In Between

I love how the morning fog makes the air look soft.

From my customary perch on a massive fallen black walnut tree just ten yards in from the walking path, I sit silent as a rock while the mist mutes the rough edges of a shagbark hickory and pulls me into all sorts of imaginings and stories, as only the a fog-draped forest can do. A crow overhead laughs his way across the canopy, joined by his sisters in cackling merriment. It’s encouraging to hear the songs of those early returning bird relatives and my heart feels softened too with the promise of another spring just behind the curtains.

Winter still has us clutched in its chilly fist—who knows what that cagey ol’ March will bring?—but we know we’ve turned that corner just an inch. If you haven’t started tomato and cabbage seedlings, better get a move on. And those fingerlings, they can be pushed into the cold soil in a few weeks; please don’t let the mud put you off. They love that (you can always hose off your boots later, like…in October when you’re done with the harvest). The garlic bulbs my sister and I pressed into small holes of dirt last fall are still sleeping but, I suspect, with one eye open in anticipation of that “go!” trigger that will send their best shoots upward and on their way to being garlic scape pesto for our early summer pasta dishes. Sometimes I walk ‘round their raised bed just to cheer them on. Over my shoulder, the patient volunteer mulberry tree that claimed her spot smack in the middle of the garden holds herself in readiness, dreaming, I’m sure, of the loads of fruit that will bend her branches toward the thin grass in the first weeks of June. I’ll be ready with that berry juice-stained white sheet I spread at her feet to collect them all.

Living in the space of not-yet, the in between of two stark and generous seasons, it’s hard not to anticipate what’s next, what could happen, what might make itself known, and suddenly, winter will melt the last of her icy-fingered grip on our souls, giving spring all kinds of room to charm and delight us once again. I’ve welcomed this transition 60+ times in my short life and she always catches me by surprise with her birdsong and flowing creeks and slippery mud. Moles push mounds of crumbly rich earth through last year’s matted old thatch, dotting the slope down to the old goat barn like chocolate sprinkles on an elaborately decorated farm-themed cake. The mower is in the shop for its annual tune-up and my dreams are filled with the scent of freshly cut grass.

I suppose we’re always in between something, aren’t we? This season or that one, last year’s birthday and this year’s Christmas, sunrise and dusk, beginnings and endings (whether we know they’re coming or not). And it’s in that middle place where life happens—to us, through us, and with us. The weather just makes it a little more real and stirs the longing in our hearts toward a future that isn’t promised to anyone. Sitting in the old red chair from the lake house, the one I happily inherited when Mom and Dad could no longer spend their summers there, I am here, now, pulling words into sentences and grateful that two of the four kitties are romping outside beneath the stars. I’m in between hours spent in the studio and a clean, comfortable bed waiting to cradle me off to sleep. I need nothing more than what I have in this moment, and the next, and the next. My lungs work beautifully, I fed myself a wonderful dinner, my teeth are brushed and there’s a stillness surrounding me that only the house can give.

If now is all we have, I can live with that. So can the robin perched in the uppermost branches of the silver maple sapling behind the house, singing as if she never left. And the creek, filled with last month’s melted snowfall, gurgles its way over the rocks and fallen branches-turned-bridges, knowing only her need to keep moving. Funny, isn’t it, how the space in between moments is so darn full? As if it isn’t “space” at all.

In so many ways, spring is already here.

The Sheer Luck of Location

Sparkles everywhere I look. A magpie’s paradise, spread out at my feet.

Last Sunday’s fourteen-plus inches of snow got a middle-of-the-night fluffing while the cats and I were sleeping and now the rolling expanse of land looks like a cake decorated with edible crystal glitter. It’s too much for my eyes to bear without squinting and thank goodness for my sunglasses. One of the stems is bent but they still cling fast to my head as I make my way through a tunneled path from the porch to the coop. The girls have been feathered troopers this past week, huddled and hunched in the darkness of their protective shelter during the subzero nights, waking to my gentle calls and the promise of warm water in their repurposed restaurant steam pan. I’ve taken to checking the marked down produce at the store, scoring bags of nectarines and peaches that never quite ripened, and tossing them into the feeder with the cracked corn. I’ve also been mixing in handfuls of chili pepper flakes—advice from a poultry magazine—to help the girls generate a tad more heat in their little bodies as insurance against frostbite. It seems to be working.

The sun is cold and big in the sky and that means more fantastical ice sculptures dangling from the eaves later today. I have this crazy idea that I could probably get out the aluminum step ladder, climb just high enough with the push broom in one hand, and move some of the snow off the small section of roof that hangs over the kitchen window. No trips to the ER is my motto these days, but wouldn’t I bring a fun story for the suture techs to pass around at lunchtime after they’ve sewn up my cracked skull? I’ll see how much I can brush off from my tiny place on the ground below; the ladder voted to remain in hibernation until April. At least.

It’s important to note that I haven’t walked the land in almost three weeks and it’s making me feel restlessly reckless. There’s a foot-wide path around the house (later this morning, I’ll sweep off the propane tank and lift the lid on the gauge so I can get a proper reading to submit to the energy co-op), and, finally, I see deer tracks in the field around the sleeping garden. There were apples in the produce mark-down section too; I’ll rest a few on the log beneath the silent mulberry tree off the porch and hope they’ll be gone by morning.

Staying put doesn’t mean lack of movement, just a limited orbit for my feet and me. It’s not what I’m used to and I listen for the lesson in it all: be in the moment. Look around and appreciate where you are and what you have. What I have are four cabin-fevered cats who have turned the living room into their own parkour playground with no regard for the carefully positioned throw rugs trying to keep the floor warm. I also have a freezer full of soup, chicken tenders, frozen peas, gluten-free everything bagels and English muffins, black bean burgers, butter, garbanzo bean rotini pasta, and lemon raspberry Greek yogurt bark broken into thick shards with a flavor that reminds me of summer. The tea cabinet is also well-stocked; visitors (if there were any—there’s really no place for them to park without getting stuck in the snow) wouldn’t go wanting for a hot beverage steeped in a mug with bees painted on it. On a whim this morning, I made a perfect batch of hummus and boiled cubes of tofu (all the rage these days, apparently) for a sesame ginger stir fry. My heart longs for a trek north to the woods soon, and what a joyous reunion that will be. Until then, the floors are swept, eggs gathered and washed, kitchen faucet dripping just enough to reassure me to sleep at night, and window quilts holding in as much heat as they can.

Last week, I acknowledged my luck in living here and that’s a refrain I keep on repeat. It never gets old and keeps my gratitude practice humming along. Wherever I am on this slice of homestead paradise, there is beauty and humility in abundance. The cats know it, the chickens know it, and of course so do all the deer and squirrels and foxes and those invisible coyotes who yip and howl their way through the meadow while the moon gives them a well-deserved spotlight. Sometimes, when I’m at work downtown, surrounded by concrete and towering glass buildings, I walk the land in my mind, disappearing into the tree-lined paths and not wanting to return, ever. Wherever I go, she comes with me, this expanse of soil and vegetation, wildlife and avian sanctuary unparalleled.

In a few weeks, the creek will swell beyond its banks with snowmelt, singing her way along the rocks and sycamores that hold her close. I’ll walk beside her, happy for the sound that will come to rest in my grateful ears, and add another day to my collection of being in the most beautiful place on earth.

Signs of Life

When it’s too cold to walk, the birds still sing.

I long for their resilience and sense of purpose, so I step out onto the front porch for about eight seconds, my hand never leaving the chill metal doorknob that assures a return to warmth and purring cats. The sparrows cock a knowing eye in my direction and return to their feeding frenzy. Humbled am I, at every turn.

I don’t even know if we’ve passed the midpoint of this winter storm’s trek across the affected 40+ states these past 72 hours; time itself seems to have stopped, not making any tracks in the snow that keeps piling up higher now than the two-foot high edge of the porch. I’ll head out soon for the third round of shoveling in as many hours and be grateful that I’m no good at estimating by sight how many inches have fallen so far. The furnace is doing its job (the sump pump too, thank goodness) and the studio crooks its creative finger at me seductively. After breakfast—for the chickens and for me—I’ll be lost in the cradling arms of all-that-hasn’t-been-made-yet, sewing needles, batik fabric, and glue gun at the ready.

The land hasn’t seen a storm like this in my lifetime here. It’s stunning to witness, a tad intimidating, and strangely reassuring. How cold and white can also look so soft is winter’s privilege and paradox. She covers the bare sepia and dark brown branches of our black walnut and crack willow trees effortlessly; I look away for a second and return my gaze to see thick sleeves of snow on their slender limbs, posed and waiting for someone to sketch them. As of this sentence, no deer tracks in sight. For all I know, I’m the last person on earth. The quiet swallows me whole.

I think of the trees I usually visit on my walks back to the woods and imagine a gray and white tableau, groves of sycamores with their bark peeling in random patches up and down their long and sturdy trunks. Their peace, even in my mind’s eye, settles my heart and reminds me that movement is overrated. They stand silent and tall and teach me about the value of waiting. For anything.

I’m worried about the plumbing in this dear old farmhouse. There’s heat tape wrapped round the pipes under the kitchen sink and the water still flows, icy at first in a finger-numbing sort of way as it slowly turns hot-to-scalding, perfect for getting the last slicks of olive oil from the corners of a container that once held a hearty vegetable soup. On my trips downstairs in the middle of the night, I make a detour to the sink to lift the faucet handle for that reassuring trickle before heading back to bed where two of the kittens are waiting.

The day’s hum has been steady and attentive. Much as I enjoy getting lost in time and art supplies, this weather event has pulled my gaze up and outward through the studio windows for delicious moments of presence and wonder; watching the falling snow makes me sleepy and I’m grateful for the antique solid oak sleigh bed mere steps away from the worktable. The hours have passed easily between us, the snow and me, and I’ve deepened my respect for the power of winter. There are two juicy mandarins left in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. That’ll get me to Wednesday at least.

As the last slivers of gray light make their blurred exit from the sky, I whisper the tiniest prayer of thanks from a soul expanded by this nearly indescribable beauty that wraps me and holds me close. Beneath it all is the pulse of a life force greater than I’ll ever understand, that somehow, in grace and infinite kindness, loves me back.

And I get to live here. Wow.

Comfort in the Clouds

The fairy tree in the northeast corner of the woods has finally laid herself down.

From her reclining position on the spongy forest floor, it looks as if it all happened without violence, strong invisible arms gently lowering her to the ground with tender regard. I shall miss her tall presence, the hollowed-out base of her trunk, perfect hiding place for apples and Jolly Ranchers for the deer and raccoons. For twenty-six years (and who knows how many before that?) she stood stalwart and hospitable on four sturdy feet while owls and squirrels poked their little faces out the holes shaped to perfect roundness by the canopies’ woodpeckers.

Two winters ago, my suburban-dwelling niece called with a mild mouse dilemma—she’d live-trapped two from her garage (or kitchen) and shyly asked if she could release them on the land so they’d have a chance for a better life. Of course she could (we’ve turned down offers of live-released groundhogs and skunks. Got plenty of those). When? Is it ok if we’re not here when you drop them off? We arranged the details with minimalist ease. I didn’t suggest a specific location; she thought she’d just start down the walking path once she got here and see where the forest called her. Tucked carefully into a tightly woven oval jute basket, with empty toilet paper tubes stuffed inside around a thick pack of straw, these two small critters were about to go big or go home.

The relocation took place almost unnoticed for weeks until I was off the main walking path and picking my way toward the fairy tree when I saw the basket carefully tucked into the hollowed-out base of her trunk. Lucky mice, I thought. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect spot and my niece found it without a nudge from me. This is the Ritz of woodland real estate, and she had provided every eventuality—straw, cardboard for chewing into softer bedding and a generous handful of peanuts, mice tucked behind it all in ultimate warmth and luxury. I expect they slept all the way there, rocking gently in the cradle of my niece’s arm as she made her way along the path.

On another walking morning, I stopped by the area to check on everyone, looked up and saw the round fluff of a saw-whet owl’s face filling the topmost hole in the tree’s slender trunk. Her eyes blinked once and stared down at me with cautious curiosity, wondering whom she should thank for the neatly packaged and unexpected DoorDash delivery this far from human civilization. Whether the mice met the owls or squirrels, I’ll never know. But with the tree now sleeping horizontally, all remaining residents were suddenly evicted by wind and gravity. The forest will hold onto that story forever.

There’s now a long vertical gap in the tree line’s smile, no less magical but giving off a wistful vibe to this section of the wooded neighborhood. The surrounding blue beech, black walnuts and red maples seem to be standing a bit straighter and it feels like respect. I touch the smoothness of her trunk beneath peeling slabs of grooved bark and thank her for shade and shelter. She taught us all strength and perseverance, hospitality as only a tree can do, lessons we could all put to good use these days. When I have a need for sanctuary and presence, I sit here among the standing and the fallen and remember, gratefully, how small I am indeed.

To catch you up from the last long-ago post, my dear friend passed away on August 21st after several rough nights of terminal restlessness. If you’ve not witnessed such a transition before, it can run the gamut of unsettling to disturbing. It hurts to remember that she was on the more difficult side of things that way and though I wanted to look away, I also could not abandon her. I sat vigil in her darkened room for three or so hours as she worked hard to get what she wanted, something I couldn’t see. When I finally left her side, the meds had finally done their job and she was sleeping a bit askew in her reclining rolling chair (wheels locked), a soft blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Five days later she was gone.

Walking out to my car that afternoon to make the long trip back home, I looked up to see thick and towering bunches of clouds as only a humid August day in Ohio can conjure up. They made the sticky unmoving air almost bearable and embodied the word “majesty” without question. As I registered the sharp contrast—bright, warm white and blue expanse above me, while my friend snatched some moments of peace for herself in the shuttered darkness of a nursing home room—I felt comforted by the transitory existence of something grander and softer than even my own heart. They were eye-soothing and brilliant, ever changing and yet perfect (to paraphrase Richard Bach from “Illusions”), a billowy welcome to any and all souls making that trip across the great divide in classic childhood “heaven is up there” thinking. Some days I forget just how much is above our heads, in so many ways. And all it takes is a simple head and neck adjustment that naturally drops the mandible of our skulls in the open and awestruck position. Rather nifty architecture if you ask me.

The skies were like that on the day my other dear friend died (can it be she’s been gone nine years now? I swear, I just said goodbye to her last week), the clouds pushing each other back and forth to make room for her. I was standing by my car that day beneath an oil painting that kept reinventing itself and it brought me a much-needed measure of joy. I’ll never forget that.

We’re well into the cold gray days of autumn and winter solstice is still a few miles away. The gray clouds that swirl overhead unfold themselves like moth-eaten quilt batting, changing shape and softening the sharp edges of the trees’ bare arms stretched out and waiting for the snow that will soon cover them. If it weren’t so risky to sleep outside in the bed of my truck on such nights, I’d be parking myself in the meadow just next to the Old Man sycamore tree, bundled up in as many blankets as I have. Maybe the clouds would part and dissipate just enough for me to witness the flashing streaks of next week’s Leonids’ meteor shower and give me a memory to last a lifetime.

All I have to do is stop. And look Up.