Rest

One of the first things to come out of the shed in the spring is a chair.

Lovely to sit and survey the landscape, watch the birds, and listen to the river. Observing quietly.

 

Whimsical, functional, sentimental

 

They help me punctuate my work day - providing a comma, a pause, where I can take a breath, stop, and plan the next steps. Or just have lunch.
 

Vernal Pools

The evening is warm enough to open the car window. I'm eager to hear, leaning into the sounds I long for that harbor spring's unfolding. The peepers are at it - those sleigh bell tinklings in the night.
Puddles and pools created at soggy edges of fields, fed by melting snow and rivers moving out of their banks, are breeding grounds for wood frogs and salamanders. These vernal pools are ephemeral and transient. The tasks of mating, egg laying, and metamorphosis into tadpoles and froglets occur here where the threat of predation is lower but the risk of the pools drying too soon is  high. 

Messages for me - I can overthink my life, not take an action, the moments disappear. You snooze, you lose. Enjoy and savor.

Keeping Your Head Above Water

Living by a river in springtime is a challenge.  Snowmelt, warming temperatures, and rain contribute to the river’s swollen rise. Looking out the windows and opening the basement door to see how many stairs are covered occupy me. While talking on the phone to a friend, I watched a tree with a giant root ball bounding through the turbulence and just barely pass under the bridge. I feel anxious, worried, edgy, fearful.

So what can I practice to lessen the unease?

Breathe – deep breaths in, long breaths out. I, like the river, have rhythms and it’s best to focus on my own.

Accept the things I cannot change. No way can I keep the river from doing its thing.

Appreciate the benefits – nourished soils, easier time for the steelhead trout to jump the falls.

Go with the flow rather than aimlessly moving or being swept along

Stay afloat, buoyed by positive activities and friends

Sugaring

The roads leading from the village soften into muddy ruts.  The dog’s belly sponges up gravel as we walk. In the river, chunks of ice crash into each other on their journey downstream, spinning and twisting, like glistening bumper cars.

Roger’s place is shuttered, the tractor still, the road to the sugarhouse muddy and wet. One needs a pair of secured waders to cross that divide.

Jeff’s dog barks as we pass. He hustles out of the sugarhouse to quiet him and waves. Steam rises from the roof opening indicating that boiling is happening.

 

A gallon of maple syrup is the result of boiling 40 gallons of sap until it becomes the thick and amber colored. The practice has changed from galvanized buckets to plastic pipelines and evaporator pans fueled by wood slabs to high tech reverse osmosis processes.

For me, sugaring is redemption -  from a long cold winter, hunkering down, shoulder to the grindstone to expansion, hope, and opening of the heart.  I love the feel of the steam on my face, the smell of the mud, the sun’s warmth on my back, the trickling of the snowmelt along the roadside.

Sugaring Party at my grandparents'. My mother is in 2nd row with plaid coat.

The rituals of gathering and boiling and of coming together for sugar-on-snow parties, complete with raised doughnuts and tart pickles, underscore transition and hope for new life.

We’ll be gardening soon.

Winter's Hold

Two feet of snow predicted. Suffering from a cold and sore throat and the thought that winter has been too long with us, I watched the snow swirl against the house, drifting white dunes.

This morning after shoveling 20 inches of deep snow covering the walkways , snowshoeing paths to the birdfeeders and compost bin, and rescheduling appointments, I made a pot of soup.

Hanging In The Balance

Noticing the leaves falling.
Transitioning in the journey. Living, then dying.
Composting. Enriching the soil.
The place between breathing in and breathing out. The gap.
Stillness. The the sound of letting go and falling.
A slight swish.
Fragile.
Precarious.
Fleeting.

Reflections on Mom and the Right to Dry

My sister and I often comment about our mother's lessons she taught 6 children. One I thought of today, while the sky was sunny and the wind light but constant, was how to hang clothes on the line. While growing up, we had an aluminum 4-sided one, maybe collapsible contraption. I don't remember for sure because it was always up.  For awhile, we attended Catholic school - wearing white shirts before permanent press, handkerchiefs, navy blue pants or jumpers. I think I remember one of the winter chores was to shovel a path clear of snow to the line, the resulting stiff boards of hung clothing is another story... I digress.
Starting on the inside, one hung the more intimate garments - underwear and socks. I think the idea was to not offend your neighbors with those intimate items flapping in their faces. Moving outwards from the center, you hung groups of clothing - all the shirts, upside down, all the jeans and pants. It would look better if the display went from the smallest sizes to the larger. Then came the facecloths, hand towels and bath towels. Another method was to differentiate between the colors and the whites. I remember my mother, clothes pulled out of the washer and organized on her arm, with a handful of clothespins, tacking up load after load onto the clothesline. The result was an organized, ordered, and appealing reflection of domestic work. Household folk art.
So today, I think of Mom as I hang clothes - the smaller short-sleeved shirts, then the long sleeved ones, the towel, and the sheets. The lingerie is hung on an old rack in the laundry room though, out of site of the neighborhood.
So I walked around the neighborhood today seeing what was drying.

A woman I chatted with said she remembers her mother re-doing her clothespins because she hadn't quite gotten it right. (I've done that with John!)












The Right to Dry is a grassroots movement advocating for people in communities to be able to dry their clothes outside to save energy and money. Some communities and home owner associations prohibit outside drying.

Legislation in Vermont allows Line drying.