This Site Has Moved

Dear Readers,

My blog now has a new address, which is

http://whisperwoodblog.wordpress.com

I deeply appreciate your continued attention and comments.  Enjoy a Slideshow of photos at the new address, as well as a Category Cloud to help you find the topics of your choice.

I look forward to sharing much with you as I continue my quest for home and new livelihood in my beloved Whisperwood!

Thank you so much!

Pamela

A Moving Experience

My tent finally collapsed under a mound of ice and snow last autumn, which greatly expedited my move into my new dwelling.  My home is far from complete, with only thin plywood for walls, but the roof is good, I have great windows, and now I have a much larger and better wood stove to keep me warm in the worst of weather.  It wasn’t easy getting all this in place.  Thanks so much to Nancy and Phil and Carlos and everyone else who helped!

Front entrance.

I felt so sad leaving my tent.  I miss it dearly.  I miss hearing every little leaf shutter and snap of a twig.  I could hear the squirrels yawn.  Did you know you can tell the animals apart by the sounds they make while they are drinking water (some sip, some lap...)? 

In the tent I learned the routines of my forest neighbors — the mid-afternoon calls of the owls as they wake, their raucous cackling in the evening, and their early morning coo that sounds like a lullaby.  Daily I listened for the armadillo who circled my tent after dark, the three raccoons — eyes lit like luminaries roving over the ground, the deer — who don't seem to sleep, but only nap on occasion.  Even the wind has a schedule as it maneuvers through the days. 

There’s a lot we miss living in houses — a lot of connectedness and awe.

In the tent I lost my fear of dark.  I learned that night in the woods is tender, soft.  There's eyes — lots of them, and they're only curious.

Yet there is a balance to be had, for waking during a rain storm to a tent-turned-swimming pool heaving downward on my chest is not something I’d like to experience again, and trying to type in the winter with gloves on my hands and a mask on  my face (propane fumes) was a challenge!

Getting gassed.

In my new dwelling I feel such exhilaration while looking out the windows, MY windows, which overlook my garden on the sunny slope.  And I’ve felt such warmth while sitting by the fire.

As I continue this journey I’ll continually seek a balance between inside and out-of-doors, between security that heals, emboldens, and vulnerability that excites and opens oneself to newness and possibility.

Speaking of moving:  I am in the process of moving this blog from blogspot to wordpress.  Stay tuned for details soon.

Blessed Be to All!

Practice Makes Perfect

In the spring of this year I heard some strange sounds in the woods at night.  They began at dusk and continued into dawn — long, hoarse screeching sounds in the deeper woods sounding like distress coming from low in the trees.  It was a sound I hadn't heard before.  So one evening when the sound began again I grabbed a flashlight and softly walked into the woods in pursuit of the source of these disturbing calls.  After walking as quietly as I could over leaves and twigs that crunched too loudly underfoot I finally saw the faint outlines of a large bird of pray, two of them in fact, flapping on the ground around the hollowed stump of an old tree, their apparent home.  On closer inspection I saw that they were juvenile Barred Owls flapping about on the ground, awaking for the evening, stretching their wings and their vocal chords.  And in the following weeks I was treated to daily sights and sounds of these two siblings as they grew up around me and became accustomed to my presence.  I awoke in the mornings as they screeched back and forth to each other in the branches over my tent.  In the evenings they flew within arms reach as I worked in the kitchen, and one of them sat on a limb only feet away from me as I brushed my teeth.

"How are you doing?" I asked.  "You sure are growing up big and strong!  Gonna catch some mice tonight?" 

She just eyed me quizzically, quietly observing my strange sounds and activities.

Will she be hooting and hollering along with the adults by winter?  I wondered.

Sometimes I feel so discouraged with my writing, feeling so far afield of fabricating anything useful for publication to the world, and far from completing my home.  My savings have dwindled.  I'm dipping into retirement funds.

I muddle along, working profusely at building up the structures I need for this new life of mine, watching progress occur too slowly to see with eyes of my own....

then I hear the juvenile owls screeching, endless, into the summer nights, and in the daytime, too, ardently working to fine-tune their skills for winter when they'll need to rely on them, and only them, for survival.

Mid-way into summer I began to hear a small musical lilt towards the end of their scratchy recordings, like they might be starting to get the hang of mature vocalization,

and I said They're gonna get it!  They're gonna get the hang of that before long!

And now, as summer wanes into early autumn and coolness chills the air, I realize I haven't heard from the juveniles for awhile.  Maybe they've moved on, I've wondered.  Then better thoughts arise:  They're here, only grown, and their sounds now blend with all the other adults cooing, cackling in the trees.

And I say to myself as I continue my work, and work, and my endless practice:  I'm gonna get it.  Yes, I'm gonna get the hang of this before long, too!

In the Garden: Butternut Squash

Female flower of the Waltham Squash

Unfurling, hopes, whispers...

This summer is turning into a celebration of sorts — a celebration of the beautiful, bountiful, and the unexpected; a celebration of rain, growth, and love, where there was none but drought before; a celebration of pacing, and the enjoyment of time.  Who would have thought our gardens would be burgeoning with greenery, flowers, and produce into August, especially after the month of no rain at the start of summer!  What better way to celebrate the bounty than with photos of the Butternut Squash growing happily in the Whisperwood Garden!  She, and He (for she is both) is bursting her bounds on the small, sunny slope, and has not been gobbled by the animals, though she remains unfenced!  I am experimenting with a space-saving trellis, which seems to be working fine despite the heft of the fruit.  Each morning I visit and gently guide the unfurling tendrils to the next rungs of wire.   "Here," I say, "you can hang onto this."  And she does so, eagerly, then speeds onward to the next tethering place.

The infant squash with female flower

The male flower

I love butternut squash for its wonderful flavor and long "shelf life".   These squash will keep all winter long without refrigeration.  They are a winter staple, a primary ingredient in my cold-weather soups and stews.   But because they are so heavy they can be quite expensive, especially when grown organically.  So, I've determined to grow my own this year.  This is a Waltham heirloom variety.  Yes, I'll be saving the seeds!

Despite how luxurious the plant is, I have been having one problem, which is the small, baby squash often turn yellow and die before they are even an inch or two long.  It does not appear to be "end rot", for the discoloring does not begin at the blossom.  In fact, it occurs before the blossom unfolds.  I have read that the problem can be due to lack of pollination, which is wholly understandable as I have few flowering plants in my fledgling forest garden and the bees in the meadows have yet to discover this small oasis in the woods.  I now grab a Q-tip each morning on my way to the garden and use it to transfer pollen from the male to female flowers.  I've also read that another cause of the problem may be over-watering from the excessive amounts of rain we've had.  If readers have any additional ideas or solutions, please let me know!  Meanwhile, despite the gauntlet of potential ills, several of the squash have survived to adulthood and are looking quite magnificent!

Summer bounty

 Happy summer, Everyone!

Building Update: Room with a View

Windows installed on south side facing the garden.

Framing of front door.

Ever kept a dream you didn't know you had?  A dream so big you never dared bring it to the fore of your mind, so certain you were it could never, ever happen?  I've had many dreams like that, dreams I uncover only after realizing they're finally coming true before my very eyes.  It's not like the dreams were not circling inside my head before; it's just that their presence is hard to acknowledge amidst strangling feelings of impossibility.  My new dwelling, shown in the recent photo above, is one such dream.  See the windows, good ones like Diana told me to get.  And the rounded doorways, just like I wanted.  There's three of them in this small dwelling: the front door, and entrances to the decks for outdoor sleeping and the outdoor kitchen (not built yet).  Mind you, all the plywood is temporary.  It will be replaced by straw bale walls eventually.  Note the fine metal roof!

After Phil, Don, and John finished the framing of the windows, it took me a full week to venture forth and try them out, pushing the sashes up and down, moving the sliders — so fearful I was that something wouldn't work correctly, so sure something might break or otherwise curtail this dream-coming-true before my very eyes.  But no, they worked perfectly, and in the reflection of the large picture window that faces my garden on the sunny slope, I saw my eyes begin to tear, because I was, and am, so deeply happy with this vision slowly, amazingly, unfolding before me.

Out of Control

The problem with building by hand is that when the hand wears out, the building stops.

"I'll be working my butt off" I told a friend this spring, regarding the vast amount of work I needed to accomplish this summer.  There's the rock work around the foundation, which entails mixing cement — by hand.  There's staining of the rafters, sifting of the soil, cutting cedar for the roof supports, and hauling gravel for the floor.  I've eagerly embarked on all of these things, and ended up working off my butt and my arm, as well.  I strained a muscle or ligament near my right elbow, and now must ice it daily, and give it some good rest.  This has been a disconcerting turn of events, considering how much I think I'm supposed to accomplish this summer before another chilly winter sets in.

I've been filled with great anxieties about it.

I've GOT to get the straw bale walls up!  I've GOT to set the floor!

or ELSE!

Or else what?

Or else I'll rent a place for winter?  Or room awhile with a friend?

No big deal.

This building of a home is a longer procedure than I'd imagined, and I'm slowly learning, by inches and by squeaks, to let the process flow.

I'll do the best I can, come what may is proving a much more livable approach to living in the wilds, and building up a home.

This hasn't been easy, this new approach to days.

I have a workaholic past.  The first time I tried to take a weekend off from work was nearly fifteen years ago.  I felt so ill with anxiety I had to return.  It was a Saturday afternoon.

I was afraid something wouldn't be accomplished that should be accomplished that would gravely impact the entire project, like my efforts and solely they are in control of every outcome.

I've learned differently since.

And I'm learning still that I make much more progress, and get much more out of life, by being open and sensitive, than by being in control.  By some intriguing application of celestial relativistic principles to the waves inside my brain, I seem to get much farther by slowing down than by speeding up.

And it makes the ride so much more enjoyable!

Keeping the Faith

My full time job at present, which is building my home, does not earn me any income.  It only takes money, precious savings carefully stock-piled before taking this leap of faith into another mode of life for myself.  Yet as the stockpile dwindles, it becomes harder and harder to "keep the faith" in my "leap of faith".  Old anxieties rear their ugly heads, tired patterns tempt before new ones have time to fully take hold, like weeds resuming their summertime strangle of flowers after being beaten back from the patch earlier in the spring.  Yet if I don't "keep my eye on the prize," which is a warm dwelling this winter, and allow myself to get side-tracked by pursuits with more immediate reward, I'll risk not being able to complete the most important job I've ever had.

Some of the most critically important jobs in the world earn no money at all.  Examples, outside of home-building, include fathering, mothering, even sistering, brothering, mentoring and encouraging others.  It is difficult in a world that values inordinately the material and anything with a price — that relegates spiritual and emotional sustenance to off-duty or weekend endeavors rather than valuing them as core pursuits — to retain in the fore of one's mind that some of the most important jobs require far more money than they earn.

How will I feel in a warm home this winter?  How will strong walls affect my mood, and my ability to think and be in touch with my creativity?  What does security do for a person? 

The answers to these questions, and to so many others that laborers of the unpaid positions could ask, are priceless.