Winter 2021: An Inside Job
My orbit on the land has shrunk to a small and well-traveled boot-stamped network of paths that begin and end at the front porch. The back door to the mudroom has been frozen shut for going on nine days now. The newest vehicular member of the family has dutifully packed down two tracks in the driveway on our trips to and from the Outside World, and I navigate them delicately on my way to the downstairs chickens to thaw out their water pan and shovel a scoopful of grain into their cheerful yellow and red feeder. Snow-covered tire tracks can be deceptive—they ice up underneath and a simple morning chore turns into slapstick humor pretty quickly (I’ve heard the crows laughing more than once).
The upstairs chicken (the one who was born without toes) decided before I did to stay in the protection of her raised rabbit hutch-turned-coop, waiting for me to bring her an old bean can’s worth of birdseed and warm up her white and red plastic waterer so she can sip at her leisure throughout the day. I oblige and make a couple of trips around the house, further tamping down the path that now looks to be with us for two more weeks. Eight more inches of snow predicted between now and Tuesday.
If you’re reading this from your perch in a northern clime—Michigan, Colorado, the mighty Dakotas—I am a baby and need to grow a winter pair and stop all this whining. You’re right, of course, though I should like to get points for not simply leaving the poultry to their own devices until mid-April. Let me ask for mercy and a little understanding. Lingering snow, or more accurately, snow that now sees our acreage as its forever winter home, has not been the norm in these parts for the past several decades. Over-the-bootcuff depths are the stuff of my single-digit childhood years, when we scrambled to find said boots and shoved our hands into mittens cleverly dangling from the longest piece of string I’d ever seen before bursting out the front door with snow angel enthusiasm and a promise from mom that we could indeed use some of the week’s milk and sugar to make snow ice cream. Back then, someone Else shoveled the sidewalks and steps to the front porch; our innocence told us that most food fell from the sky and was safe to eat. A mix of hunger and curious first-grader culinary experimentation drove us indoors after a couple of hours. I think mom probably hung our wet socks in the laundry room downstairs because I sure don’t recall doing it.
This morning the sun rose all pink and frosty over the eastern field, and while I didn’t burst out the door, I did hear the echoing squeal of delight coming from the seven-year-old within my heart as she took in the sheer splendor of a brand new and pristine winter morning. We were standing in the middle of it, she and I, our fingertips chilling over toward frozen and our boot-clad feet picking their way along the house path that promised beautiful views from different vantage points along the way. I registered each one, tucked them in the part of my brain that I unpack when I’m warm and feeling contemplative, and let a surge of gratitude fill every cell head to toe.
After that one eye-opening walk in the first really deep snow this season (see “Survival”, Feb. 7), I’ve kept close to the house in my daily constitutionals and am feeling the effects on my claustrophobic tendencies. It’s a relief to have to feed animals every day—anything to get me outside in the fresh air—but I look longingly down the path past the sweat lodge and into the woods, knowing that it’s not for me right now. To feed my starving wanderlust, I offer to empty the compost containers onto the frozen heap of spring’s gardening dreams out back, pausing to dial my stance in a full-circle gaze, and at night, stand on the porch gulping cold air after a really hot bath (dressed in the most wonderfully plush plaid pajamas, bunny slippers peeking out beneath the hems that drag well past my feet). I can feel the wind’s fingers snatching the moisture from my steam-dampened hair and I let her.
Spending more time inside than outside, it’s no longer possible to ignore the gatherings of dust and bits of bark in the corner behind the coat rack. There’s an unprecedented collection of tangle webs in every room, putting to rest once and for all the mystery of where spiders go when it gets cold (our house, apparently). I want to dust and scrub and bring a shine back to the windows that will encourage spring to come charging through the panes with its relentless light. The studio tempts and taunts with half-finished projects of the artistic kind and I get lost for a while in decisions about color and texture as I go hunting for that one marbled bead that I put away for safekeeping. The next thing I know, I’m sorting and organizing bits of paper and bookbinding thread on the shelves behind the door. At least three times a week, I wander into the kitchen to bake something, anything, after a full day’s work in the home office upstairs. The aroma of almond cookies with melting chocolate or a loaf of springy gluten-free bread will smooth away the rough edges of an even rougher day.
I think I’ve mentioned here before a bit of wisdom from my late father, a brilliant psychologist and keen observer of human nature, and it’s this: self-revelation is not for the squeamish. Forced indoors, or at least reluctantly choosing to be so confined, I cannot help but look within at the dusty and cobwebbed corners of a soul that has more Work to do. One can only be distracted for so long by a sinkful of dishes or the need to floss one’s teeth after lunch. When the space around me goes quiet because I’ve been so darn efficient with the routine tasks and there are still hours left to the day, it’s time to listen more carefully to the urgent whispers of necessary self-improvement and give my attention over to tidying up the inner dwelling. Only those closest to me will tell me if I’ve been successful or not. Either way, the living room’s own dusty corners will have to wait.
Staying well-hydrated upstairs during the workday means frequent trips downstairs. Last Thursday, Patrick was home in the middle of his workday that takes him beyond these walls (lucky stiff), sitting at the kitchen table waiting for a telehealth appointment with our primary care doc to start. I walked into the bathroom and came upon what looked like a cat-and-bird crime scene: random splashes of some brown substance on the walls and doorframe to the linen closet, and tiny black feathers puffing around on the linoleum with the slightest movement of my sock-clad feet. I heard a soft rustling coming from behind the bathtub curtain and found kitten Xena surrounded by more feathers and more brown stain splashes, her paw on top of a small house wren that she’d trapped perfectly in the tub’s open drain. Her wide green eyes locked onto my expression of surprise as I reach down to gather her up and relocate her to the front porch. Back in the bathroom, the wren was now clinging to the top edge of the tub surround and I softly explained the exit plan to her, knowing that she won’t hear me over the pounding of her little heart. Washing down the walls seemed like a good way to occupy my time while she calmed herself down a bit, and I’ve got to get these feathers out of the tub. A dry paper towel swipe was out of the question—it just stirred them up and they went flying, so I got out the cordless vacuum and now we’ve got a situation. The noise startled the wren onto the chain connecting the hanging lights above the medicine cabinet, and I uttered a prayer of thanks that I had the presence of mind to first close the bathroom door so she couldn’t explore the rest of the house. Eventually, she was set free through a well-executed series of steps involving a propped-open window, a telescoping feather duster and a plumber’s helper. Back in the kitchen, Patrick continued to wait, unaware of the drama that unfolded and resolved two rooms away.
I really really miss my morning walks.
