She's Here!

Spring has arrived on our doorstep, her suitcases bulging with 70-degree days, the faint shrill of tiny peepers in the swampy depressions of the woods, steady soothing rains and the occasional thunderstorm with its strobe light lightning. Bonus this past week was a total lunar eclipse that generously shared the night sky with an applause-worthy meteor shower (those middle if the night trips to the bathroom downstairs do have their merits). Yesterday, I saw a house sparrow tugging at a piece of straw five times her length, trying to get airborne with it to build the base of her summer home. I offered to break it into smaller pieces for her but she declined. The first shoots of our beloved snowdrops and crocuses are bravely above ground, unaware that the weather-guessers are predicting a few more hard frosts before we can comfortably trudge outside barefooted and unfettered. I’m not worried. They know what they’re doing (the snowdrops, not the weather-guessers).

In a burst of “it’s almost-spring” antsy-pants-ness, I cleared the remaining dead stalks and last year’s tomato vines from the raised beds before continuing down the path to the woods, imagining the all-blue and red Pontiac potatoes we’d plant later this week along with radishes, chard, kale and spinach that will fill our salad bowls until the lettuces start sprouting. The garlic we nestled in the ground last October got the party started a couple weeks ago, along with a narrow bed dedicated entirely to my grandfather’s tulips from the Netherlands. In the far end of our overlarge and warm bathroom, we’ll start the tomatoes, cabbage, seashell cosmos, snap peas, dragon’s tongue beans and some Mexican sour gherkins that will be no bigger than my thumb when we harvest them. Oh, and bell peppers in all colors—green, yellow, red, orange and purple (do I have to go to work tomorrow?).

I am overly ready for the season of laundry on the line, hearing aids on the morning walks to catch every bird call and deer snort, turning compost by the shovelful, sitting atop the zero-turn mower for those luscious six-hour stretches of meditative grass cutting and eating sun-warmed pink bumblebee cherry tomatoes right off the vine. The weeds will bring us to our knees, we’ll give mammoth sunflowers a try in a loving nod to our sisters and brothers in Ukraine and the chickens will welcome another six layers to the flock so we can help feed our family, neighbors and coworkers. I don’t know how things work in your soul, but planting and tending to life is my best insurance against the despair and division that currently threatens to poison us once and for all. A tiny seed that will give us ground cherries in August says otherwise. My hope is in her. Unreservedly.

As if all that over-the-top unstoppable new life jubilation isn’t enough, I also got to hold my great-niece for the first time last Sunday. Eleanor arrived on Valentine’s Day just before her mother’s birthday and has no idea how much joy she brought with her on her passage from the womb into her parents’ tired and excited arms. She is wiggly and sweet, a sponge soaking up the sights and sounds around her and I think I may not see my sister Peggy for the next seven years at least. Her first grandchild has a claim on her heart and her spare time; I hold no grudges for such bliss. It’s just more life in a cute little package to keep us focused on what matters and how we can be helpful. Isn’t that what we’re here to do, after all? Tend to life, give our undivided attention to the Important Things and lend a hand (or a dozen eggs or a basket of freshly-picked salad ingredients).

When spring shows up with all of her most welcome baggage, it’s a good idea to make room wherever you can find it. She doesn’t take “no” for an answer, just keeps pushing life forward and upward and smart folks hang on for the ride.

The Medicine We Need

It was impossible to walk quietly this morning on the paths through the fields and back to the woods. A second round of freezing rain Saturday night glazed every fallen, decaying leaf and tired blade of grass for the seventeen-acre loop that begins and ends at our mud room door, making my bootsteps crunch loudly like those first fresh bites of cornflakes before the milk softens them soggy. I venture out most days with a fragile agenda that hopes for silence and wild companions to join me from a distance, and I graciously receive whatever the land gives me. I am never disappointed when I return to the house, chickens fed and watered, porch swept or salted (whatever it needs most) and walking boots drying at the register near the washing machine. Water boiling for the morning oats seals the deal on what I consider to be the best way to start the day.

Last Sunday, for the first time since we’ve been here, I veered off the main path past the sweat lodge and put my feet where the deer walk, a series of connected and well-worn tributaries through the old ironweed stalks and young sycamore saplings. I used my walking stick to push back brambles and plunged further eastward on the trails, pausing by a tree I didn’t recognize and feeling humbled by the realization that this place hadn’t known human footprints in over twenty-five years. Whatever pulled me forward—curiosity or Something Else—rewarded me with a most stunning find: a full eight-point buck skull, teeth intact and bleached perfectly white. The remaining bits of skeleton lay in a small pile a few feet away and I could only hope this magnificent relative had passed peacefully, surrendering to sleep and a smooth crossing over to the other side. I lifted the skull gently from the cold ground and carried it to the mouth of the meadow where I’d retrieve it on my way back to the house, leaving a string of unanswered questions in the dead grass.

I kept to the paths this morning and as I rounded a slight curve toward the place where a favorite young sycamore stands tall and brave, I saw the soft white glow of a four-point antler resting atop a thick plug of quack grass. It hadn’t been there on yesterday’s walk and the tiny reddish-pink spot of blood at its base was evidence enough that all kinds of things go on out there when we’re not looking. The difference a day makes, eh? I plucked it from the ground and lifted my gaze to the young woods north where three does and a twelve-point buck had been silently watching me. The largest of the does gave a warning snort and took off into the forest while the buck stood there, not moving, just…staring. I turned and showed him my shoulder blades as I moved down the path, head down and not returning his penetrating look, marveling at his utter stillness. Stand your ground took on new meaning in an instant.

The world is an especially noisy place right now and I crave silence in amounts equal to water and air. Most days the hum of traffic a mile away is light or nonexistent and I can bring my full attention to the shrill call of a bright red cardinal or laugh along with the raucous crows flying just over the woods’ canopy on their way to what sounds like a fun party. The woodpeckers are just starting to drill into the still-standing-but-dead black walnuts that line the creek banks, and last week I saw a small flock of sturdy robins bouncing about in the meadow, looking confused and sheepish, as if the memo they’d received had been some sort of prank designed to lure them back to their summer home prematurely. They soldiered on, though, pecking at the ground and slanting their heads slightly to listen for…what, worms crawling beneath the frozen top crust of soil? I left them to it and scooped out extra seed for them near the feeders dangling from hooks on the ridge.

I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that our souls are weary and in need of a powerful balm to calm things the heck down, if just for five blessed minutes. And I realize at the same time that to receive the gift of such a pause is one more hallmark of privilege; there are too many brothers and sisters who don’t have that luxury and must keep moving, no matter how tired they are. I know I can’t fix everything, or even some things, but I can and do walk on their behalf, taking not a single step for granted, sending the peace from the fields across the miles and countries’ borders to reach them, fingers crossed, with a small morsel of healing.

What else can I do? It’s a question I ask myself regularly and I must get comfortable with the silence that follows, waiting for the answer to arrive. There is medicine in the waiting, I know.

Rediscovery

On Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, the good and kind podiatrist released my left foot from its post-op boot prison and sent me on my way, no walking or other movement restrictions, along with his reassurance that I can’t make the healing bone fragments worse unless I drop something on them again. I felt like Dobby with a new pair of socks and looked like a newborn fawn wobbling its way through the unsteady challenge of making my legs work in rhythmic harmony as I stepped down gingerly from the exam table and headed for the exit. Left foot, right foot, left foot again, right foot again, and repeat.

What the toes have to do with my gait and how my hips are involved I’m still trying to figure out, but we’ll all get there, my bones and muscles and nerve endings and I, moving forward into both familiar and uncharted territories. Which means, I resumed my morning walks with a deep and wide-eyed wonder after four-plus weeks of being sidelined, reluctantly content to look out the windows and wonder what might have changed Out There. I did try one downtown-via-the-bus excursion three weeks into my recovery and couldn’t get to the bathtub fast enough (hard to do while limping) at the end of the day for a soothing eucalyptus and Epsom salt soak. My kind and understanding supervisor approved a remote work schedule until I could more easily navigate the cold concrete sidewalks from the bus stop to the office without cautiously dodging the ice and snow.

On that first reintroduction to the walking paths, it was clear our industrious moles had taken over, enjoying the absence of human bootsteps on the landscape. Hills and mounds were everywhere and frozen in mid-unearthing, creating treacherous speed bumps just the right height to catch the toe of my wellies and send me careening or stumbling. I can’t recall a time where I was more laser-focused on what I was doing, a full-body attentive experience, head on a continuous swivel and eyes raking in all the beauty I’d so longed for while weighted down on the couch with Advil nearby. “I’ve missed you so”, I’d whisper into the woods and fields every ten yards or so and she reciprocated with red flashes of winter’s brilliant cardinals (the birds, not the clerics) and a sharp north wind pushing itself gleefully across my smiling face. Week-old snow still covered the ground and held all manner of nonhuman foot and pawprints to slow me down even more. I saw coyote (more on that in a minute), fox, rabbit, possum, squirrel, raccoon, deer and a few from a relative I couldn’t identify. We’ve always known that more happens beyond our gaze than in front of it out here in the middle of somewhere, but give the wild ones five weeks of unfettered and unwitnessed freedom and some mighty powerful reclaiming goes on. I imagined parties on the paths with their own version of a DJ blaring forest music through the bare branches of all the trees framing the mossy dance floor. From the evidence on the cold ground, it looked as if a pack of coyotes took down or at least feasted on a deer on the ridge just below the sweat lodge circle. I counted three of the poor creature’s four legs scattered as far as the north field (still looking for the fourth one) and its still-meaty spine lay to the right of the short path past the stand of white pines, stark and red against the white snow (at this moment, it seemed wise to look around slowly and carefully for anyone coming back for seconds). I moved forward with a fresh respect for the hardscrabble life our untamed land-mates must endure, and a promise to not add to their troubles.

As of this writing, I’ve made four unbroken treks into the wilderness that is our land north of the house and have come back to the couch with stories, images and lessons only she can provide. The deer trails are clean and wide this time of year, with the snow making them distinct like the chalk outlines on a crime victim. There’s no escape from the reality that food is scarce, shelter from the chill winds even more so and here I am running hot water for a bath simply because I can. It’s an apples-to-oranges comparison, I know—my life of need and comfort against the furred and feathered existence of creatures whose beauty brings me to my knees pretty regularly. But it’s hard not to feel motherly and want to take them blankets and leftover cornbread, thinking I’m being helpful. If I can walk past them without startling them, maybe that can be enough.

All this from a forced hiatus from walking the land, being in close proximity to her mysteries and gifts…it was all I could do not to curl up on a large patch of frozen moss and fall asleep, hoping to be accepted as One of Them, letting them teach me their ways of survival and after-hours play. Would I give up my evening hot bath for that?

It’s tempting, my friends. Quite tempting.

Slowing it Down

Last Thursday morning as I was working out, the shiny and heavy chrome weight I was lifting over my head slipped out of my hand and landed hard on my left foot. I’d watched the movie “Elf” the night before and the only expletive that came out of my mouth was “son of a nutcracker!” The urgent care x-ray revealed a shattered pinky toe.

So much for that New Year’s resolution.

I’m ensconced on the couch now, toes taped together and wrapped in stretchy smiley face bandages, covered by an ice pack tied with an IKEA dish towel (that will never see the kitchen dishes again, I assure you). On the floor beneath the end table is my left foot’s new ride—an open-toed post-op shoe in desperate need of a fashion upgrade, which I’ll take care of later this afternoon with embroidery floss and a scattering of beads. Until then, the question is…now what? From my perch I can see everything that needs to be dusted and vacuumed, downsized and taken to the thrift store but can do none of it. When the cats get up to stuff (like stealing each other’s food, tipping over the garbage pail, hanging from the curtain hems), my sharp scolding tones do little to discourage them and that spray bottle can only shoot so far (they’re learning that). I’m grateful that I filled the suet feeders before the Great Accident; at least the birds are entertaining and low maintenance. Wait—birds. I still need to let the chickens out and gather eggs. The engineering of that task will give me something else to think about as I sit here also pondering the whole breakfast project.

Until last Thursday, my body had never known any injury that required more than an ice pack or a band-aid. It’s a marvel that I made it this far into my collected decades without such drama (I’ve had my share of other adventures and burdens, to be sure; maybe the universe had pity on me that way). My only stiches and staples were surgery-necessary and the curious scientist in me found the mechanics of it all quite fascinating. I’ve even removed stitches from a few of Patrick’s wounds, a bit squeamishly, but he talked me through and once I got past my hyperactive gag reflex, all went as it should. Maybe I’m more about preventive medicine and habits. Who knows? I left the urgent care limping and giggling a bit, full of questions and happy for the Advil I always carry with me. I’ll pick up a prescription for antibiotics later this morning (a precaution against infection since that suffering little toe was bleeding from blunt trauma) and stop at the store for a few more craft supplies. That post-op shoe of mine is gonna look great when I’m through with it.

Forced pauses and stillness are good for the soul, reminders that perhaps choosing them intentionally is also a wise idea hatched in a relentlessly active mind. In the exam room I heeded, more or less, the instructions to not use my cell phone and found the absence of scrolling refreshing. It gave me space to notice my surroundings, to listen for clues to the activity taking place on the other side of the closed door. I reflected on the signage posted on cabinet doors stating that rude and aggressive behavior from patients would not be tolerated, that parents should not let their children play with the equipment or steal the nonlatex gloves. Sad that those words even need to be posted for all to see. When the nurse returned to wrap me up and send me on my way, I wished her a short day filled with people who were kind and decent. She smiled weakly and nodded, as if daring to hope for such an outcome to her workday was the height of folly. As I drove away, I recommitted myself to inserting as much gentleness into my interactions with strangers as I could, for those few minutes of connection at the bank, the grocery store, the gas station may be all the kindness someone receives that day.

As this new experience unfolds for our household, Patrick is a gem, making me tea and bringing me cookies, apples and scrambled eggs with Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. He asks how I’m feeling and during a wake-me-up shooting pain episode last night, gingerly removed my bandages so my toes could breathe a little. It was just the medicine I needed and the sleep that followed was deep, dreamless and without cats (he made sure they stayed downstairs). My mornings now consist of foot baths and dressing changes, easy stretches and looking at the bare trees on the other side of the living room windows, realizing that the seventeen acres of walking paths will not see my footprints for a while. I’m piling up “sitting” work I can tend to that includes prep for an upcoming workshop I’m facilitating on volunteer management fundamentals, putting nonslip nose pads on all my eyeglasses, editing the next two books and creating my 2025 vision board (I’m saving that for last because it promises to be the most fun). Random and occasional napping is not only permitted but encouraged.

When I’m all healed and skipping about again from one happy task to the next, I shall make a note to pause deliberately and relish the learnings that will come from that. Until then, I’ll take this slow medicine gladly. What a gift.