“The first snow is expected. Always is, this time of year. But we still recoil, take stock; maybe in relation to snow tires, or insulating our farmhouse with junk hay, or pulling out the last of the carrots. We feign shock. What ever else hasn’t been tended to, and its a lonely number, probably won’t be, now, or not in a timely fashion. Falling behind is normal, in Vermont. If you’re on top of your game, this may be your only bonanza year, who knows? Don’t count on repeating it, indefinitely. There are so many good reasons to fail, and the flow of this earthly sojourn errs on the side of failure. Thankfully, life is not a one-off or a chasm. It’s just plain hard, and continues as a thing to navigate with grace, or with a bitter clamping down on everything in us, that is soft & pliable. People in partnerships may fare better due to the maxim that “two heads are better than one”, as that translates into a division of labor, and shared chores, and finances. But, not always. We can’t assume. Where people don’t get along, there are other depletions and pains, and sorrows. The first snow is, none-the-less, a spiritual upheaval of both joy, and innate fears around survival. I’ve planned my week, accordingly. My plotting around weather reports, my anticipation of lack of heat or even groceries, is a given, during cold snaps, and dodgy road conditions. We drove by my neighbor last night, getting into a car, with a slight double take, knowing his car was on the fritz. Who could have known he was heading to the hospital? But we soon did know. Another good friend confided, she would be putting her beloved pet down. While across the valley, a long period of unexplained silence, uncovered more deaths, chemo treatments, and despair. This is why I go out, to be with the elements, where I can deposit the inexplicable suffering of myself and others, into some kind of molten, natural care. My resistance to jobs that seem menial, or drudgery, is the gold standard that drives me to trust in outdoor healing. How I feel on a raw day, removing shovels from my truck, wrapping myself in layers, or even rubber, to spend these last moments of the season next to roots, and dying foliage, is akin to sleep or dreaming, and also, to waking. I don’t know where else to go. Certainly not, to the internet. The “track, trace, database” world is not for me. Who can still claim to be living according to circadian rhythms? I’ve been enabled by digging, by slow observation, and by the informed consent of plants, who seem to understand what I need is light. Fancy explanations for things, don’t work anymore, not on me. The damp leaves are heavy, and annoying; the branches pruned away from dwellings, cumbersome, and unwieldy. I am not immune to dog waste, or jumping worms, or endemic mold. These things get into my system, and co-habit my immunology, and couple with cold winds, and rain. I don’t know why I prefer it to a sanitary cubicle, but I do. We’re all built to do different work. In the dusk, as I leave the back roads to find a lit store, still open, and dinner, I pull in like a dirty pilgrim. The routine I’ve learned: to turn off the motor, to lock the doors, to take my aching body up a series of steps and pull open an awkwardly stiff front door; just a late shopper in a field of sustenance. Returning to my vehicle in an even dimmer light, i revel in the cloak of late fall. At the very least, I’m on my own with enough gas to get home. The roads, I know. The time warp of virtual reality, not so much. For now, we still have a choice, and a destiny, and our freedom, if we are still alive.”
