“Things are moving along at my workplace. I wake to winds whipping snow devils all around the yard, or what I can see of my immediate landscape, which is minimal. The routine starts at dawn, goes something like this. Coffee. No matter how cold it might be in the house, which is still heated only by wood, I still need to sit with my brew, and make a general assessment of what kind of day I’m going to shape around the weather, the demands coming at me from all directions, and my own personal requirements. A text comes in, that guests are leaving, & I’m glad I hauled shovels out to the parking area last night, in the dark, to aid their departure. Not enough to warrant plowing, but enough snow to cause potential issues for small cars, Priuses, or bald tires. Who in Vermont does not know the drill? My back porch is beginning to drift, my wood shed entry has a few inches of white stuff, in places it shouldn’t. Taking recycling to the garage won’t be carefree, nor the vacuum out to my rental, but it does inspire wonder, the way a mountain can shake itself of layers and layers, of pent up energy, even resentment. The power flowing downstream, of pristine peaks of gnarled conifers, rock & crags hits on the gut level, silencing chatter, in the mind, in the heart even, flattening the petty. Maybe that’s why I live here. Subconsciously flailing, in an effort to tame my noisy life. I have different piles of wood to consider. The last row of dry, or the new rows of ice encrusted, semi-dry. How warm do I need to be today? Can I suffer a bit, to save the most savory pieces? I’ve formed the habit of delayed gratification. But at this point, I’m not sure how adequately it serves me. Denying myself comfort has called to me, promised some kind of insurance, a superstitious voice, chiding: don’t get soft. You’ve been vulnerable, and look where it got you. Take your hits now, buck up now, just in case there is some earning power in it. Well, not sure. There may be no end game, no arrival, in this life. Only what you get, is what you get. Which returns me to this: it’s a beautiful day for removal. I know how to dig in, and find what’s been obscured, and devalued, also what has been paraded around as top doggery. I’ve lived in a top doggery world for too long. In the alleyway of my 2x4 lifestyle, I’ve never stopped cleaning, a scullery maid for myself & perhaps too readily, for my inflated paramours. But here, in snow country, the gods threaten all that has polluted us, all that has imagined itself supreme. The coffee, hot, too strong, almost undrinkable, the way I like it, signals action. Cowboy coffee, almost, just a cut above; it’s fuel. Yes, it’s a schlepp, carrying wood upstairs, then down, hauling kindling across a bumpy yard in a sled, toting frigid axes out to split smaller pieces, for others’ insatiable desires. Making sure laundry is done, correctly, teasing stains from fabric, so that others might not be offended. Taking time out, between runs, to ponder the impenetrable snow, that comes, and comes, and comes. From my old, queen’s chair of Victorian descent, threadbare at the seams, yet stolid in the face of time, I feel the proud axiom of women’s hard, unsung work. I’m still able to sit weaving my dreams, as smoke rises from the fire I’ve kindled, and I keep it burning, regardless of insult, or indifference from anyone. I’m happy to have milk to add, to have honey and sweeteners, to know how to rally a fire from smoldering ash. They still come to me, looking for a different set of rules. One that sets love above criticism, care above fame. That pits honor, against ego, serving not just one, but a loftier, naive sense of awe in each person’s innate gifts. Born without it, we’d be left to die in an unceasing blizzard, frozen, unfeeling & lost. But we are born with it. And therein lies the rub.”
