yard project and start moving tree limbs or pulling down grapevines with enthusiastic vigor. The fridge is beyond capacity for full dozen cartons and I’ve got takers at the office. That’s nice in both directions.

The view through the 67-degree living room windows this morning is deceptive—bright yellow sun and endless blue as the backdrop for the trees on the ridge, but one quick trip to the truck to load up this week’s meager two-bag trash deposit for the bin at the end of the driveway and it’s back inside, boots off and under the blanket on the couch. In the studio, a pile of magazine paper beads rests as evidence of what a house-bound person can accomplish with a guillotine paper cutter, some glue, a 3 1/2-inch framing nail and Deathly Hallows, Part 1 playing in the background. I’m looking for new ways to describe “cozy” as I consider more than a tray of granola on the baking agenda for this afternoon (sprigs of fresh rosemary drying in the dehydrator, lemons scrubbed and waiting on the drainboard to be zested and juiced, olive oil and flake salt on stand-by). Maybe a sausage-and-spinach quiche big enough to yield a couple lunches for the remainder of this four-day work week. Patrick is still asleep; I’ll take his silence as the go-ahead.

I’ve come to embrace and enjoy our evolution into this cold-forced introversion, with just enough socialization to keep us from becoming the crazy old couple that lives way back in the woods, the stuff of neighborhood legend and Halloween hijinks at the hands of our local youth (the ones who take baseball bats to our mailbox at the end of the quarter-mile driveway in the summer under cloak of darkness). For two of the three days on this long holiday weekend, we have braved the cold and crowds at Costco, treated ourselves to a hearty Mexican lunch and are still keeping the idea of going to see “Wonka” this afternoon in our hip pocket. Call it retirement practice or the privileges of being obliged to no one. We are happily agenda-less, even as we watch flocks of overly busy sparrows and black capped chickadees pecking diligently at the frozen suet, embarrassing us with their work ethic. Deep down we know we are a fragile and helpless species in the grand scheme of things and keep our heads in the humbly bowed position as we brush the dry snow off the front porch, wearing enough winter gear to resemble the Michelin Tire mascot.

By the looks of things, we’re in for more single digit temps for the rest of the week (perfect for babysitting a defrosting freezer during one of my work-from-home days). We’ll take them, one blanket, one quiche, one tray of granola at a time.

It's A Start

I want to lose about twenty pounds (whether I need to lose that much is open to lively and compassionate debate, but there you are. If you haven’t yet, please find Anne Lamott on Facebook and read her recent advice on making a new year’s dieting resolution).

(I’ll wait).

I also want less stuff in our home, to twist grapevines into wreaths as I walk the land and to have a downstairs guest room that doesn’t look like the staging area for a perpetual rummage sale.

And I want peace. Peace, for God’s sake. Everywhere there is violence and horror, peace. Please. I can’t shout or whisper that often enough.

In some perspectives and traditions, the new year is still months away, signaled by the spring equinox and all living things making good on their promise to keep throwing offspring in every direction they can. I lean more toward that approach, all the while marking my days by a calendar that marches forward in semesters and holidays and some rather creative “national” observances (did you know that September 19 is National Talk Like a Pirate Day? Save the date and get out that eye patch). As I try to reconcile those two disparate realities in my existence, my money is still on the whole new life and beginnings connection, both of which are thin on the (frozen) ground at the moment. I’ll put on my party hat once I see that first dandelion in the front yard.

The view over my shoulder is a flip book story with some of the pages in tatters. If someone had told me back in July when everything hit the fan that I’d be head-over-heels in love with a new job an hour’s commute away from the most beautiful place on earth and my husband would be learning to walk again and we’d both be sitting here on the crumbling ledge of 2023 marveling at our collective resilience, I’d have sent them and their madness packing. And yet, here we are on another New Year’s Eve together, fresh from a trip to Costco for more butter and pecans and a stop at a most darling music box-and-antiques shop we haven’t visited since before lockdown (the new eternal marker of pre and post everything in our lives now), two trays of vanilla chai breathing their clove and cardamom goodness across the living room. Did this past summer’s challenges even happen at all?

Sometimes when I’m walking the land, I’ll turn a curved corner into the next leg of the path through the field and just stop, asking the sky, how did I get here? An inquiry that’s both literal and contemplative, it slows me down enough to sundial on the spot where I stand, look around and take it All In—the trees (towering elders and spindly saplings, each of them stunning and sentient in all seasons), the tracks in the mud that are not my own, deep red and edible rosehips on the slender tips of vines whose thorns will humble you. I remember leaving out the back door of the mud room some twenty minutes before and suddenly I’m walking parallel to the woods, my toe catching the exposed roots of a teenaged cottonwood. Or I was minding my own business at age twenty-five, happily single and now I’m looking at a wedding album that’s thirty years old, Patrick’s name next to mine on the cover. How did I get here? The answer is eternally elastic: One step at a time.

To look at the whole of one’s journey from a broad and dizzying vantage point is at once affirming and terrifying, but how can we look away? I think we know we’re more—a LOT more—than the sum of our experiences. Life seems more complicated now, or maybe I was just naive all those decades ago. I brood more, worry and wring my hands too much and pray for everyone a lot. I also laugh with abandon, those rich hearty belly laughs that make full use of every muscle in my face. I sing on key in the shower (mostly Billy Joel, Dan Fogelberg and of course, Sting), lick peanut dipping sauce off my fingers when we make those fantastic chard-wrapped vegan spring rolls of ours and sift through stacks of colorful paper and other materials I’ve scavenged to make into blank journals. I have no idea what my life will be like on the next New Year’s Eve. If I think about that too much, I’ll unsettle myself and never fall asleep.

So here I sit in the early days of winter, pointing my heart’s compass toward a spring guaranteed to none of us, betting against despair and browsing the pages of seed catalogues like everything will come to us in time. Headlines overwhelm, there are always more questions than answers and sometimes we pay bills a few days late. We move forward anyway, pulled into each moment by a humming purpose that bewilders and delights us with its patient clarity. I can’t say for certain where we’re going but I know I must keep walking.

On the path in the field, I stop, place my hand over my heart and breathe. It’s a start.

Behind the Scenes, Below the Surface

Squirrels are really fast, have you noticed that?

On a recent morning walk, in a well-timed moment of glancing upward, I saw the furry quick movement of one in the bare-boned cottonwood canopy overhead, its tail snapping and unfurling into a never-ending question mark (where did I put that black walnut? There? Or was it here? No wait—definitely over there. I think…). He zipped across the long high branches with effortless speed until he noticed me watching him and, without even a pause to consider other options, plunged down the smooth trunk of a sycamore and into the waiting hole of a protruding knot, sucked in as if vacuumed. Might not have been his house at all but perhaps there’s a code among squirrels, that any knothole in a tree is safe haven when danger presents itself. I stayed for a minute more, hoping he’d stick his head out to confirm the wisdom of his fight-or-flight choice (definitely flight) and provide me with a storybook image of woodland cuteness. But no, not today. I was left to keep walking and imagine what might be happening on the other side of the bark.

What does go on inside the trees, I wonder? Behind the bark (grooved or smooth, pebbly or peeling) and cambium, deep in the sapwood and heartwood and pith, it’s another universe of its own, pulling water upward, collecting the years in rings that we can only count if we cut the whole enterprise down for facial tissues, copier paper and 2x4s. I can do some passive research, of course, and will after I’m done here, but it’s enough for now to sit a bit in the mystery of what I can’t see, to live in the question and be fascinated by the possibilities. And then to realize that there’s a LOT going on beneath the surface in every direction I look. I will leave this earth with a stack of books unread, mysteries unsolved. Better get ok with that.

The Geminids meteor shower just wrapped up its peak time last week and I got to see one in another well-timed moment of looking up as I put my rolling computer bag in the backseat of the car. It never gets old, that streak of light leaving a short shimmer against the black backdrop of celestial infinity, and I always clap my hands, applauding the show the heavens put on for free. There’s something to watch each night and I get decidedly ambitious, keeping track of the monthly meteor shower schedule, vowing to wake up in the inconvenient middle of the night to witness them all. But my intentions quickly evaporate, competing with the heavy weight of much-needed sleep and I’m left to trust as I drift off that beyond the layers of drywall and trusses and standing seam metal roofing over our heads, those chunks of silicate minerals are flying through space, obedient to Kepler’s Laws and oblivious to our desire to gaze upon them.

Too often , I get caught up in musing about the world beneath my feet, below the grass and rhizomes, mantle, outer core and inner core, layers I won’t see in my lifetime until it’s all Over, and I’ll be nestled in or scattered across only a miniscule fraction of that thin crust (this is where my claustrophobia kicks in and I lean heavily toward cremation, my ashes dusting a wide swath of Naked Acres carried by a gentle southern wind. I’ll only be in that fiery chamber for a couple of hours. I think I can handle that). But before that inevitable transition, I wonder what villages and communities are bearing my weight each time I head out the back door to empty the compost bucket from the kitchen or cross the front yard past the steadfast silver maple to refill the feeders on the ridge. I know there are chipmunks and moles at least, as evidenced by the open holes and speedbumps they leave behind. Thrifty and hidden, they get about their business with inspiring reliability, feeding their families and tidying up the pile of fallen seeds our sparrows drop with impunity (perhaps there’s some arrangement going on?). I’m grateful they feel some responsibility to join me in the caretaking of this place.

I could do this all day, wonder about what I can’t see, what I don’t know, ponder the natural rhythms and occurrences that I’m sure others have explored thoroughly with tiny concealed camera technology and silent drones capturing every second of the action. But if I dial in to what happens here, on this humbly small but packed sliver of our shared Home, I’m left to rely on my own respectful curiosity wrapped in a profound trust that what eludes my observation doesn’t need my help. I’m one of the living among other lives and best to keep that in front of me as I slip into my walking boots, direct sow the butternut squash in spring and lumber across the open fields atop the mower.

Years back, as Patrick was picking through a pile of cut scrap lumber at a local hardware store, he pulled out a short 4x6 piece that revealed dead center a black walnut shell embedded in the grain and sliced in half when the wood was cut. Waiting in the checkout line (we weren’t going to let this marvel go anywhere but home with us) we ran our fingers over the rough chambers of the exposed inner shell, imagining how it came to be there in the first place. Discarded nutmeat casing, tossed aside by a satisfied squirrel in one of those vacuum sycamore knotholes some cozy late autumn evening, and an understanding tree that swallowed it whole. Not sure how often that happens but this humble slice of woodland mystery is our first and quite possibly our last.

At least, the last one we’ll probably see on these here acres anyway.

Laid Bare

After a three-week absence, our cardinals (the birds, not the clerics) have resumed their cheerful trilling, settling in against the gray and nearly-winter backdrop as the land’s self-appointed feathery morale officers. They are nature’s audible punctuation marks and easier to spot among the low sycamore branches now that the leaves have made the ground their final resting place. If sound had a color, the cardinal’s song would be as brightly scarlet as its plumage, reminding us that joy knows every season and please don’t be discouraged by the temporary monochromatic appearance of things. It’s easy to take in their lessons on both impermanence and contrast.

I get that for some of us, winter is too stark to bear in its entirety and so wandering south for a few months seems the right course of action for one’s mental salvation. Save for a budget that doesn’t allow for such relocations, we’d be right there with them in February when the bitter cold is on the edge of wearing out its welcome. But…we made a promise to our slice of the earth’s bounty, in front of seventy-five or so of our friends and family, that we’d be true to this place and all her manifestations of beauty, no matter how harsh or inconvenient to our comforts. We’re here for the Duration, however long that lasts and however many sunrises that grants us. Given our own imperfections that she bears with such patience (farm implements stuck in the ground along the field line, amateur attempts at master-level gardening, not even seeing the dew so carefully arranged on the spider’s web that stretches between the two chicken coops), it’s only fair we not head down the driveway when the temperature drops below freezing. We’re in this together; it’s right we should soften our steps when we walk anywhere on her grass-covered skin.

And so I did this morning, taking my time as the paths beckoned me forward into our naked acres. Earlier this week, I came upon a small doe in the northeast corner of the field, dead beneath a stand of thin blue beech and black walnut saplings. Deer gun season ends at sunset today and I’m left to wonder how she landed in our care this way. Lying there with no trace of violence to mark her sleek fur, she could just as easily have been in the deepest of slumbers, motionless and unconcerned about the busy world going on above her graceful form (I’ve known sleep like that in my lifetime and wish it upon anyone nettled by the stresses of our human enterprise). Thanking her for her presence among All Living Things, I continued on, a whispered prayer of acknowledgement left on her forehead. Today, she was still there, untouched and undisturbed.

Whatever summer kept hidden is now laid bare in autumn’s last days. Grape vines hang slack and thick from the trees they’re slowly strangling, wild raspberry stalks shoot up from the spent grass in one last growth spurt before the first heavy snows knock them down. The palest lavender, they look artfully impressionistic sprinkled among the remains of July’s once-yellow wingstems and goat weed. Multiflora rose thickets look thinner now but are just as treacherous if you lose your footing on the fallen black walnuts and land in their unforgiving and thorny embrace. If not for their vitamin C-rich rosehips, I’d be tempted to clear out the lot of them. They do slow down poachers and trespassers, though. I shall try to befriend them in the spring.

Perhaps this season of undressed and unfettered calls us to do the same (at least metaphorically). North winds are known for stripping away the chaff, the coverings that have served their purpose and now need to move On. We’ve got all these hours indoors and in the dark for the next few months; a little contemplative introspection would be good for our souls, sloughing off what doesn’t matter anymore, lightening the load, so to speak. It’ll feel good to shed some layers before tucking in under the warmth of a season known for coziness and be glad for the letting go. When snow covers everything, we can still frolic in the flakes, toss handfuls at each other or no one and inhale deeply, ready to reinvent ourselves into our best possible versions.

Lest that sound too balanced and indulgent, I asked a cardinal (bird, not cleric). He said it was ok.