Day Three: Prioritizing with the Birds

A driving wind today brought in fresh, crisp air. Birdsong abounded. Probably only four or five different species sang, but to my untrained ear it sounded like twenty, as each individual seemed to be singing a unique song.

Upon reaching the base of the tree, noticed a mat of broad, whitish maple leaves from last fall. Wondered how long it will be before I will be capable of identifying a type of tree by eyeing the previous year's fallen leaves. (I decided this year to hold off on starting Kamana 2 until my children are a little older, so I can commit more seriously to it when I do start.) I also noted a sign from my heavy-footed descent last night; my foot had slid in the mud lying under the pine needles, leaving an obvious boot track at the base of my "secret" spot during my poorly executed retreat from the tree. Rushing does not privacy ensure, that's my lesson for yesterday.

Once settled in the tree this evening, I noted that my interest lay primarily in what I could hear and feel, rather than in what I could see. It seems to me that my sit in the dark last night helped to lessen my need to see everything around me. Hearing the birds, my hens in the yard, my environs was enough.

During my nightly meditation on what my senses are picking up, I became aware of my gut. It's come to my attention during two of my three sits so far, and each time it has struck me as being so unneccesary. I am quite fond of my body, as I view it as a great gift in which I get to live this life, and do not tend to fret a little extra flab here or there. But during the brief time that I'm sitting outside each day, the lines between the things that I need and the things that I don't need seem much more straightforward. I discover a deep drive to bring myself into balance with how nature intends my body to live. I stay up too late on a regular basis, and since my daughter's birth four months ago, I have taken to turning to sweet foods when my energy flags during the day in a desperate effort to keep up with my two young children. Hence my gut. My time outside seems to be helping the pieces of my life fall into place. Getting enough sleep feels far more important to me now than just as a means of having energy during the day. I find a deeper calling to make those decisions that will allow my life to work properly, and to identify and let go of those things that drag me down.

Day Two: The Securing of Privacy

Sat in the dark tonight, melting snow dripping quietly from trees around me. Snow remains in most places, obscuring so much of the character of the land. Many stars out, though only Orion and Canis Major visible through the branches of my pine, descending behind me.

Dry, dead twigs of the pine touched my hair as I silently looked around, making faint whisperings as my hair ran over them.

A neighbor walked outside with his dog two houses over as I prepared to return to the house. I determined to climb down from branch to branch only when cars passed, lest he become aware of my presence in the woods. I ended up making quite a racket as I rushed my steps to make good use of each car's roar, surely alerting every creature around to my presence but the person and his dog, who were closer to the road. As I passed over the grass and the snow toward my house, my snowpants continued the noise, and I considered wearing quieter clothing in the future.

Day One: Clumps of Slush

I'm starting my third annual sit spot challenge today. It appears to be turning into an annual rite of spring for me, to which I look forward and for which I'm grateful. My sit spot is on a branch in a grand white pine in my backyard. As I walked out to my sit spot, I was keenly aware that my time outside today, and each day of the sit, is at the mercy of another. We have a new little lass of four months, who might decide at any moment that it's time for me to come in. I was glad for whatever amount of time I would get outside today. Heavy, wet snow fell on our region today, reclaiming the vast areas of bare earth we've been gifted for the past week. Passing over my tracks from earlier today, I spotted green grass in the tracks where the wet snow had clung to my boot and been carried off, exposing the ground beneath. The wet pine needles clung to each other and hung down heavily, like strands of wet hair. I climbed into the tree, ascended the few feet to my sitting branch, wiped off the slush resting on it, and sat down in my snow pants. The first thing that presented itself to me was the slender branch of the young maple whose leafing out progress I had the slow pleasure of watching last year. At present, it holds bare branches up to the sky. Clumps of slush and icy snow plummeted down around me intermittently from the higher branches as the wind blew. One clump landed on the branch just above my face, spraying me suddenly with cool drops across my forehead and eyes. I startled at it, but it was not unpleasant, only surprising, and helped me to understand why my little daughter doesn't always cry at the things that make her jump. The sound of dripping filled the intervals between the crashing of the snow, as did the songs of chickadee, robin, and one I didn't know. The heavy taste of pizza lay on my tongue. My nose began to drip. I felt the heaviness of my legs hanging down, and the slight tingling in my fingertips from the cold. As I walked back to the house, I noted that my tracks from earlier today had been filled in almost entirely from the north side (where the wind originated) with snow, leaving funny tracks, about ½ inch wide and 10 inches long.

Ice

Bath tonight, my movement in the water forcing rings of water outward on the surface, showing me the tsunami in Japan, over and over again. How to comprehend it? Such a tiny bit of the earth swallowed up momentarily, but what universes were consumed in that moment.

Out to the porch for what has become a rare night visit out. Moon hazy above the melting snow, my bare feet crunched the ice of today's leftover rain.

Fire

I am rocking gently in our beloved yardsale rocking chair, a new babe, my daughter, sleeping quietly on my chest.

A dear relative appeared on our doorstep on my son's birthday recently with a woodstove for us, and told us a mason would be by the next day to install it in our fireplace. A most welcome gift, from a deeply generous family member. Since it's arrival, my husband has done most of the firekeeping, as I keep our lass (who spends much of her time on my chest) at a distance from the flames.

This morning, my husband went out very early with our boy, leaving the embers from last night's fire lying under their bed of ashes, rather than stoking and refueling them as he normally does. The babe roused many times during the night, so she and I slept in late, and by the time I checked the woodstove, it did not hold the gorgeous orange bed of glowing embers I'm accustomed to seeing when it's running low (as in the photo above); it was quiet, cool, and entirely gray, no embers peeking up from the ashes. I searched for any living embers toward the back of the stove, knowing they had the greatest chance of surviving the night there, being furthest from the vent on the door and thus least likely to have been fanned and used up during the night. I discovered a few tiny sparks that only lived a minute after being uncovered, and then found several very small embers that gave me hope.

My success at starting fire by friction for the first time this past year has left me with a deep desire to know how to handle fire. How to invite it to appear where it was not, as we do in fire by friction; how to nurture it to awaken from embers using only materials growing in the natural world (without paper). I wish to know fire, and I wish to know it respectfully. I am teaching my son, and will teach my daughter, to thank the fire for coming when it ignites, to thank always the trees who feed the fire and allow it to heat our home. I want to learn to coax it from quiet embers or invite it to emerge from wood on wood, because using these methods allows it to have some say in whether or not it comes. This sort of gentle treatment does not force it to appear, as do the lighters and matches which I have always used until now. The more I have to pay attention and work for fire to come, the more deeply I know and respect it, and the more I appreciate and honor its arrival.

So today, I spent much time and patience with what embers were remaining, trying to bring flame from them. I tried first birch bark, then cattail down to feed them, and blew on the tinder bundle (of sorts) for much longer than I'd expected necessary to rekindle the flames. During this process, these failed attempts and final success, the above reflections emerged and took shape.


A note on my blog: With two children now, I have far less time alone, which has always been my most fertile time for reflecting on my life and my experiences, as well as the easiest time to write, edit, and share my thoughts. However, I want to continue recording and sharing my life through my blog, as I find the time. So in order to do so, I am going to begin sharing writings that I have not edited and pared down as much as I would prefer. The result will be a clunkier, wordier, but more active blog.

Thank you for reading my words, and may you share your experiences in the way that is right (and feasible) for you.

Piece of Heaven

Playing Agricola tonight with my husband and two good friends, the chickens safe in their coop, the babe squirming in my belly, and my boy snuggled cozy in our bed. With the cold just settling in for the season, I cannot ask for more than this.

Making Sense

The crisp leaves on the trees, singing the song of the night wind. The stars in the sky, holding their same places since our long-forgotten ancestors looked up at them. The women in Haiti, trading sex for food to feed their children. My little boy, warm and snug in his bed, calling to me so he can wrap his arms around my neck.

Sometimes I have trouble fitting all the pieces together, finding the sense in this world of ours.