Powering Down
A row of volunteer sycamores guards the eastern border of the place we call home, their many-fingered hands high-fiving the sky as the horizon settles itself in a soft ombre of pink becoming the palest of blues. The leaves they once wore now lie in rain-flattened circles on the ground at their feet; there is nowhere for their bones to hide and they seem silently proud of making it to this point in the cycle of their lives. I long for their resolute steadfastness in the face of who knows what kind of winter will blow and swirl around us all.
The seventeen or so acres of once-glowing goldenrod have softened to a deer-camouflaging russet and I wish our hooved companions safe travels as gun season begins tomorrow (local school children get an extra day added to their already long Thanksgiving weekend, for which they are giving thanks whether they’re shivering in a tree stand with their uncles or tucked in snugly, no alarm clock in sight). For the next few days, I’ll put the thick sleeves of my blue and grey plaid flannel jacket through the overlarge armholes of a bright orange vest before stepping out the back door to wend my way back to the woods for the most soul-nourishing and nonhuman part of my day. That vest, paired with my unicorn head wrap, should make it clear that I’m not a hunter’s quarry. Twenty-four gun seasons in and I’m still here, so at least the vest is working (the head wrap didn’t arrive on the scene until a few years ago). I’ll do what I always do when I walk—listen for other signs of life around me, rest my right cheek and temple on the refreshingly cold, smooth trunk of a young musclewood sapling and whisper my thanks to each and every leaf that gave us shade during the sweltering weeks of August. It’s just the neighborly thing to do.
The land’s slow and sleepy shift into winter has me swaying sometimes on my feet and I want so much to kip down on whatever bed she offers, stretching for one last time the full length of my 5’ 2” frame until it’s time to curl up, chin to knees and arms wrapped ‘round my shoulders in a surrender of all things conscious. I’ll hang my cares on one of those many-fingered sycamores and let the north wind take them where he will. Doesn’t that sound heavenly? Where we live, heaven is this kind of real one season to the next. I’ve long since given up waiting for the land to be anything less than achingly beautiful. She shows up every day, gorgeous and stunning and we stand in the middle of it all, speechless but cheering. Another reason I’m glad for my hybrid remote work schedule. Just to earn my living amidst the subtle changes that unfold from dawn to dusk is reassurance enough of luck’s embrace.
Tonight, we have friends old and new taking in ceremony while a drizzling rain spits itself through the pines that encircle the sweat lodge. Chunks of wood tucked under tarps are dry and keep the fire going, amber flames dancing gently to a rain-soaked wind. I tend the soup on the stove, set out bowls and spoons and carry-out containers of chocolate no-bake cookies (mom’s recipe), brownies and gluten-free blackberry jam muffins to end the meal on a sweet note. When the small band of pray-ers troop in the back door, they’ll be greeted by the warm breath of the furnace and dry towels aplenty, a fresh pot of coffee gurgling its last brewed gulps into the carafe. We’ll talk about what they heard and felt (one friend is new to this form of prayer), who else joined them in the lodge, and then send them home with hearty hugs and leftovers. They’ll leave behind good feelings and footprints in the wet grass. Tomorrow morning when I walk, I’ll step where they stood, glad for their lingering company and the sweat towels hanging on the clothesline, reminders of time well spent.
This is the rhythm of our life nearing winter. We may put on a few more pounds and spend more time in our comfy clothes, but we do so without regret or apology. It’s as close as we can come to hibernating fully like some of our other furred relatives do Out There in the meadow and where the field meets the forest. We’ll venture out when we need to (heading to work to pay for the propane that keeps our feet warm, picking up a few cans of black beans and some onions for soup, inhaling the sharp air of a sub-zero snow squall just to remind ourselves that we’re alive!) and return to the soft security of couch and blankets, holding each other’s hands as we nod off with books in our laps.
It’s a pause in the action I welcome with a full-faced yawn and a well-earned exhale. Like the sign says, please do not disturb. At least not for the next three months.
