This is How the World Goes Round

This is How the World Goes Round 

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But the swallows are flying over the water
and I needed to see the way their wings flutter,
the way their bodies shudder and stutter
until the moment they dive and become pure grace.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a fish broke the surface near the edge of the lake
and the ripples are spreading,
changing the world without making a sound
and I needed to see the new pattern so I can find my way.

I didn’t want to walk this morning.
But a blue heron is flying overhead,
great wings stretched wide, great legs dangling behind,
going from one place to another without telling anyone where or why
and I wanted to wish him an excellent journey.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but the river is rushing along next to the path,
gems glistening and glimmering on her gown.
She’s singing a ballad, still drunk and happy from last night’s rain,
and I wanted to hear the story in her song.

I didn’t want to walk this morning,
but there woven between tall stalks of lambs quarter
a spiderweb shimmers in the sun,
here one moment and gone the next
and I must learn that ancient magic.

There’s a black snake slithering among the rocks
on the edge of the path, body twisting and curving as it moves.
The red-winged blackbirds are falling from the sky,
darting to the ground, trilling their songs.
Geese and ducks sail, turtles amble along,
and this is how the world goes round.

I didn’t want to walk this morning
but the bees are in the lavender, buzzing and humming
in ways that I am certain weave all of creation together
and I simply have to know their secrets. 

(c) Sheri Barker
June 2023 

 

 

 

The Untrimmable Light of the World

Spring is busy going through her wardrobe, pulling garments out of the cedar-lined closets built by a bored neophyte godling who was a carpenter in another life. She looks at each piece and laughs or sighs, delighted and wooed by the richness of texture and color. 

"So much green. There is so much green," she says. "I love every bit of it!"

She tosses a light shawl on the branches of a tall oak tree, then drapes a dress across the top of a willow. Another for the elderberry and the roses. This ecstasy of viridity goes on through multiple turnings of the earth, and in between exploring shades of green, she rummages through drawers full of color. A patterned yellow, orange, and white scarf flutters over the top of the daffodil greens, and a pair of purple gloves call the creeping phlox into being. 

She pauses over her ancient jewelry box, running her fingers over the carvings. It is worn with age, and she reads the runes by touch rather than by sight. The godling peeks over her shoulder as she lifts the lid and nearly swoons himself right out of his feigned boredom. Such richness of color and power that so quickly now become hyacinth, crocus, snowdrop, and speedwell; the fresh green of buds on sweet cherry, the earthy tones that color the eggs of every creature that lays. The red gemstones on the wings of the red-winged blackbirds, sapphire jays, carnelian cardinals, and tawny gold Carolina wren. 

This is the tale of springtime's spiraling arrival at Bear Path Cottage, as seen through the eyes of the resident witch. 56 years ago, I came into this world with this garden in my heart, and the runners have been spreading and bulbs have been multiplying for all this time. With every growing season I spend with this land, the richness of the garden increases. This is what I was born for. 

My days are filled with reminders of patience and sudden blooms of joy. Reading the words of kindred spirits like Mary Oliver is part of that joy and also part of the root system that inhabits my being.  

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these —

the untrimmable light

of the world,

This is one of the rewards of being mindful, slowing down, and looking and listening. For seeing the untrimmable light of the world. I am part of a world filled with magic and wonder, and for that, I am grateful.

Peace. 

Mindful by Mary Oliver
Everyday

I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these —
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Soul Journey

I spent much of last fall and this winter in a state of existence moving between hibernation, torpor, and wakefulness, and I have had very little contact with the world beyond my own. An exception to my inward focus has been my participation in a weekly writing group, and that gathering always nourishes my spirit.  

The topic of this series has been Soul Journey, and tonight's subject was about the moment one says yes to their soul's particular journey. I have been thinking about this for quite some time, as my life has shifted significantly over the past 13 months, and I am often in awe of the changes. 

No one moment, no round-headed pin on the map, no single enlightened conversation brought me to the point of commitment to the road I am traveling. I have walked so far, through so many different landscapes, dark beneath the weeping willows, bright atop the mountains, but it has only ever been a journey made by moving one step at a time.

Distance and time have no real meaning to me anymore. Years of struggle, years of therapy, years of work. Tears of pain. Sometimes I would bargain with my demons and myself to get through a day or a mile or the longest nights. Just get through this meeting. Just get through this day. Just walk to the next bench, then the next one. Just swim this lap. Run this water mile. Ten more steps. Ten more minutes. Five. Just make it five minutes without leaving this place, and then you can think about it again if you need to.

I say yes to this journey every morning that I wake and then a thousand times a day, and I do so gladly and joyfully. Every time I get out of bed, every food and water dish I fill, everything I plant and plan, everything I harvest, every bee I talk to, bear I observe, coyote that sings me to sleep. “Mother, keep me mindful…Give me your work, which is to be joyous and to tend all things because all things live of themselves and with your spirit. Your will through mine, So mote it be.”

The conversations with myself, my spirit, my heart, and my brain have changed now. I have no more thoughts of leaving because I am already gone from where it matters most. Where it now matters least. 

Now, the most adorable love cats in the world to talk with. Now, the wild pup who is my homestead work partner. Now, the chickens with their nonsense and demands. Now, the land spirits with their whimsical humor. Now, the divine who never left me, even when I blinded myself to her presence. Now, the life partner whose own fractures never keep him from being the rock I can lean against when I have need.

Now, I am home. 

The Snow Princess

Sorrow crossed my path today. After a moment's hesitation, I greeted it as I do most old friends, with a gentle welcome and an offer to sit together for a while. I have never found a way to avoid it, anyway. No, holding compassion for sorrow seems to be the ticket, methinks. Besides, I cannot imagine carrying all that it carries without some kindness and a cup of tea.

During our time together, something reminded me of the way a beech tree holds its leaves through the winter. That reminded me of this tree I used to know and a poem I wrote in 2019. 

I am weary from our visit, but content. And so I will spend the rest of this evening with ghosts, candles, magic, and memories. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE SNOW PRINCESS

Golden-brown beech leaves
Shiver and shimmer on their branches.
Do not make the mistake of believing 
that it is fear that causes them to tremble.
They are simply wise enough to turn
with the cold wind as it blows through.
Not wasting energy fighting the current,
but moving with the strength of a swordmaster or a dancer,
waiting for just the right moment. 
Waiting for peace to return.

One breaks from the branch and
float-dances in the air right up to my window.
Tap. Skitter. Tap tap tap as it twists and spins along the glass
then drifts softly to rest on the frosty earth.
A ghostly reminder of how to let go,
Of how to say hello,
Of how to say I will always be here
Even though my form will change.

s. barker
January 2019

                                                                 

Holding On

Holding On 

Mother, give me pockets
deep enough to hold fear and grief
so my hands are free for living when
death comes like a thief in the night
to carry away pieces of my heart.

Sometimes it leaves clever forgeries
with a spark of soul or a breath of feeling.
The synthetic diamond, the depthless sculpture,
the falseness that sends my spirit reeling
until memories become jaded
and all the worlds collide.

Please help me to remember that your body
and mine are one and the same;
that as you now hold their bones
I will hold them, whole, once again
in other worlds and times and places
with the gentle strength of stone.

Mother keep me mindful…
the first line of my daily prayer
cast upon the ley lines
between earth and water, fire and air.
A breadcrumb trail, a marker
that helps me find my way between
life and death and life once more.

Sunday - Dreams of Forgiveness

I’m back to starting my day at my desk, writing in my journal. It feels good to be back in this rhythm. (Thanks, Hank.)

When I woke this morning I came out of a dream that I am sad to have lost the beautiful details of, but which had me in a place where giving grace and kindness and forgiveness mattered so much that my mind stayed in that space the few moments I was still abed. I hope it stays there for a while longer.

Mary has been busy crowing the sun up the sky, and out this south-facing window I can see the fruit of his work as the sky gets brighter and brighter. The corvine crows have gone by several times on their early morning missions, cawing and calling. Perhaps encouraging Mary, perhaps encouraging the sun. Perhaps doing their own crow things and not paying attention to the rest of us.

That “us” - my mind spoke it with the someplaces British pronunciation. Uz. Welcome to the weirdness of my brain.

Currently 22 degrees here, feels like 15. Currently extremely grateful that we built the barn and coop last year, and that I have the physical ability to haul warm water to the chickens. Hail, chickens, givers of eggs and fluffy butt happiness.

By the by, after the last cold snap all of our girls are now laying their eggs inside the old roosting box instead of on the floor. I hope that practice continues, but one never knows with chickens.

And also by the by, Mojo spent about an hour hanging with us and playing in the living room proper last night whilst Hank was passed out on the couch. Cottage normal seems to be on the horizon.

I’m holding hope for a quiet day here. Maybe some chores. Maybe some kitchen witching. Definitely some writing.

What’s going on with you?

Peace out, peeps. Be easy if you can.

p.s.: Double-decker cats for cat and Cottage tax.

#bearpathcottage

#mojo

#chickentales

#onthebearpath

Memories of My Grandmother

Leaning into the strength and resilience of my ancestors. 

Mae Augusta Curtis Barker - my Gramma Barker. Today would have been her 106th birthday.

Gram was not an easy woman to understand, but I will always wish that I had spent more time with her and that I had never known things that children need not know.

During my early childhood she lived right around the corner from us on East Walnut Street. She had grand skills with needle and thread, as well as with crochet and knitting needles. I wish she had been inclined to teach me. One of my earliest memories is of my little towheaded self clutching my precious dog, Spot, and running as fast as I could to her house so she could stitch up his ear to keep the bell from falling out. She made slippers and mittens and the many squared afghan that was kept on our couch.

She was the Christmas morning tree guardian, and the story teller when I walked with her to church or the beauty parlor or the grocery store. She was Lipton cup of soup in Tupperware mugs, Bachman's cheese popcorn, jam and butter sandwiches, and TV dinners on trays while we watched old movies. . "For goodness sake, Sheri Ann, stop fidgeting. Every time you move the reflection catches in my glasses." 

She was handmade lace doilies on her furniture and pretty pins on her sweaters. She was hospital corners, chocolate oatmeal, and washing your face before going to bed. 

As a child she roller skated on slate sidewalks in the same neighborhood in which I grew up, and on one Sunday morning walk to church she told me about her skates and the key that helped to fit them and that she wore that key around her neck on a ribbon. It was hard to imagine her so. Gram was the only adult I knew who understood that the old stone gate markers that stood in various places around the block bordered by Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets were magical. 

She was a shared stick of Wrigley's juicy fruit or spearmint gum in the pew at the Methodist church, coffee hour after service, and helping with a church dinner. She was the most magical winter evening walk to the most magical church bazaar, and the giver of the little crochet dolly that I still love. 

She was the stern and disapproving look that could break a heart.

She was the keeper of mysterious things that belonged to the half-sister I adored, and bazillions of salt and pepper shakers and the red cabinet that was a joy to have in my own home. She was butter mints in a crystal dish and a box of saltwater taffy tucked away in a drawer.

I remember just once that she held me, during a time when I was terribly ill. Her hands were kind and strong as she held a cool compress to my forehead.

My grandfather died young, two years before I was born. She surprised me by telling me stories of frequently seeing and hearing his ghost in their house in Durhamville. I once asked her why she never remarried. She answered, "Because there is no one like him." 

I don't think she ever realized that there was no one like her, either. 

That which is honored and remembered, lives. Happy Birthday, Gram. I love you.

Raymond C. and Mae A. Barker

Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks

Mae with her sons, Ray Jr., Donald, and David

The Shine

A couple of weeks ago I was writing an article about witches and pagans and turning inward during the dark part of the year. That gave me pause to think back over this year and in doing so I realized that I actually started that turning inward process round about July, and this year I have gone further inward and traveled farther to Other places than I have ever done before. 

This was not a deliberate attempt to disengage; my actions were instinctive and the journey itself was the only destination. Disengaged just happened to be one of the places I landed. 

The pause to think also led me down a thought road to the conclusion that the depth of my journey and the degree of disengagement both helped me make it through a time of year that is often extremely difficult for me. I hope this awareness does not change the process as I move into January's emotional storms. 

I have talked publicly and honestly about a lot of heavy emotional, mental, and spiritual stuff since 2011 when I first shared my thoughts about my youngest daughter's struggle with mental health and addiction. At first I wrote because I needed to get it all out of my head, and then because I hoped it might help someone else if they could see that there were not alone. The issues are different now, but I still write for both those reasons. 

I think it is important to be honest and real about the way grief, depression, and anxiety sometimes knock me down, and just as real about the fact that I always get back up. Always. I want everyone else who is struggling to know that it is possible to do that. I want people to know that it is normal to have a less than Hallmark holiday perfect life, that it is normal to talk about it, and normal to ask for help carrying the stuff that gets too heavy. That is it normal and real to enjoy a moment or an afternoon or a day and then have some random word or song or thought send you hurtling into the brick wall of an anxiety attack, then find your way back to good space. 

Life is like that sometimes. PTSD is like that sometimes. Grief is like that sometimes. Even love is like that sometimes. 

I watched my father drown himself in depression-fueled grief over his misguided and anxiety driven perceptions of every mistake he ever made in his life. I sometimes take similar nose-dives, especially related to my parenting failures and mistakes. But a huge difference between me and my dad is that I have learned how to do the work to get out of those riptides and he never did or never could. I will always believe that inability to heal is what killed him. 

Shadow work is not a walk in the park, but it is an important part of the process of deep healing. I am grateful for those who showed me that it is possible, and for those who help me along the way. I am doubly grateful for whatever or whoever it was that brought me into this world with a spirit that was never afraid to search for answers, knowledge, and magic.

These days I share a lot about the happy aspects of my life; Rhodes in his many forms of being, my kittens, my gardens, my spiritual path. Even though there are days I don't want to get out of bed, days when anxiety holds court, days when I cannot stop crying, I always look for the better, brighter side. I won't ever deny that the dark side exists, but I don't ever let it beat me, either.  

Part of defeating the darker aspects in any persons life and of this world is keeping them out in the open and shining light on them. When I ask folks to "rise on up and put your shine on" I am asking them to be a part of the light that helps keep darkness at bay or at least shows it for what it really is. 

That doesn't take a falsely manufactured megawatt smile, or a bubbly, gushing personality. It just takes being. 

Even the softest light pushes back the darkness. 

Peace out.

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. 

Birthday On the Bear Path

Two days ago, as has become my tradition, I started the celebration of my actual day of birth where we all begin life - in a space between the here and there, between the now and then, between the beginning and the end. Not by design, but in answer to a gentle invitation, I kept one foot in that space and the other in this one from the early hours of the 16th until I watched the first blush of color rise in the sky this morning. That experience was a neatly wrapped gift from the divine.

As midnight fell into my birthday I was sitting in the front garden, light-bathing under the waxing gibbous moon. Flowers in sunlight are a beautiful thing; flowers in moonlight are a whole different world, and after completing a deep meditation I lingered outside, conversing with the Moon and the flowers about my birthday, about Autumn, and about many other things.

15 minutes or so after I came back into the Cottage, mama bear and her cubs came strolling up through the tiny orchard. Watching the video, the first thing you can see is her shadow cast onto the embankment by the headlights of an approaching car. Then there is the floating eye-shine parade, as she moves along with the cubs coming behind her. She was actually well ahead of them, and as she reached the edge of the driveway turned twice to make sure the car wasn't a threat to her cubs.

Seeing these bears well and healthy, chubbifying their way towards the winter months, was a grand present. Being able to witness their journey always brings me a great deal of joy. As I've spent the last two days walking in between worlds I had a lot of time and a good many reasons to muse about bears and why I care so much about them, and about the whys and hows of all the things I wish for and wish not.

That lead to a great deal more thinking about how walking the Crow Road merged with being On the Bear Path; how living with grief is moving towards living from a place of healing. I hope to share more about that soon. The grief I carry is never going to be a gone thing; it is never going to go away or get better. But it does not hold me in a place of stasis or stagnation; in fact, it frequently brings change and growth and continued healing, and I am learning how to give grace and compassion to myself when I have need of such things. I am embracing this new year of my life with courage and hope, and looking forward to strengthening foundations and empowering transformations as I continue my journey On the Bear Path.

Slip Slidin' Away

 I'm somewhat adrift these days, but not in a bad way. I don't know what other folks think of it, but this song by Paul Simon has always been, to me, an anthem of hope and belief in myself. 

I'm reclining in an existential unicorn tube on a spiritual lazy river, wearing cut-off jean shorts, a tank top, and my favorite sunglass. I smell of that coconut-scented sunscreen I used in my teenage years. My fingertips are trailing in the water as I drift along. Occasionally I bump into something or someone and stop for a few moments, and I enjoy the contact, but I know I'm going to keep moving towards where I'm supposed to be. 

It may not seem like it to anyone watching, but I finally know where I'm going, and this is the right path to get me there. 

Peace out. 

https://youtu.be/iUODdPpnxcA

"Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man
We work our jobs
Collect our pay
Believe we're gliding down the highway
When in fact we're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away
Mmm"

February Romance

 When trying to build or assemble or design something, I never had trouble stepping back if I hit a wall and started to feel frustrated. I'd go for a walk or sit down with a cup of tea and a good book; basically, I would hit the pause button and give my mind time to untangle the problem and find a new approach.

After my knee surgeries, I took that skill to the next level and became a goddess supreme at working out ways to accomplish whatever I wanted to get done. I even learned to accept help, although I admit I will never be comfortable with that. Two of the most important pieces of that adaptation were developing deeper patience with myself and acknowledging and accepting that it is okay to stop and rest when rest is needed.

Despite all of that, it took this long winter for me to figure out that I could address my creative walls and limitations in the same way. Who knew? I have long held the practice of letting Love elder Ego when dealing with other people, but it was no easy task to apply that principle to myself.

I've been writing for nearly 50 years. This winter, I renewed my love of the process and my love of language. I'm feeling pretty darn happy about that.

Here Comes the Sun - a Celebration of Science and Nature

This memory from December 2019 has been on my mind for the last few days. I know the extra challenges that isolation amidst the pandemic and other social issues are adding to my life this year. I can't help but wonder how many people are struggling to connect with something, anything, any piece of hope or happiness they can find. 

I originally shared this story to highlight how simple it can be to let someone else feel like they matter. A year later, when so many are walking a tight-rope, I am sharing it again for that same reason, and perhaps as a reminder that there is at least one seasonal option for a celebration that has nothing to do with faith or religion. 

December 2019

I stopped at a chain pharmacy store to pick up a few things tonight. I usually avoid new to me places, but I’ve driven by this one 13,000 times since we moved, there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, and I needed two specific items and some chocolate. Don’t judge.

I was browsing the holiday stuff aisle, amazed at how much crap we consume in the name of giving, when a voice said, “Can I help you find something?”

I looked up and almost walked out of the store when I saw the female clerk standing there. She was one of the far too many women who look like my Beth did towards the end of her life. Sometimes seeing those shades of my daughter is a total system shock, much like going into cold water for a swim.

I paused to catch my breath, then answered, "No, thank you, I’m just looking."

She said something about holiday shopping that I couldn't quite hear, and then she quickly walked away.

When I was ready to check out, that clerk was at the counter. I was determined not to even look at or chat with her, but you know I can't do that. I cannot treat people as if they are invisible. Once again, she said something about the holidays and then said, “Not everybody wants to celebrate them. Not everyone can.”

I responded with something like, you know it’s okay if you don’t. Somehow, that removed the wall between us, and while I was standing there at the checkout, she poured her heart out.

She isn’t a Christian and doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her daughter is 18 this year, and they won’t ever do Christmas again. It’s too hard, just too painful, and it costs too much, and, and, and.

And.

I just listened as she talked. She obviously needed to vent, and why not let her? Why not hold space for and share space with someone else’s daughter? The last thing she said in her recitation of pain and unhappiness was that she likes some of the pretty decorations, but there isn’t anything for her to celebrate.

I said, "Well, you know, the Sun is coming back. I think that’s worth celebrating."

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

I offered her a brief explanation of the Winter Solstice and Yule, that the days will be getting longer again, and that it’s just science and a love of sunshine and warmer days. No belief system is necessary.

She was silent while she finished ringing up my purchases. After I paid and she handed me the receipt, she smiled at me and said, “I think my daughter would like that idea. I’m going to see if she’ll help me look it up.”

Then she smiled an even bigger smile and wished me happy holidays.

Of course, she has no idea that I’ve seen that smile before. Of course, she has no idea that she brought a bit of unexpected brightness to my day, to replace the unexpected sadness.

I hope I brought the same to hers. 

Please choose kindness when you are able. Be the Sun.

And oh - Sing this with feeling. 

https://youtu.be/KQetemT1sWc

In Liminal Space

In the early morning darkness, I ease out of the world of dreams and into this here and now. Lately, I have slept deeply but without gaining rest. Sometimes I wake uncertain of where I am or whether I am actually awake. I wonder if the places to which I travel in my sleep are the real world. If so, then this assumed reality is not reality at all but is, instead, a dream.

My Gone Befores appear in my dreams more often than ever before. This world is in turmoil, and some of them seem unsettled by that. Some wish to comfort and give guidance. Others remember every version of the warriors they have been down through the long ages. Even now, they are ready for a fight.

I have spent many years walking between the worlds, and for the first time, I am no longer sure of the boundaries. Are they blurring everywhere and for everyone, or is extreme fatigue dulling my perceptions of space and time? Perhaps current events are so emotionally and relentlessly exhausting that I sleep hard like a sun-tired child. Maybe these in-between spaces exist only in my head.

These are my thoughts as I get dressed and then step out the back door. This is heady stuff for so early in the day.

The fog is hanging low and heavy, and the trees at the edge of the yard are nothing but shadow figures. The moment I acknowledge the shadow figures, a chill runs up my spine. I don't even give it time to run back down before I distract myself by thinking random thoughts about fog. There is weather lore that claims that there will be a snowfall in winter for each morning fog in August. In many an August past, I told myself I would keep track of fog days and snowfalls. This year, I have taken up the task. On the first morning in August, I wrote a heading on an index card: August Fog/Winter Snow, and taped it onto my desk. Every morning I made the tick marks; there are 22 in all. I am now prepared to see what winter brings.

I tend to the chickens, then walk to the south yard so I can trim back the gone-too-wild tomato plants. The fog clears for a moment, revealing the mountain ridge to the south. Low-lying clouds shroud its peaks. I am caught in a moment where another world beckons to the adventurer within me, and oh, how she longs to travel. I appease her with promises of a trip to the orchards to the south later in the fall.

The clear spot in the fog and the mountains beyond it vanish, and I am back in the mist enveloped world of the garden. After taking a deep breath, I turn to look at the tomato vines, reminiscent of scenes from the original Jumanji. Now that was very definitely a between-the-worlds space.

Moving to the far side of the raised bed, I settle into work on untangling the vines. Eyes and fingers follow the lengths of green vine until it becomes a meditative process. I pause to remove a bug or pick a ripe tomato, then move back into the meditation. Organizing, clearing out, and supporting are the dominant themes of the work. Breathe in. Breathe out. The garden is still wrapped in a light mist, with bits of morning color and birdsong all around.

The rumble of thunder sounds in the distant west. Should I head into the house to beat the rain? I start to gather the pruners, my knife, and the garden twine to put them back into my mom's dark brown basket. She purchased it years ago from one of those at-home parties and was so proud of it. She filled it with a spray of purple flowers and kept it next to a shelf filled with special treasures. I know it made her smile. Would she smile now to know that I use her basket every day? I close my eyes and call up her image, here among the tomatoes and marigolds.

How little effort it takes to move between those two worlds - hers and mine. The simple basket at my feet becomes a magical object because of the memories associated with it. I smile, remembering her smile and her love of her garden. I decide to stay and keep working, regardless of the rain.

Once again, I trace a green line back to its point of origin. Yes, this one can go. No, this one must stay. Snip. Snip. Drop the worm into the pan for the chickens. Trace another green line. Pause to talk to the sparrow and the wren, pause to seek out the form of Crow high in the tall white pine. He certainly has a great deal to say. Crow is another linking point between the worlds; I have been walking the Crow Road since before my Beth died. It seems I always will be, now that I am aware of its existence.

I had thought the road would end. That I would reach some destination after her death as I worked my way through the grief and trauma. But this is the road I am on now, even while I am living a vibrant life. Not one foot there and one here, but moving back and forth and between, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory, sometimes in reality. Crow has added layer upon layer of depth to my understanding of walking between the worlds and being in liminal space.

The rain begins. Coming first as a heavy, moving mist, but then the drops fall on me. I turn my face to the sky. The water washes over me. I close my eyes. I don't want to be aware of anything but the feeling of that water on my skin. I wonder if I will be in a different place when I open my eyes. Beth might be there with me, in the place where she is whole and healthy and always glad to see me. I hold my breath, and that moment of hope for a moment. I open my eyes. She is not. And I am not. I am in the Here and Now.

The rain keeps falling. I go back to the work that is simply work now. Good work. Healing work. The rain is warm and sweet, and its touch on my skin is gentle. I am content.

A Glimpse of the Magic at Bear Path Cottage

Time spent out of doors yesterday was a gift from the first mist-filled moment of the day. The slightly cooler temperature and the quality of light were a taste of early Autumn. My body and spirit welcomed the change and the promise of days to come. 

In the early afternoon, I took my flower basket and went to the front gardens to tend to the patch of orange and yellow calendula. I sat on the ground in the curve at the southern edge of the garden, deadheading blooms that had gotten past me, harvesting the good ones. The spicy-sweet scent of the blooms filled the air. My fingers became sticky from the resin in the green bracts of the calendula flowers. The sun was warm on my back and a pleasant breeze was blowing through. I was content. 

Then I heard my husband call my name. I was so immersed in my work I hadn't noticed him approach the nearby garden arch.

"Sheri," he said in the quiet voice that he uses for only the most amazing announcements.
"There is a bear in a field across the street." 

The tone of his voice pulled me to my feet. I looked towards the neighbors' house because it is the site of frequent bear activity. Rhodes saw the direction I was looking and said, "No, over here. In the empty lot, under the trees."

Together we walked to our North fence line, looking for movement or the shadow that is not a shadow. We have hunted bears together for years, but never before at the Cottage. I should have felt thrilled or excited, but instead, I felt as though I were moving towards a holy moment. I knew I was approaching a great mystery. 

Just as I reached the fence, the far upper branches of the apple tree in the empty lot began to shake, and I saw a not-so-tiny black shadow figure playing on the branches. Then I saw another shadow in the same tree, and a third moving in the space between the apple tree and the nearby crepe myrtle. I thought this must be the mother and two cubs who passed through our orchard not too long ago. I smiled, delighted to see them. 

Then she moved. She sat up out of the tall grass, eyes bright, mouth slightly open. I could see her snout moving as she sniffed the air.  I could see her teeth. She was huge; probably 300 pounds of dangerous muscle and beauty, and I couldn't take my eyes off her face. Her coat and the area around her eyes glistened black where the sunlight touched it, but her snout was a soft brownish-tan. Fascinating. Gloriously beautiful. Mesmerizing. 

Then she moved again, and the spell was momentarily broken. I realized I was looking at the momma bear with three cubs, and she was checking to see what they were up to. I had been so focused on her that I hadn't heard the ruckus the cubs were making as they played. They were climbing up and then tumbling out of the apple tree, calling back and forth to each other with voices that sounded like baby goats talking.  One of them would scamper off to murdalize* some saplings, then come bounding back to tackle a sibling. 

Round and round they went, while their momma rested beneath the apple tree, 30 yards away from me. We were separated by two fences, a road, tall grass and brush, and that distance, and I could still feel the power of her presence. 

I know she could smell and hear us, but she did not seem to think we were a threat to her babies or to her. Had she given any indication that our presence disturbed her, we would have moved away. That is the golden rule of wildlife encounters, and we do not break that rule. 

I lost track of time while watching her and the cubs. What an indescribably amazing gift, to be able to observe them so clearly. We used to spend days adventuring in places like Cades Cove, hoping to have such encounters. And here it was, happening right at home. Neither the cubs nor momma bear were ever still. She would recline, then sit back up, looking around and sniffing the air. 

At one point I moved just as Rhodes spoke to me, and she turned to look directly at us again. Our eyes met for an instant. Two momma bears, acknowledging each other from worlds apart. For this momma bear, the mystery was deepened. I don't believe the connection meant as much to her. 

Not long after that, she stood up and stretched. Her cubs had wandered off and were squawling, and she was ready to go and find them. I watched as she ambled away, seemingly in no hurry.

She was magnificent. 

I was blessed. 

*Acknowledgment to the good folks at Appalachian Bear Rescue for coining the word, "murdalize" to describe how cubs treat saplings. You can learn more about ABR's important work here: https://appalachianbearrescue.org/

The Great Re-Grouping

I wrote this in late March or early April. At that time I hoped the collective "we" would do all the right things. That we would manage to collectively be decent, and civil, and compassionate. I allowed myself to use the pandemic to erase 4 years of certain sectors of people in the United States becoming progressively, aggressively, anything but those things. I hoped we could all work together to make things better, especially when we moved from Pandemic to Pandemic + Civil Rights Movement. When I first wrote it, I wrote this line: "Choose who we are when this is over." I realize now, it won't ever be over. There isn''t going to be a continuation of life in the after. Things will have to change in significant ways, and not necessarily bad ones.

Look where we are now. Look, if you can bear to. I can't do it everyday, anymore. I realized it is self-harming behavior, and there's no need to keep traumatizing myself all day long. 

I see enough to still believe there are more good people who want good for all of us than there are horrible people who don't care about anyone. Or ignorant people who fall into any number of mind-numbing psychological pathologies about identifying with the school yard bully. 

However...I remember quite clearly the day my boss and I were in the office talking about the upcoming election and I said these words outloud: "This country will never allow that to happen." But it did. I have never since said something can't or won't happen. 

Realistic optimist? Hopeful pessimist? I don't know if there's a label that fits, or if I'd accept one if it did. I just keep working to prepare myself and my family for whatever might happen. I mourn those who are dying, and grieve for their families. I am outraged that children and teachers are being placed on the frontlines of this pandemic when every bit of evidence says we are putting their lives in danger. I am outraged that my government is not doing its job, and continues to allow a narcissistic, treasonous conman to keep breathing. I will continue to do the work I need to do, but I won't be caught off guard again. We are being swallowed whole. But I'll be damned if we aren't fighting fiercely. 

The Great Re-Grouping.

I have lived alone before
and wrapped the silence and the house sounds
around me for comfort and strength.
But that was different.

My life has often been measured 
in before and afters.
Boxed up, wrapped up, compartmentalized into
Now and Then. 

Some of the durings mattered, 
but they happened in real time, 
in the everyday, in the middle of
life as we knew it and 
they were swallowed whole. 

But this. 
This great Re-Grouping.
This cosmic time-out, go to your room, and
Stay there...

This is a During that will make or break
a person
a family
a community
a country
The World as we know it.
Life, as we knew it.

This is a during we better remember.
It might be our last, big chance to 
Choose who we are now and
Who we will be in the New Times.
If we let this swallow us whole
All will be lost. 
We will be lost. 

Juneberry Pie of My Dreams

There are a great many things wrong with the City of Asheville, NC, but one of the things they managed to get right was establishing a Food Action Plan that supports access to healthy food in a limited sense of those words. There are multiple places in the city where fruit and nut trees provide harvest for anyone to enjoy, and there is an online map to help folks find those locations. (Link at the end of this post.)

Six years ago I learned about Asheville's Juneberries (a/k/a Serviceberries) through an on-line group, and decided I had to see what all the fuss was about. I located some of the trees, periodically checked to see if the fruit was ripe, and when it was I sampled that sweet juicy goodness. The berries are small, taste like a mixture of blueberry and cherry, and instantly became my favorite berry EVAH. 

I requested assistance from my favorite co-adventurer and together we picked a couple of berry buckets full in less than half an hour. The trees we were picking from then were probably five or six years old and produced an incredible crop; what we put in our buckets and our mouths was less than a third of the ripe berries on each tree. We took our treasure home, and with our combined harvest I made a Juneberry pie and canned some pie filling. Two jars of that filling went to friends who also had never had Juneberries, and I put two jars into the pantry with the mindful intention of using them to call up summer when the weight of winter became too heavy. One particularly cold winter day I opened those jars of pie filling and baked a pie and a cobbler that each held the bright, warm taste of Summer's promises. 

That was the day I knew that if we were ever able to buy our own home we were going to plant Juneberry trees. And we did, and so we did. In about two weeks we will mark the one year anniversary of our move in date, and the day after that we will mark the one year anniversary of the Juneberry trees (Amelanchier x grandiflora, Autumn Brilliance) that were planted in our front yard the day after we officially moved in. Appalachian Creek Nursery helped get our dream of a critter and pollinator friendly yard off to a fine start. 

At that time I noted that when the Wheel of the Year began to turn back to summer again we should be harvesting berries from our own trees if we could manage to save any of them from the bears and the birds. I hoped there would be a pie or two made and maybe even a few jars set up.

It was a special sort of delight this year to watch as the leaves started to grow, and then the flowers came, and finally the first berries started to show. I've never had fruit trees before, and I thought I would have to race the birds once the berries were actually ripe. Wrong! One day I watched for an hour as a mockingbird came and went repeatedly, taking red, unripened berries from one of the trees. As with everything here at the Cottage, it was our intention to share the harvest with the critters, but I thought at that rate there would never be any harvest to share. I made the decision to net the trees to keep the birds away, and I will just say that is something I will never do again. The trees were miserable, the birds were confused, and I had to rescue several butterflies who became trapped inside the netting. 

Traumatic netting aside, the berries survived and within a week were ripe enough to start picking. The first taste of the first berries from the trees grown by Cottage land and Cottage energy was divine. I'm not saying that lightly, or tritely. I made a pact with this land, and this harvest was part of the reward for keeping my end of the bargain. Be mindful if ever you do something similar to do what you said you would do. The rewards can be grand in many different ways, but the opposite could be unthinkable.

I took my time picking those berries. I talked to the trees and thanked them, I looked at the branch structure, and the leaves, and even the saplings coming out of the ground. I also took notice of the cluster patterns of berries at the end of new growth, already beginning to get some idea on how each tree will need to be pruned back. And of course I was tasting berries as I was picking, standing in the sun in the front yard. I had waited a long time for this harvest and I wanted to enjoy every moment. 

This first harvest season for these trees I took about 8 cups of fruit, and the birds took that much as well. I believe that is pretty good for two year old trees, and look forward to the harvest increasing every year. I have been a bit surprised that the neighborhood bears haven't taken their share...yet.

Does it surprise you to know I baked a pie the night I picked those berries? I savored the taste of it at the very end of the day, and the flavor melted into my mouth and my spirit, a combination of the sweetest summer memories and the best summer promises ever made. These are the things that keep me grounded in the here and now, living every moment of every day. 

https://avl.maps.arcgis.com/apps/StoryMapCrowdsource/index.html?appid=4200139df5a245d5a1983b81798c97d8

Going Green, Gone Solar

About 750 years ago I was a little kid living in a small town in upstate New York. It was actually the only city in a rural county, surrounded by dairy and farm land, and from my youthful perspective not the kind of place where progressive thinking was a common thing. Yet somebody was progressive enough to install a solar energy system on a little house near the high school, and before I knew anything about anything I was enchanted by the thought of the Sun keeping a home warm. Solar energy became part of my eventual dream for a little cottage. 

Fast forward centuries later, and Rhodes and I bought a little house last year that clearly had the potential for becoming our combined dream home, and the house that needed some work became Bear Path Cottage. 

As a couple we are committed to going green as much as we can. We aren't ever going to win any awards for being environmental heroes, but we do our best to reduce our negative impact on the environment, and to reduce our carbon footprint. The green changes we have made to the outside of the property are the most visually evident ones; adding gardens and planting trees and other things to attract and sustain pollinators as well as make our family a little more food independent is a big deal to us. If we don't beat the birds, raccoons, and bears to the berries every year, well, that's just part of the gardening game in the mountains and they are just some of the neighbors we can share our harvest with. 

Some additional changes we made were replacing the electric tank water heater with a gas tankless system, replacing old windows with more energy efficient ones, and when we decided to add a parking space for my father-in-law's entrance to the house we opted for a permeable parking system. That choice was inspired by (though it looks nothing like)  the amazing parking system that we saw when we visited The Wild Center in Tupper Lake, NY. (https://www.wildcenter.org/thrive-together/sustainable-building/our-green-facility/) Those water penetrable paver lots made such an impression on us we carried the thought of them with us for four years. Thanks, Wild Center!

We had long discussed and agreed that we wanted to implement solar options if we bought a house where it was suitable. The long roof side of Bear Path Cottage is directly south facing and is basically a solar dream. After we closed on the house I attempted to research reputable local solar companies, but it is not easy to find information about that. The regional electric company was also no help, and there is actually a great deal of misinformation on the internet. We decided to put that project on the back burner until we could find more information. 

We had just started talking about it again when I saw that a former colleague is working as a sales rep for a solar company. I chatted with her a bit, did some research on the company, and then she came to meet with us to discuss the process. We were excited by the options presented to us, and couldn't wait to get started.

In February of this year a crew installed the solar panels on our roof. I admit it was a little disconcerting to listen to people drill holes in the less than a year old Cottage roof, but the work crew was professional, our rep was on top of everything, and in half a day's time we had the bones of the system in place. 

Duke Energy seemed to drag their feet on their end of things that had to happen to get the system running, and then the arrival of a pandemic and the related shut downs also slowed things down a bit. No worries - we are patient people. After more paperwork, and more emails, and the installation of the net meter, we were finally ready to power up. 

Four days ago Rhodes followed careful instructions from the solar company and flipped the switches that officially turned Bear Path Cottage into a generating facility, complete with a net meter and a solar photovoltaic generating system. But what do these $5 words even mean? 

For starters, it does not mean that we are off the electric grid, and it does not mean we can make money from the electricity generated by our solar panels. Duke Energy doesn't like either of those things, and does not allow them to happen. 

However, it does mean that we are now offsetting our electric bills with renewable energy produced through the solar panels/generating system installed at the Cottage. This is how our solar company explains our system: "After solar panels are installed on your home you begin producing power. Any excess power your home doesn’t use will be sent back to your utility company. Your electric meter will run backwards. You will feed excess energy to the utility company during the day and then receive it back during the nighttime, at no cost."

It also means that some time down the road when solar batteries became an affordable option we will be able to store any excess energy produced by our generating system and then potentially go off grid. Additionally, we will still pay Duke Energy for whatever usage we have over and above what the Cottage produces. 

In less than four whole days the system has produced 58 kilowatt hours of electricity, and yesterday produced nearly 25 kWh. According to Duke Energy, we used 773 kWh in the last billing cycle of 31 days, which averages out to slightly less than 25 kWh per day. Translation: overall we are breaking even with output and usage, so are successfully reducing our use of fossil fuels and our carbon emissions. That's a good feeling, and another part of the dream coming true.

Dear hometown person from the 1970's who installed a solar energy system: someone noticed, and it made a difference. Thank you. 

Note: No photos, because the electric system bits are boring, and the panels blend so well with our roof that they are difficult to distinguish from the angle from which I could take a photo. So, here's a photo of the view from the Eagle's Nest at The Wild Center.