“They didn’t mean to, but they broke the glass. One over-zealous slam to the wood stove door, was all it took. I’ve been guilty of pushing a log in, that way. Admit it. You’ve done it. It’s called risky behavior. You know it could end badly but you do it anyway, in the heat of the moment. You’re having such a good time. You’re unsupervised. There are no adults in the room. In your mind, the god of the yurt of romantic yearnings, is churning, within. And so, it was, on Thursday, that, unfortunately, I had to find a way to repair my busted item on short notice. When your sole source of heat is an iron box & sticks, things get serious. As I trudged up the half frozen grass road to inspect the damage, I kept my head tucked, pulling on yarn strings to keep my hat from flying off, charged by the gusts of an early winter, mountain twister, I thought, just like last year’s “incident”. Same conditions. Holy hell, not again. But ... of course, again. My guests gone, now on clean up crew, I could struggle alone, without being viewed as such. I would take heed, this time, not to let the wind rip the yurt door from my grasp, nor tangle any latch strings, nor trap me within. The least we can do, is learn from our misfortunes. And on a good day, gain better traction. The roar of a whole mountainside of mature trees, and then some, suddenly filled my crevices, coming close to the square inches of my delicate brain. This would not be a good day to die under a majestic maple, I quipped. I continued to converse with myself, if only to keep the mood up. It did sound like trains descending off cliffs into fragile, waif-like habitation - well, this poetically, could be ignored, at least. I grabbed the door to control it, and entered the circular house, followed by the jolt of the door, as it left my hands, and crashed into its locked position. Okay, I get it. I’m not in charge. Does the fact that I give up, mean anything anymore? No one seems to notice. There is a power, in letting things go. An oddly admired super-power, that is remarked upon or gossiped about, as if one had finally “come into one’s own”. “She’s so chill, so in charge”. Wait a minute ... or not ... depending on how much you like a human contradiction. And there, were the cracked remains, before me. I knelt, to ponder the shards. Some blackened by soot, some crystalline, as pure as the day they were forged. I ran my hand along the cast iron sheaves of wheat, along the stove’s side panel, as if stroking a cat, or a Vermont Castings Aspen. Poor Horatio, I thought. But then thought better of it. Deftly, I pulled the door off in one, swift, vertical motion, careful to cradle what was left of the glass. You’re safe with me, I said aloud, indulgently. The wind still picking up, if that could even be a thing, and my body shuddering with some echo of fear. How is it that a few times a year, the whole forest seems to lift off and reach for the stars? It’s unclear to me still, if humans will be welcome, to come along, or die trying. I set my goals high, and I hope you do too. My trip down the snowy path, buffeted by ungodly forces of air, hugging my door to my chest, unable to hold my hat from removal, unsure as yet, how I would fix my little iron mascot ... it was a trip I’ve made many times, and so, I was a bit chill, and a bit chilled, and a bit unperturbed, and maybe not a little bit relieved that I wasn’t walking up hill, dragging fire wood in that direction. Given the choice, hobbling on the right side of gravity, towards civilization, with something in need of fixing, it all seemed pleasingly doable. Even fun. Soon I would be warm again. Soon I would be performing familiar tasks of reparation. Soon I would be in my truck, on my way, to somewhere. And that. at least, would be a hedge against losing it all.”
