Moore Cove Falls - a Test of Conviction

It has been a long time since I was in the woods long enough to see a ridgeline set on fire by the light of the sun sliding down the sky behind it. The mile-high feeling of exaltation, the utter joy, and the sense of triumph upon seeing that sight were worth more than 100 times the aches and pains my body was processing when I got home.  

It seems like a thousand lifetimes ago before my body was sidelined by health issues, that I spent endless hours in the woods. Hiking, walking, sleeping, sitting in a copse or under a tree by the edge of whatever body of water, meadow, or point of interest caught my attention. Those places were where I felt most connected to the elements, the divine, and to myself, and I lost the kind of access to them that I most needed when my body and I failed each other. 

In the time that I have been at Bear Path Cottage, I found new ways to create and strengthen those connections. Much of that happened because my physical health limited the ways by which I could move. Those limitations forced me to become creative in adapting to new ways of getting things done, invariably lengthening the time my body was in direct connection with whatever physical or spiritual element I was working with. I learned to be more patient with myself and to rest whenever I needed to.  

These many months have brought healing and strength back to my body, and I am slowly working on building endurance. I have also been working on releasing the fear of reinjuring my knees and having to start the whole process all over again. That has been as much, if not more, of a challenge than the physical recovery. 

On the surface, it seems a contradiction that I am responding to the call to adventure into the woods instead of burrowing further into solitude in this season of turning inward. But part of the work I have done these past few years led me to embrace the centuries-old truth as written by the Japanese poet Basho: "...every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home." Home is not just the walls and the roof that give me shelter; home is the point at the center of my being that connects me with the divine. And sometimes, the journey to that point takes me along a meandering path through the woods. 

Over the past few weeks, I've set my weekly adventures with my husband to include walking in forested places that had easy, mostly level paths. It was great just to be moving outdoors, but I knew I wanted and needed more than access to relatively safe spaces. This week's Monday adventure was an intentional acceleration of my path to recovery, though I have to admit Rhodes and I both forgot about the stairs at the beginning of the path to Moore Cove Falls. Or maybe they weren't there before; my last visit to these falls was in 1999 or 2000. 

Not so long ago, the sight of those stairs would have ended the journey. I would have been physically unable to go up them or come back down. And for about half a second on Monday, my mind tried to tell me to turn around; that if I was already meeting this unexpected obstacle, what else was ahead? I knew the decision I made then would be a defining point in my recovery and in my life. So, be quiet, brain, said I. This is a challenge, not an obstacle. And I went on.

Although the trail is officially designated as an easy hike, it was somewhat challenging for a person with mobility issues. But once I was up those stairs, I knew I could do it. I employed the biggest lesson I learned over the course of shaping the gardens at Bear Path Cottage: just take it one step at a time.

The day was beautiful, the weather was pleasant, and the air was fresh and clean. Before long, I stopped thinking about the challenging parts of the path as I was drawn into connections with the elemental energies that surrounded me. Every rest stop was an opportunity to spend time *with* the forest, not just in it. Studying the rock formations, studying the amazing variety of leaves, listening to the wind and the water and the movement of forest creatures  - all of that made the experience that much more complete.

It wasn't easy, and I am deeply appreciative of the support and encouragement my hiking partner provided. One of the best things he did was to go ahead on his own, then wait up for me or wander back to see how I was doing. That probably sounds weird, but it showed me that he recognized my growing confidence, and I love him for that. 

I made it to the falls and lingered there for almost an hour. I spent some of that time talking with Rhodes and watching the falls, and some of it in meditation. I spent all of it in gratitude.

I walked back out in gratitude, and when I saw the sunlight like fire on the ridgeline it felt like a gift from the elementals. My heart and spirit were happy and content. Two days later, the body aches are gone but I'm still carrying those feelings with me. 

Next September I will be making the 5-mile loop hike around Nick's Lake in the Adirondacks. I will be ready. I can do this. 

Chicken Time

Daylight Savings Time doesn't matter much to me these days. I know so many people hate it when we fall back and darkness falls earlier, or spring forward and lose an hour of sleep, but Rhodes and I are both retired, and most of our days don't run by the standards of time as most people see it. I've talked about this enough times that most people who know me probably get the basics: we sleep, eat, work, and play on our own schedules. 

There is, however, one major exception to that: my father-in-law lives with us, and we have dinner together every night. He prefers to have dinner between 6 and 7:00 p.m., so dinner prep and dinner time revolve around that schedule. We don't always make it, but we try. 

At certain times of the year the conflict with that schedule doesn't come from any human source, but from the 11 feathered bodies in the backyard. 

I have kept chickens for about a year and a half now, and one thing that hasn't changed in that time is my concern for losing birds to predators. Our chickens are part of our Cottage family, and I hate the thought of them dying in some terrible, frightening manner, so their "free-range" time is more of a "supervised-range" time. Through trial and error, I have figured out that they are happiest when they range right before they go in for the night. 

Every evening, 60 to 90 minutes or so before sunset, Rhodes or I go sit in the yard with the chickens while they roam around eating green plants, hunting bugs, and playing chicken games. I use that time to read, talk with friends, do barn chores, meditate, write, or just be in the swing, watching as the light changes and darkness moves in.  

With daylight savings time having rolled in, this means that I am out the door no later than 4:30 for chicken time, and when it comes to chickens it isn't a human time construct issue but an actual sunset issue. The chickens have their own circadian rhythm that sends them looking for their shelter a little before the sun sets, and our automatic coop door works on the basis of available light and has been closing at around 5:40 p.m. 

For some reason going outside "earlier" makes it seem easier to have dinner prepared on the nights it is my turn to cook, and with the cooler weather, I sometimes use chicken time for looking up make-ahead casseroles that Rhodes can just pop into the oven while I am out with the birds. 

Dinner conflicts, cooking, adjusting schedules, and all else aside, no matter what time of year it is, that time outside every evening is always a best part of my days. There isn't any rushing it; even with the automatic door, I still have to make sure that they have all gone into the coop. Sometimes cloudy days or rain can mess with the birds' sense of timing. Recently I came home from running errands and went to check on them within half an hour of the sun having set. It was a rainy day, and I found most of the chickens huddled and miserable on the steps by the closed door. They were sitting ducks for any predator that might have wandered by. 

Sometimes they are all in 10 or 15 minutes before the door closes; other times the last one squeaks in just before I hear the beeping alarm and the metal door slides down. Both of the Smokey Pearl chickens, French Broad and Miss Frizz, are unimpressed by stories of the monsters that wait for them in the dark and frequently push their luck by going in at the last possible second. 

Bottom line, chicken time is my outdoors, fresh air, slow down and breathe point in almost every day, and I am grateful to have it. 

I have also learned that having a light on inside the coop when dusk starts to fall encourages my chickens to move into the coop and helps them get settled. I often feel that way about going inside, too. 

The light in the window draws me every time, and most nights when I come in and step into the hallway and see the light coming from the kitchen and smell homecooked food my spirits are lifted even more. 

Witchtober Ending

 The last Friday of my month-long celebration of Witchtober came dressed in full-blown mountain autumn splendor. I traveled into the west that morning, to the land where the breath of slumbering dragons rises to meet the clouds, and the fiery colors of autumn burn even brighter, swaddled in gray and white mist. 

I chose that day for a last traveling adventure for the month, and my partner reminded me about the statue of Harriet Tubman that is on display at Bridge Park in Sylva, NC, until mid-December. Two days before Samhain was a perfect time to go and pay tribute to one of our country's great Gone Befores. 

The "Harriet Tubman - Journey to Freedom" sculpture was created by Cashiers, NC artist Wesley Wofford. (https://www.woffordsculpturestudio.com) The 9-foot tall, 2,400-pound work of art has a presence simply because of its size, but the power of this work goes far beyond that. There is movement and strength in even the tiniest detail, and I could not resist the compulsion to look at every one of those details. Rhodes and I lingered for more than an hour in the chill air and light rain, viewing this sculpture from different angles, sitting with it, and talking about the statue, history and current affairs, and about the great work of Harriet Tubman. 

Of course, this piece is timely in so many ways, a bold and beautiful reminder of the significant shifts happening within our society as the patriarchy tumbles all around us. And I will admit that it amuses me to see this placed in a park that is located near the setting of a controversial statue that honors the "heroes of the Confederacy." 

If you are within traveling distance to Sylva, I encourage you to make time to go and see this incredible work of art and to honor the remarkable woman who inspired it. 

When we left Bridge Park, we decided to make the journey home a meandering adventure. We were in search of pumpkins and apples, and the beauty of the landscape had hold of our hearts and minds. We drove on winding back roads through areas that were a mix of orchards, cornfields, small housing developments, and pasture. We marveled at one beautifully kept farm and then realized it was the NC State Mountain Research Station.

In our wanderings, we found a little out-of-the-way store that was a cross between a farmstand and an Amish store. I was wowed by how many local products they carried: Hickory Nut Gap Farms, Joey's bagels, a dozen other names I can't remember right now, plus tons of local produce and dairy products. We left with good ingredients for a couple of home-cooked meals, and we found our pumpkins. 

The whole month of October was full of wonderful, witchy things. I'm actually sorry to see it end this year.