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.

Season's Greetings

From my tent to yours...

 Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays to You;

Happy rustlings in the leaf-fall,

shiny stars above the tall

and quiet trees;

Merry needling of the nose,

nippy fingers, chilly toes

in moist and brisky northern breeze;

King snake slumbering underneath

an ancient stump; the icy sheath

in barrels left out in the rain;

Coon eyes shining by the moon,

cayote's howl — their merry swoon —

enraptured, nightly high refrain;

Quiet bear and busy mouse,

merry possum, owl, and grouse,

and all that goes a-softly

padding by at night;

Misty morn on mountain tops,

lovely quiet when wind stops,

and sweet hot cocoa

by the glowing warm fire-light;

Crinkled leaves a-clinging now

to restful trees a-sleeping now, and

clapping softly like brown paper

tambourines;

Squirrels sipping at the pool,

nesting mice beneath the stool,

and tiny tustling, bustling things;

Happy bed stuffed warm with down;

dainty deer on frosty ground,

prancing in the new dawn's

early light;

Happy new year to you all;

I wish you well, and most of all —

Sweet Love deep as forest

in the night.

Love, PLH.

Building Update: I've been framed!

As the leaves have fallen from the trees this autumn the wooden frame of my dwelling has risen into place, much thanks to Bishop's help and expertise.  He's heaved the rafters into place, as well, and now I'm nailing lots of hurricane clips to hold the rafters tight.

Bishop works on a rafter.

"Lightweight", he murmurs, teasingly, when I hammer for only an hour then take a break.  Well, I do have rotator cuffs to think about, and they're feeling a little worn about now.  And for good reason.

"It will take longer than you think."  How many of you have told me that?  "AND it will cost more than you think," you lovingly follow.

Okay.  Okay.  You're RIGHT.  I'm losing my race with ol' man winter, and fast.

It's amazing how much work goes into each aspect of the building.  I've scoured the woods for locust trees for the center support post and deck supports (thanks, Diana, for your locust).  I've hauled lumber and sand and rock, and lugged stones in buckets for the foundation drain (thank so much, Nancy, for your help, and your truck, and for wood).  I've "rubbled" the outside face of the foundation.  This means filling the voids created by the round tires with rubble held in place by dollops of concrete (my idea, to help stabilize the stones), and also by chicken wire tacked onto the tires.  See the photo below for a view of the "rubbled" foundation.  

A "rubbled" tire foundation.

And where do I get the rubble?  The rubble comes from sifting the clay soil that I'll be using for the mud-slip (cob) overlay of the straw bale walls, which means first making the screen to sift the soil.  And there is no magic to sifting soil.  It is done one shovel-full at a time.

Sifting soil.  I'm proud of my sifter!

 An alternative to rubbling the foundation is filling the tire voids with discarded plastic bottles packed into crevices with mud slip or cob, but that requires preparation of lots more cob and, hence, lots more sifting of soil.  Further, cob in contact with the ground develops moisture problems, so I am opting for rubbling my foundation with stone and then creating a rock wall overlay.  I've had the good fortune of beginning the rock wall overlay during a recent warm spell, and I absolutely LOVE the process, the artistry and patience of it.  However, the remainder of the wall may have to wait until a season of reliably warm weather returns.

Rock wall overlay of foundation.

Meanwhile, I may rest awhile, finally, and enjoy — to my surprise — a wondrous change of scene that has occurred; for as the autumn leaves fell, the summertime view of the garden on the sunny slope with birds streaming past gave way to a stunning panorama of misty mountains to the south and east!  What a delight! — a mountain-top view for six months at a time and then the forest garden for the other half of year — all without changing my seat!  As much work as it is to create, I think I'll want to keep this seat for a very long time.