“The grief of losing a life, someone close or a whole life that was yours, is something many of us hit, eventually, and are floored by. The cruel winter wind enters the soundtrack here, as do dripping faucets once attended to, now louder, insistent, with no immediate remedy apparently, within reach. There suddenly seems to be an inside, and an outside to living, & we are left to ponder the swinging door, its gaping wake of absence and non-delivery. What to do? In the short term, we mourn. We self medicate. Those lucky enough to have a propensity for poetry, begin to construct an edifice of loss. The rhythms of soft moments, casual touch, of extra hands for chores, or merely the rustlings of clothing, boots coming off, being kicked to the side, fall into a well of studied silence. I draw close to my wood pile, one of the last standing physical apparitions of warmth, to bring me into harmony with care. Animals, contractors, clients, UPS deliveries, a bag of chocolate left anonymously to hang on my door knob, or a book sent to me, all are gifts. They’re signs that there is life after personal devastation. Add fickle snow conditions, the adjustments required by temperature fluctuations at elevation, & I’m deep into my winter practice. I’ve come to appreciate the smoke of it, sweet on a good day, bolstering, on a bad. Today, was exceptional. The plumber has finally sent his bill. I’ve put up the last of the curtains in the cottage. One soldier carpenter has graciously organized the last stroke of grueling work, to bring my building into the 21st century. Music is played, boxes unpacked, wood drawn by sled. Though annoyed by having to don snow shoes to climb the hillside & turn on a light for a guest at my far flung yurt accommodation, I’ve gotten over it. I did this to myself. I have the tools to heal. The ice build up on the plywood, holding place for a future deck, is soft enough today to bash with a shovel, and haul off. I drag my recycling up to the garage, and organize the trash for tomorrow’s dump run. I mix a few songs, for an album, a really good one. I scrub toilets, do laundry, and change sheets for guests arriving to my post & beam tiny house. I look into my fridge, and don’t feel anything much about food. Someone cooks a sandwich for me. I eat it, with relish. I sit & drink a beer, in what we now call: the Queen’s chair. The cat doesn’t give me room to sit. I don’t really look at anything beautiful, outdoors, which is unusual, but it happens. I feel dull. But, exceptional, at the same time. Because after all this loss, I have a place to hang a crowd of hats. John said: “Nice hat”. “I have many”, I replied. And I do. Who would ever believe, that beyond this provincial kingdom of one, there lies an epic mountain, full of treasure. I never forget that. I only cower sometimes, then remind myself to start a conversation. “Dear unfathomable duel peaks, glimpsed between jaunts. Pondered, while on a drive to town, mostly on the way back, when the view becomes inescapable. I feel you’ve taken me into your arms, like a prodigal son. The mystery of why you called me back here for a second run, is like a coin. Something to spend, something to save. Forgive me my paralysis; I’m doing everything I can, at my human speed. To make good, on our promise.” In case anyone ever asks, this is where I came up with my record label’s name. Thunder Ridge Records, over 35 years ago. The ridge is still here, though I’ve changed, and changed and changed in the time between. So you can imagine how it makes me feel, to be back here, hauling sheetrock over the tundra, hoisting shit into my truck ... the same damn mountain stern & solemn, like a hooded set of eyes.”
