“Strange problems seem to beset every day, no matter how organized we think we are. Many originate from the digital realm, as if that were real, rather than an adopted point of reference. A creeping sensation of being a herded animal looms large. But for me today, my neglect has wrought a dilemma far from the screen, and in a very inconvenient location. As it turns out, improperly stored outside, both peat moss and saw dust freeze into an impenetrable block. How could I have known? I’d hauled the bales up the hill under a warm summer sun, for use as fodder for the outhouse bucket, shaking the fluffy material easily out from its packaging. Now, with ski touring guests due to arrive by the weekend, my goose Is cooked. I stab at a frozen mass with my pitch fork, barely able to put a dent in the surface. I could blame it on the poor quality of trash cans, and that would be fair. Water has its ways and it’s a rare container that can keep it at bay, left in the wild. But my busy schedule can’t babysit everything. Gosh darn the degradation of plastic and metal consumer objects. Having to chip ice off everything doesn’t help. Tripping over my snow shoes, I grab at the one of two offending pails, nearly falling into it, and into a tree, and a drift. My local nursery rep had tried to help. He’d offered to haul in and warm a few bales in their greenhouse, for me to pick up. But it won’t be dry, which will do me no good. So I’m on my own. I take a moment to breathe, then drag the stubborn object to the side of my sled. I will not let this irritation build into a crisis. At least it’s mostly downhill to the house. A heavy, inferior thing will not defeat me, not again. Or shame me, into feeling weak. How many lesser cohorts have tried this trick on me, projecting their own inadequacies, onto my heart? In the end, the truth of who has mettle enough, will be decided by history. I scrabble for a handhold, and finally gaining purchase against the icy plastic, heave ho. There is a dull thud, and the sled looks unsure, tipping as if to ask - why not? No, this is why, I counter, and put my shoulder into it. The whole picture is unpretty. I’m suddenly glad of my privacy, although the week had been scarce of humans. Me, at the base of an outhouse, wrestling a deformed garbage can into submission. This will never happen again, i think, not on my watch. Once the load is moderately in place, I begin to pull. Up over the yurt deck, grabbing the good shovel, the bad shovel, dirty sheets, and trash - all of which need to return to the house. Now, plunging into a couple feet of snow, I pull again, and it slides. Or something like that. A frozen bale of peat moss does not desire to be any part of such a caravan. Cooperation does not come naturally to it. At times like these, I remember to look up at the majestic mountain range, so close and yet so far. It is a beautiful distraction from many woes, if one can rally. I’ve learned this, yet seem to have to relearn it, almost daily. Now, from where I sit beside my crackling fire, caressed by the cosmic warmth that only a wood stove can relate, I marvel at the black utility sled in my living room, and the quiet repose of the trash can within it, but for a slight sizzle, as melted water evaporates. If all goes well, the inert material hidden in the barrel will begin to crumble. Hauling it back up to the yurt tomorrow will be a struggle, but that is a story for another day.”
