Lady riding hood
Toting more than just cookies
through the woods to Gram's
A song, a story,
Generosity displayed.
Tea party legacy.
A snow white quilt,
A pink veil, a red ruby.
Mother and daughter.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Friday, January 24, 2014
Neighbors
Today has been frigid. The thermometer read zero upon my rising this morning, and I believe it didn't get much out of the teens this afternoon. Tonight was cold enough that my walk home (from the blacktop-the driveway being too icy to drive) caused my face to sting and feel frozen still into a serious face expression. Lately my existence here at home has seemed very solitary, what with my week of self-quarantine with the flu and the snowy and icy weather that inhibits ease of comings and goings to the house. When I am holed up inside, cozying up to the woodstove next to the snoring hound dog, it is all too quickly that I lose perspective about my place in the scheme of things out here in this sweet little tucked away watershed.
I need simply to step outside to fetch another armload of logs for my reminder that I am very much not alone here.
Last night on my walk home I was startled by the white flash of a deer's tail, immediately followed by the scurrying crunch of hooves in the snow.
This morning, when it was zero, I was greeted by the sweet four-toned melody of one brave chickadee. It sounded like springtime, and the heart was warmed.
Tonight my lullaby is a handful of coyotes howling under the cold, clear starry display of night sky- their cries like souls from the Otherworld, a perfect soundtrack for mid-winter dreaming.
Here directly I will feed the fire one last time and head up to slumber, grateful for all my neighbors. I hope they stay warm enough tonight.
I need simply to step outside to fetch another armload of logs for my reminder that I am very much not alone here.
Last night on my walk home I was startled by the white flash of a deer's tail, immediately followed by the scurrying crunch of hooves in the snow.
This morning, when it was zero, I was greeted by the sweet four-toned melody of one brave chickadee. It sounded like springtime, and the heart was warmed.
Tonight my lullaby is a handful of coyotes howling under the cold, clear starry display of night sky- their cries like souls from the Otherworld, a perfect soundtrack for mid-winter dreaming.
Here directly I will feed the fire one last time and head up to slumber, grateful for all my neighbors. I hope they stay warm enough tonight.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Epiphany
ephiphany: 1. Epiphany- A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus of the Gentiles as represented by the Magi, traditionally observed on January 6. 2. A revelatory manifestation of a divine being. 3a. A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something. b. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.
(American Heritage College Dictionary)
Midnight approaches on this day of the Epiphany. According to my thermometer, the record low for Janury 6th has been reached. As I go to bed it is -1 (F). I spent the weekend creating worst-case scenario plans for my family for severe winter weather and brutal cold. I will not lie; there were some above-average anxiety levels involved. However, as RM so eloquently put it today, perhaps anxiety in the face of dangerous weather is an example of anxiety serving its best purpose. Maybe the marriage of my primal animal instincts and my human ability to plan complex strategies is a beautiful thing, and, more importantly, could be highly useful if the power were to go out when the temperatures are below zero and the wind is raging. Maybe there is a fine line between neurotic thinking and smart thinking.
Today, I spent the "warm" hours of the day getting the pipes and the plant nursery ready for the burly night. When all plants were tucked in the greenhouse and the crawl space was closed up and heated and there was a beefy supply of firewood stacked on the porch and all the necessary hollerhood faucets were trickling, I retired to my delightfully warm, wood-heated house and revelled in the comfort. Believing all the bases were covered, my mind was free to wander back through my small but potent memory bank of the handful of other times I have met zero or sub-zero temperatures. Extreme weather experiences form colonies of vivid memories which perhaps dwell in the part of the brain reserved for personal epiphanies... ...Hearts awakening. Lungs pierced by the clear sharpness of the cold. Legs running. Sparks flying when steel hits steel. Full moon casting ethereal tones of blue and white over Shenandoah mountains and valleys. Somewhere in middle America a fire burns a tipi to the ground. Hearts breaking. Horses drawing a carriage face the New England wind. Red sun ascends like our Lord rising over Swiss Alps, its light casting red glowing diamonds over a sea of ice. Sleepless eyes enlivened. A scintilla of hope finds its way through the phone lines.
(American Heritage College Dictionary)
Midnight approaches on this day of the Epiphany. According to my thermometer, the record low for Janury 6th has been reached. As I go to bed it is -1 (F). I spent the weekend creating worst-case scenario plans for my family for severe winter weather and brutal cold. I will not lie; there were some above-average anxiety levels involved. However, as RM so eloquently put it today, perhaps anxiety in the face of dangerous weather is an example of anxiety serving its best purpose. Maybe the marriage of my primal animal instincts and my human ability to plan complex strategies is a beautiful thing, and, more importantly, could be highly useful if the power were to go out when the temperatures are below zero and the wind is raging. Maybe there is a fine line between neurotic thinking and smart thinking.
Today, I spent the "warm" hours of the day getting the pipes and the plant nursery ready for the burly night. When all plants were tucked in the greenhouse and the crawl space was closed up and heated and there was a beefy supply of firewood stacked on the porch and all the necessary hollerhood faucets were trickling, I retired to my delightfully warm, wood-heated house and revelled in the comfort. Believing all the bases were covered, my mind was free to wander back through my small but potent memory bank of the handful of other times I have met zero or sub-zero temperatures. Extreme weather experiences form colonies of vivid memories which perhaps dwell in the part of the brain reserved for personal epiphanies... ...Hearts awakening. Lungs pierced by the clear sharpness of the cold. Legs running. Sparks flying when steel hits steel. Full moon casting ethereal tones of blue and white over Shenandoah mountains and valleys. Somewhere in middle America a fire burns a tipi to the ground. Hearts breaking. Horses drawing a carriage face the New England wind. Red sun ascends like our Lord rising over Swiss Alps, its light casting red glowing diamonds over a sea of ice. Sleepless eyes enlivened. A scintilla of hope finds its way through the phone lines.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Chop Wood Carry Water
Warning: This essay may contain philosophical material that some may find unwarranted.
I'm sure as humans, we all find ourselves at times questioning decisions we have made and, probably at times, the nature of our existence itself. As a dweller in a modern industrialized society with access to a plethora of technology and the illusion of infinite possibilities, I find it strangely difficult to sort through all the input and dig my way down to the bottom line. What is important to me? What are my values and is my day to day life reflecting a practice of cultivating those values? It's a bit embarrassing to admit it, but I find life in our world at times downright confusing.
I'm probably just overthinking things, as I am wont to do.
Let me provide a little context to my philosophical rambling: The check valve on my ram pump gave out on Christmas. It cracked in 3 places, possibly due to the temperature dropping into the low teens on Christmas eve. When I returned home from my sister's on Christmas afternoon to check on the house and water and such, I discovered no water in the house. Thinking the pipes had frozen, I exclaimed, "shit" to myself and crawled under the house. When I discovered balmy temperatures and unfrozen pipes under there, I proceeded to the next stop, ram pump system. I walked up to the ridge and opened the lid to the 600 gallon buried reservoir, and to my surprise the reservoir was empty. Guess what. I said "shit" again. Sorry, baby Jesus.
I gandered down, down, down the hill to the pump itself to discover the pump still pumping, and with every hit, three sprays of water squirted every-which-a-way from the plastic casing of the check valve. All around me lay the enchanting sight of 600 gallons worth of icicles, glistening like Rihanna's diamonds in the late afternoon wintry sunlight.
I am a lucky girl to have a very accomodating and helpful ram pump man, HL (he built the pump), who called me on Christmas Day within minutes of receiving my email. We talked through it, and he was willing to get two spare parts for me in the priority mail the next day. What a guy. These parts are custom built for these specific pumps, which HL builds as a business, and, dare I say, a labor of love.
Flash forward to the day after Christmas. I spent the day with a loved one, helping her with the gory details of a stomach virus likely contracted at one of the many small town Christmas events which were attended by many. I came home late, feeling tired and queasy, and set to work splitting enough kindling to build a fire to warm my house to a comfortable temperature, since I had been staying away for 2 days. I had enough water in the house for drinking, tooth brushing, and morning tea and washing, due to the bucket I carried up to the house after having discovered the 600 gallons of icicles. This morning I woke, still queasy from the resistance of the norovirus, with the first task of the day on my mind- carrying more water up to the house for the next few days. I figured I would need 5 gallons for drinking/ cooking, 5 gallons for a bucket bath, 5 gallons for toilet flushing and an extra bucket for whatever.
I set to work and spent a good part of the morning scrubbing out grimey garden buckets with grit from the spring in order to clean them enough to haul water up to the house. And then I carried several loads of buckets, by hand, up the hill to the house, with a queasy stomach and a tired body. I have to admit, I wondered, somewhere along the way, ' is this worth it?'
Not just the effort of carrying the water to the house while feeling gross, but the non-electric water system that needs periodic (but intensive) attention, and, while we're at it, the life style in general. The rural remoteness. The acreage. The big garden. The piecemeal income plan. The hiking in and out when the driveway is frozen solid. The woodstove. The firewood. The physical and theoretical quasi-separation from modern American pop culture at large.
Are my daily tasks reflective of what's important to me?
**************************************
I had to sleep on that one. This morning, the light is fresh, and the ground is frosty. The house is warm and cozy from wood that I cut and a fire I have kindled. I am drinking tea from water I carried up the hill. My hair is clean from that same water. My answer is yes.
The ram pump water system meets three goals:
1) To carry a portion of the righteous and abundant water of this watershed up to my house
2) To position my personal reservoir in such a way that overflow can be shared with neighbors
3) To keep the branch wet so as to protect the sweet diversity of branch life below the spring.
The pump only pulls 10% or less of the spring water up the hill. The rest splashes back out into the branch for the salamanders, crawldaddies, snakes, deer, coons, pole cats and water loving plants. The pump is powered by water and gravity. It provides cold clean water to me, my next door neighbors and sometimes even the next neighbors down. It is free of charge to operate. It pounds like a heartbeat. It is, in essence, a song and dance of the elements, and I am bound to this dance by the nature of its function in my life here.
Yes, this dance is reflective of what is important to me: for the duration of my life on this planet, to marry myself to the laws of its elements, to commune lovingly with members of my own species and others, and to foster generosity whenever possible.
This is but a tiny window into the musings of one earth dweller's thought process. Of course there is so much more to consider than one's water system of choice. Like what to wear to the Grammys. Speaking of which, I would absolutely love to read Rihanna's discourse on her personal water system.
I'm sure as humans, we all find ourselves at times questioning decisions we have made and, probably at times, the nature of our existence itself. As a dweller in a modern industrialized society with access to a plethora of technology and the illusion of infinite possibilities, I find it strangely difficult to sort through all the input and dig my way down to the bottom line. What is important to me? What are my values and is my day to day life reflecting a practice of cultivating those values? It's a bit embarrassing to admit it, but I find life in our world at times downright confusing.
I'm probably just overthinking things, as I am wont to do.
Let me provide a little context to my philosophical rambling: The check valve on my ram pump gave out on Christmas. It cracked in 3 places, possibly due to the temperature dropping into the low teens on Christmas eve. When I returned home from my sister's on Christmas afternoon to check on the house and water and such, I discovered no water in the house. Thinking the pipes had frozen, I exclaimed, "shit" to myself and crawled under the house. When I discovered balmy temperatures and unfrozen pipes under there, I proceeded to the next stop, ram pump system. I walked up to the ridge and opened the lid to the 600 gallon buried reservoir, and to my surprise the reservoir was empty. Guess what. I said "shit" again. Sorry, baby Jesus.
I gandered down, down, down the hill to the pump itself to discover the pump still pumping, and with every hit, three sprays of water squirted every-which-a-way from the plastic casing of the check valve. All around me lay the enchanting sight of 600 gallons worth of icicles, glistening like Rihanna's diamonds in the late afternoon wintry sunlight.
 |
| Eat your heart out, Rihanna |
Flash forward to the day after Christmas. I spent the day with a loved one, helping her with the gory details of a stomach virus likely contracted at one of the many small town Christmas events which were attended by many. I came home late, feeling tired and queasy, and set to work splitting enough kindling to build a fire to warm my house to a comfortable temperature, since I had been staying away for 2 days. I had enough water in the house for drinking, tooth brushing, and morning tea and washing, due to the bucket I carried up to the house after having discovered the 600 gallons of icicles. This morning I woke, still queasy from the resistance of the norovirus, with the first task of the day on my mind- carrying more water up to the house for the next few days. I figured I would need 5 gallons for drinking/ cooking, 5 gallons for a bucket bath, 5 gallons for toilet flushing and an extra bucket for whatever.
I set to work and spent a good part of the morning scrubbing out grimey garden buckets with grit from the spring in order to clean them enough to haul water up to the house. And then I carried several loads of buckets, by hand, up the hill to the house, with a queasy stomach and a tired body. I have to admit, I wondered, somewhere along the way, ' is this worth it?'
 |
| Blue barrel marks the location of the spring. The house is that brown thing up that hill in the distance. |
Are my daily tasks reflective of what's important to me?
**************************************
I had to sleep on that one. This morning, the light is fresh, and the ground is frosty. The house is warm and cozy from wood that I cut and a fire I have kindled. I am drinking tea from water I carried up the hill. My hair is clean from that same water. My answer is yes.
The ram pump water system meets three goals:
1) To carry a portion of the righteous and abundant water of this watershed up to my house
2) To position my personal reservoir in such a way that overflow can be shared with neighbors
3) To keep the branch wet so as to protect the sweet diversity of branch life below the spring.
The pump only pulls 10% or less of the spring water up the hill. The rest splashes back out into the branch for the salamanders, crawldaddies, snakes, deer, coons, pole cats and water loving plants. The pump is powered by water and gravity. It provides cold clean water to me, my next door neighbors and sometimes even the next neighbors down. It is free of charge to operate. It pounds like a heartbeat. It is, in essence, a song and dance of the elements, and I am bound to this dance by the nature of its function in my life here.
Yes, this dance is reflective of what is important to me: for the duration of my life on this planet, to marry myself to the laws of its elements, to commune lovingly with members of my own species and others, and to foster generosity whenever possible.
 |
| The fruits of labor: water for washing heating on the woodstove |
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
night hike, full moon
silence much louder in the dark
rustle of beech leaves an announcement of a breeze not felt
rustle of beech leaves an announcement of a breeze not felt
shooting star and great horned owl a welcome home
no light needed
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
The day my sister read my mind at the river
Many things have been lost and gained in the last ten years since her traumatic brain injury. Some things remain untouched.
 |
| The day my sister read my mind at the river |
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Gingko
First snow finds me baking pumpkin pies from my first pumpkin harvest here in the cove, rendering a sample batch of deer tallow, watching does forage snowy brush and Chinese herbs from my kitchen window, and marvelling my most recent significant accomplishment.
First, the pies. The variety used was "Long Island Cheese," a small-medium sized flattish tan-colored eating pumpkin. These actually did better than my butternuts this year, for some reason. The yield wasn't extremely high, but enough for me to eat on through the winter, and satisfactory for something that I just plugged in little starts of in gaps in the herb beds as an afterthought. The pies they produce are delicious. I know this because I have made 9 this week, and had enough left over to make a miniature in a ramekin and taste of it.
The tallow rendered nicely- yielding a half cup from the scraps I scraped off of a deer hide I recently cleaned up. The color was an amber when liquid and a creamy white as a solid. The smell is rather gamey, and I am unsure as to whether I will be able to tolerate it as a base of a balsam poplar bud salve I want to make with it.
Now for the recent accomplishment: Monday of this week I planted my gingko tree in the yard. This in and of itself is nothing noteworthy, as the hole was not particularly difficult to dig, and I plant trees regularly enough for the task to feel somewhat commonplace. However, it is the transferrence of the plant into the ground from its home in the pot where the accomplishment lies. It is an arrival of sorts. A benchmark no doubt. You see, I have had the gingko tree in a pot for 15 years.
I purchased the wee seedling from one Mr. Eidus for $5 back in 1998. I just couldn't pass the little guy (or gal) up- with its commanding singular presence in its very own division of organisms- its ancient DNA gracing our modern existence with ancestral dreamings and beauty of by-gone eras. I knew that it was less than ideal to purchase a tree as a transient youngster in my early 20s, but I remember thinking, 'I will probably have my own land in about 3 years, 5 at the most, and I can take good care of a tree in a pot for that long.'
Fifteen years, 8 moves, a few thousand cookies and about 500 gallons of Barry's Tea later, here we are, the gingko and me, with a piece of earth and a sweet cold spring to call home. I planted the tree in front of the western corner of the house, where its lovliness can be showcased, it has ample room to grow, and maybe someday in 15 more years, if we are both still here, he or she can shade me and my living room from the hot afternoon summer sun. What a thought. Just as I had absolutely no clue as to how the past 15 years would unfold at the time I first met the gingko, I realize now as I step into the next 15 that I am just as clueless as to what is to come. You just never know what is going to happen. Ever.
First, the pies. The variety used was "Long Island Cheese," a small-medium sized flattish tan-colored eating pumpkin. These actually did better than my butternuts this year, for some reason. The yield wasn't extremely high, but enough for me to eat on through the winter, and satisfactory for something that I just plugged in little starts of in gaps in the herb beds as an afterthought. The pies they produce are delicious. I know this because I have made 9 this week, and had enough left over to make a miniature in a ramekin and taste of it.
The tallow rendered nicely- yielding a half cup from the scraps I scraped off of a deer hide I recently cleaned up. The color was an amber when liquid and a creamy white as a solid. The smell is rather gamey, and I am unsure as to whether I will be able to tolerate it as a base of a balsam poplar bud salve I want to make with it.
 |
| pumpkin pies with tiny jar of deer tallow |
Now for the recent accomplishment: Monday of this week I planted my gingko tree in the yard. This in and of itself is nothing noteworthy, as the hole was not particularly difficult to dig, and I plant trees regularly enough for the task to feel somewhat commonplace. However, it is the transferrence of the plant into the ground from its home in the pot where the accomplishment lies. It is an arrival of sorts. A benchmark no doubt. You see, I have had the gingko tree in a pot for 15 years.
I purchased the wee seedling from one Mr. Eidus for $5 back in 1998. I just couldn't pass the little guy (or gal) up- with its commanding singular presence in its very own division of organisms- its ancient DNA gracing our modern existence with ancestral dreamings and beauty of by-gone eras. I knew that it was less than ideal to purchase a tree as a transient youngster in my early 20s, but I remember thinking, 'I will probably have my own land in about 3 years, 5 at the most, and I can take good care of a tree in a pot for that long.'
Fifteen years, 8 moves, a few thousand cookies and about 500 gallons of Barry's Tea later, here we are, the gingko and me, with a piece of earth and a sweet cold spring to call home. I planted the tree in front of the western corner of the house, where its lovliness can be showcased, it has ample room to grow, and maybe someday in 15 more years, if we are both still here, he or she can shade me and my living room from the hot afternoon summer sun. What a thought. Just as I had absolutely no clue as to how the past 15 years would unfold at the time I first met the gingko, I realize now as I step into the next 15 that I am just as clueless as to what is to come. You just never know what is going to happen. Ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)