Molting

Post 2
THURSDAY, JANUARY 27, 2013
9 AM

"And now my fur has turned to skin, And I've been quickly ushered in
To a world that, I confess, I do not know..."

This is a bitter exercise. I have stayed closer to the house hoping to be served by the windbreak of wood and siding, the knowledge that a warm room is only yards behind my back. I assume it's well below freezing this morning. My mother and I only rarely reach for the distinction of numbers to tell us exactly our predicament. Occasionally, she will check the weather to see if it will be cold enough for the horses to have their blankets. Most times, we watch the pond and check the faucets at the barn for frozen pipes. Every pump, save the one on the front lawn with its deep buried lines, is holding back its water this morning. I'm sitting behind the house with the barn well behind me, choosing a chair in the shadow of the house rather than being bare in the sun on the open, exposed section of lawn. 

It is a wide stretch of backyard, a foolish name for this expanse of dried grass and margin of trees. Backyard seems like such a suburban distinction, a fenced-in, weed-free enclosure for dogs, plastic swings, and sheds. The only man-made boundary surrounding this wide open part of land is underground, hidden wires to keep our basset hound from following his nose beyond our ability to bring him back. We buried Winston years ago in the trees past the open grass. We imagined he would have brought himself there.

We consider this area the back of the house, but like many, our rear door is our front entrance. The driveway deposits most visitors to the brick walkway that leads along the side of the garage and up to the sliding door into the sunroom. Only true strangers walk up the cement path to the front double doors and the houses's bald face. Back here, there is a lovely crab apple tree splitting the two sections of brick, one leading to the detached carriage house and its apartment, the other to the driveway and side door of the gray blue garage. My mother feeds the birds along these paths, becoming more dedicated to the tossing of seed since two of our best mousers died--Madigan struck by a car last year and Lulu dying of old age just months ago. Just three days ago, I returned home to see three great bucks standing beyond the bricks, interrupted from their forage. I've locked eyes with the deer that roam the property many times and there is always something else in their blackness beyond the fear of prey. They regard me with a curiosity I occasionally recognize in my own eyes. What are you doing here? and What now?

I don't remove my gloves to write, trying to stay protected from the wind that cuts around the house. I have on a shirt, sweater, coat, thick socks, knit boots. I have chosen my fabric walls carefully since I assume being stationary could cause me to freeze. I remember the deer's thick furred throats giving them the necks of body-builders. Their pelage, like a bird's plumage, insulates and identifies them, guards from injury, and conceals them from enemies. This fur naturally protects them from the dropping temperatures while instinct prods them to eat and relocate. Such impulses are often more arbitrary and emotional for me. I have occasionally misjudged the outside temperature and wished for a thicker coat, insulated shoes, gloves. Such regret is never experienced by an animal; their bodies grow what they need as the length of the day dictates, generously and without thanks. There is none of the indecision and conclusion that follows my own processes of dressing for the weather and occasion. What would it be like, I think, to venture outside knowing I was made to be there, just as I am.

I am numbing slowly and cannot bear to write anymore. I check the time, guiltily, and it is passing slowly. I decide to put my notebook and pen down and pull my hands close to my neck, drawing my scarf up over my lips as I often do in winter. I huddle even closer to myself and wait for the sounds and smells that will come with patience. I hear a bird far off in the trees, cheerful even and wonder when they will venture closer to eat. I notice the gentle sway of the bare maple branches far on the edge of the field, peaceful. I see the waves of the yellow grass, their knee high stalks marking the border into the trees, their shaking arms quick like a child's frantic hello. I'm moving less, but am beginning to be filled by an unexplicable warmth, my body more effectively conserving the energy it's producing. I am grateful. I see sunlight spreading beyond the house as the sun continues to rise. I feel a quick urge to leave my seat and endure the wind if only to feel the warmth on my face. I rise and gather what I need to go back where I belong, inside.

Weather-Beaten

Post 1
FRIDAY. JANUARY 18, 2013

4:22 PM

"they would not find me changed from him they knew--
only more sure of all I thought was true." R. Frost

The late sun is lending its last golden impressions of a winter day.  I find a finger of light between the darker stretches of trees due west and the sun shines easily through the bare winter branches. I have visited this pasture before but never for a deliberately stationary time. In the summer we mow here, crisscrossing almost carelessly with the blades since this pasture is far beyond the driveway, the grass needing only to be tamed and not manicured. I don't second guess my choice of this place for my own purposes, but I wonder if I should have focused on a less familiar place. But I think the greatest of discoveries could actually be seeing a familiar place as if for the first time. There are no poppies in this place, no road close enough for concern, but I always loved the long flash of red in the middle of English roads, a stripe made of hundreds of glorious poppies. If I actually slowed then stopped and held one of those delicate blossoms in my hand, would I better appreciate the streak that curved alongside? Stopping long enough to see a familiar sight in a new way will be my way of saying goodbye to this place. By the time this semester finishes, this will no longer be home but a township-owned property, paid for by tax payers and barred from development. I think these recordings will provide more discovery than I realize because after all, I am not the only living thing that cherishes what this place gives me. 

 I touch the ground before I sit down, ruefully removing my gloves because the air is bitter cold. It feels dry,  but can I trust my sense of touch if my hands are nearly numb? I settle carefully on a section of yellow grass.  Later when I walk inside with a cold nose, invigorated, my mother will ask me why the backside of my pants are completely wet. I never realized I was numb.

So grateful for these sun rays, I pay attention to what they shine on. Mostly dead grasses, but that is too broad a conclusion considering how the horses grazing here nip at some more than others. There are some tall stalks still standing, pale yellow and lonely among the shorter, cropped stems of the other grasses. I look closer and see that not all is brown and yellow. Here is a freshly cut crop of green grass, newly bitten. Mando, our halflinger, and Isaiah, our pony, are let out onto this pasture in late morning and beckoned in late afternoon to scrounge for whatever grass is left by the scarring frost and winter lows. They must feel a certain satisfaction with finding a small patch of green grass, holding on even as the days get shorter and shorter. I know that they don't recognize marvel and wonder as I might; whenever I find an early violet or daffodil poking from the dark earth, I feel a deep-seated thankfulness that I couldn't express if I were buried on a couch with curtains closed. I feel honest regret for the days I've spend inside. 

This pasture is one of eight on the property, squares and rectangles of various sizes marking different pens for the horses at different times of the year. I sit facing the house first, more than 200 yards away and south of my current position. Behind me is a line of three rail fences, constructed of serviceable but weather-beaten boards that we fix only when necessary. I am sitting about twenty yards from the post and rail fences; beyond that row are trees, perhaps the largest stretch of continuous woods for a few miles. If I turn to my left, I can see the gray roofs of Holiday Village, the 55+ retirement community nearly circling our property. To my right is another section of fence, a dividing line for another field. It is quiet here. I hear only an occasional bird chirp and the wind in the trees.

interview #1

My pen is leaking, two small bulbs of ink bubbling near the tip. I carefully wipe the excess ink on a small dried leaf next to my hip. I lay out what I have carried to this place and document my supplies. It reminds me of an image for "the burning house," a blog of photos from people who are asked to document what they would save if their homes were burning. It is, as they explain, "an interview condensed into one question." I have been careful about what I brought to this place--more than one pen, instructions, tape, gloves--but perhaps I should also be thoughtful about what I leave behind. I appreciate the ritual of preparation, packing what I need and avoiding excess, if only to limit distractions. Lately, I've realized that many of my distractions come in the form of options. Instead of freeing me to make decisions, options freeze me. While painting my apartment, I would return again and again to the home store and stand in front of the color chips saying that one, that one, that one, overstimulated by choice. I wonder if I sat and reflected more in a single place, I would feel the same anxiety when confronted with excess. 

I watch the sunlight fade. Instead of many outstretched hands, there are only two fingers edging towards me. I could assume these are maple trees or oak restraining the sun but I am learning to resist assumptions. It's too close to judgment the way charm is too similar to lying. I will bring a field guide and learn this land instead of imagining what it might be. I stand and sit again, facing the opposite direction, the nearly set sun to my right, a forest before me. Weathered is actually a kind word for the neglected fence in front of me. With one push, our horses could push down their boundaries but this happens rarely and usually in summer when they cannot reach the grass they crave in another, more lush field. I look up at the tree limbs and it's hard to remember how they appear when flush with summer or autumn colors. Lacking leaves, I can see which limbs are broken and barely holding on.