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.

The Privilege of Writing

I over-did the unloading of some lumber last autumn and developed "frozen shoulder" syndrome in my right shoulder.  I'm still trying to work it out, and oh! is it painful!  Some mornings my arm aches so horribly I cannot write at all, not before doing a half hour of stretching exercises that convert the grueling ache into a painful soreness that's somehow easier to handle. 

In fact, writing is feeling like quite the privilege these days.  In truth, it always was.  If there's not the physical pain, or depression, creating obstacles to putting thoughts on a page, there was the cold, and frozen fingers at the typewriter, or too many fumes from the gas heater.  I HAVE spent many-a-morning sitting in my tent at the computer with a vapor mask on!  And before all that there was the overly hectic and stressed work schedule that drained my time, energy, and creativity dry.  It's a great privilege to be able to write; even simply to connect to one's emotions enough to write is quite the accomplishment.  For long swaths of my life that was not the case, or the environment was unsafe, a place where private journals were stolen, raped of their content, read without permission.

Now I live on a dime in order to write.  I live in the woods for the peace, and the quiet.  I build my own home so I can work part-time instead of lending full-time devotion of my energies elsewhere. 

I rise before dawn, before the birds stir the air with their cheery communications, and I say to myself:  TODAY I get to write!  NOW I get to write!  And I know the privilege of it all, and as time goes by I understand and appreciate it, the gift of it, more and more.

There's Power in the Word

I heard a story once, about a pair of birds, mates with two little chicks in the nest.  But one day one of the parent birds was killed, and its mate went into mourning.

This is a true story.  Someone observed this happening.

All the bird could do was sit on the limb of a tree apart from the nest and stare into space.  She couldn't feed the chicks, she couldn't tend the nest, she couldn't feed herself.  She stared into space for so long that one of the chicks died of starvation, and there was nothing she could do about it.  She was immobilized by one of those passages of spirit we all undergo when grief takes hold with a grip that feels like iron, and we cannot move.

We can't accomplish the tasks we set out to do, no matter how vital they are.  Our to-do lists yellow and fade.  They aren't important anymore.  We can't, even if they were.

That's how I've felt this spring.  My building looms unfinished, with so much yet to accomplish, and now the weather is mild, yet I've been unable to lift a finger towards progress until only a week ago.  I've sat immobilized in my tent, grieving loss of a father I couldn't mourn before.

This, after writing Fishing With Father, which won the HOWL Essay Contest, and which continues its life in me long after the writing is done.

That's the power of writing, folks.  Make no mistake; we embark on no minor task when we take pen to paper and put our thoughts on a page.  It is our life-blood flowing therein, carving channels deeper than which we held before, nourishing, prodding, extending forth, empowering, even endangering ourselves, our current vistas, views, and goals.  Don't take it lightly, this work we do with our hands and our voices.  It is no less than revolutionary, inside of ourselves and beyond.

First Whisperwood Garden

Spring greens and onions for Pamela!

I do thank the grasshoppers for letting me eat this year, or at least letting me grow something, so I can eat better.  I was tempted to eat THEM last year, but didn't quite get hungry enough, I suppose.  THEY were hungry enough, however, to eat me out three times in a row.  Thrice I tried to plant a greens bed, and thrice they gobbled it up.  I finally gave in, wondering if a tiny green oasis in the middle of a hardwood forest full of ravenous insects was not a likely place to pursue another of my passions, which is gardening.  I was quite disturbed.  But — Alas!  The cold winter has had it's perks, and a bug-free spring is one of them (everyone knock on your hardwoods, just in case!).  And I am so thankful.  The grasshopper epidemic of last year has taught me anew just how vulnerable we are, just how susceptible we can be to myriad catastrophes, and to give great thanks when things go well.

Fairy fencing.

See my "fairy fencing".  I'm experimenting.  I'd planned to buy a hefty roll of garden fencing like ordinary folks, but just couldn't seem to get around to the dull chore of it all.  Then I turned protection of my garden into art, and Wha-lah!  Just like magic, the fence appears!  It's amazing what gets done when work turns into fun.  I'm looking forward to turning the building of my whole dwelling into fun.  More on that later.

In the meantime — Happy spring, everyone (again)!  Happy, happy long spring, cool spring, good for all the peas and potatoes, collards and chard spring.  And much, much thanks and gratitude to the Powers-That-Be, the Spirits of the wind and rain, the sun and the moon and all things green, for this wondrous, wet, and bounteous spring!

From Winter into Spring

Spring on the forest floor.

The ravines are running with water now.  Oh, joyous sound!  And there's little green things popping up all over the ground.  The tips of trees are swollen with buds, and frogs serenade the moon.

A gaggle of turkeys sauntered by in the early morning the other day; so riotous was their squabbling I didn't recognize the sound. I un-zipped my window to find the cause of such commodium, as only weeks earlier they passed in a whisper, shrouded in a cough of wintry air.

I cavort with the maple now.  I press my lips to her bark, wet even on a dry day, and taste clear, sweet fluid running up her spine.  Spring is warming the toes of trees and me, and I am breathing a very deep sigh of relief.

Perhaps I didn't do this winter the best way possible, eh?  Perhaps other routes may have been better than living in a tent in the woods!  But that's the haught of hindsight talking; she'll convince me of anything; convince me not to leap for anything hopeful lurking beyond the light of reason, past reach of convention, for dreams I cannot find elsewhere but in the dark, after leaping.

First winter in Whisperwood.

Perhaps I should've planned, she says. 

Well, I did.  But my life is so straddled by plans as to be suffocating.  If I can think it, do it.  If I can't, don't.  Cut short, I've been, by what I perceive, and limited, I am, by what I can't. Thus, and being generally overwhelmed by plans, and having to make them ALL, and what if they fail, fall short, I proceeded without them, as best I could, without a current set of directions, and Am I Glad!

Cold Kitchen.

I have learned, Am Learning, there is enough Love in the world to cover the lack.

There are enough friends, time, community, talent; there is enough courage.  The important thing is to try.

I'm learning that the Way does not always have to clear; some frailty of endeavor, some muddiness of thought is okay, provided intention is true.  I'm learning that not every single thing has to be figured out ahead of time, all the time.

I began this journey with great trepidation, cowering with scary what ifs looming in my quaking skull; what if I don't finish by winter, what if it gets too cold, what if a bear comes into my tent, what if the rains wash me off the cliff in the night, what if, WHAT IF!

I began anyway.

And I'm still here, nearly a year later, and Yes, it got too cold, but I had places I could go, and friends; and No, the bears didn't maul me in my tent; they're too busy digging roots and taking naps; No, the snakes — they didn't curl up by my feet in the down of my sleeping bag, though I wouldn't mind if they did; they only want to be warm.  No, I've not been stung by anything I didn't accidentally squash; and no tree has fallen on me yet.  Yes, I'm surrounded by strong trees.

My quaking in the night has done me little good, I find, so I'm shedding this old skin of mine.   I'm letting go of fear in time for springtime thaw; drinking deep and letting loose of ordered structures interfering with creative light.  I gaze into the warming sun and feel such joy; Yes, I am here for little else than for the Joy of Here; no other reason than pure, unfettered Joy.

Spring in the forest trees.

So I say, Welcome Spring!  Welcome Sun!  Welcome soft and fuzzy stems of green and purple feathery things upon the ground, and white fluttery, paper blooms high up in the trees!  Welcome wasps!  Welcome bees!  Welcome footfalls soft near mossy trees!

Again I say it, Sing it, Shout!  Welcome All!  Welcome Spring!

Happy Spring, Everyone!!!

Building Update: 4 Walls and a Stove

The Vogelzang from Catherine

I sit by the wood stove and read, at temperatures during which I usually  leave Whisperwood, journey to town in my heated car to huddle in public cafes and the library, where people seem to know why I'm there.  There are no windows in this new dwelling of mine, and blankets sewn together provide the only door, yet I am so grateful to stay.  I am so thankful to Catherine for the gift of the stove, and — My! What a gift it is!  No matter how many people exclaim "what a mild winter we've had!" it doesn't feel mild when living in a tent.

The dwelling emerging.

The walls of my dwelling are temporary, only plywood to keep out the wind and rain — most of it, anyway.  There are leaky spots through the tar-papered roof, and stepping three feet from the stove I am cold again.  But no longer will I need to sequester a bottle of water with me overnight in my sleeping bag in order to have something to drink in the morning!  Now I can set the water by the stove, and my cooking oil, too, so they will not solidify.  I thought I'd need to drive to town today for more propane, but no, I can stay, read by the fire, which is cooking my food.  And I can eat by the stove, too, instead of chattering outside in the cold.  These are some of the new-found delights of the stove, and the bone-warming heat of wood, heat that thaws me to the core.

I have to admit the cold got to me for awhile, before the stove was complete.  Being cold can curdle the gayest day into a heavy chore.  It took much longer to acquire the many requisite parts for the stove piping than I imagined, and all the while winter raged.  Many friends have offered their homes to me, and on occasion I accept, only to quickly feel a need to return to Whisperwood and space of my own.  I can't explain that.  It's just the way I am and need to be, right now anyway.

Heartfelt thanks to Catherine for the gift of the Vogelzang Boxwood stove, a stove that heats like no other, and to Bishop for the temporary walls and for installing the stove.

I continue to sleep in my tent.  My new dwelling is yet too much of a construction zone for a bed at this time, and I am always warm at night in my sleeping bag.  But first thing in the morning I can rush the thirty feet to my new dwelling, light the fire, and feel its warmth permeate my bones.

Of course, having a wood stove means chopping wood!  I'd chopped wood as a teenager but feared I'd forgotten how after decades of sedentary desk jobs.  I wasn't sure that I could still accomplish such a feat, yet I am proud to report I've done swell! My upper body strength certainly isn't what it used to be, but that doesn't seem to matter.  Splitting wood appears more a matter of carefulness and aim — both of which I have in ample supply — and a good, sharp splitting ax.  A sledge hammer is a big help, too.  I'm not sure if these are the conventional combination of tools to use, but they worked for me!  Within an hour I had enough wood to last several days.  And, yes, I am bragging!  I think any woman who splits her own wood has something to brag about!  Now the hickory, oak, and locust trees that either died from drought or had to be cleared for the solar panel and garden are providing free fuel, bone-warming heat, and rest from trips into town.

Thank you trees, thank you stove, and thank you friends for helping me through this winter!

The Basics

Bath Time

Gee, it seems all I did today was cook and take a bath!

I say this to myself with some frustration as the day winds to a close, and the lament is literally true sometimes, especially in the wintertime, camping in the woods.  On the coldest days it does, indeed, require all of my energy to stay warm, fed, and clean.

Get the pot, fill with water, heat the water on the stove...

Nothing else gets accomplished.  No stories are written, no editors contacted, no resumes polished, no research or e-mails.  Nada.  By the time I awake and warm the tent and get a bite to eat it is the afternoon, and not because I awoke late.

Find the soap, warm the towel, set the tub inside...

I've always loved camping — the way time slows to a dribble like cold honey crawls from a jar; the way it really does take all day to cook and take a bath, to do those basic self-care things often done in a flurry during the rush of an ordinary work week.

Get the water, let it cool, seal up all the drafts...

The slowing down of things gives me time to think; I call it mull-time.  And mull-time is my favorite pastime.  Mull-time is fuel and fodder for all those other things I haven't yet accomplished:  the writings, resumes, etc., etc.  Here is where I figure them out.  Here is where they are born so often, or rejuvenated, and here is where they rest, feed from underground springs far below the frozen tundra where it seems nothing else is going on but washing dishes, cooking food...

Lather, rinse, dry...

And if the caring for myself is all that gets accomplished, is all that seems to get accomplished — isn't that the most important thing?  Isn't that the most invigorating thing to do, the greatest privilege that we have — to care for this being each of us is and contains? 

Pour the water by a tree, hide the soap from coons...

One day I may have the privilege of caring for another, and someone may have the privilege of caring for me.  But no one will ever know me as I know myself.  No one will ever be able to hear every echo of my voice as I hear her.  No one can be tuned quite so perfectly as I. 

Set the tub down by a log, hang the towel to dry...

Camping reminds me of that.  The quiet of the woods reminds me of that.  That's why I'm camping.  That's why I'm here.