“They tell me there’s no snow at lower elevations, but up here, it’s a wintry whiteout. The stream below my road is louder than it normally is this time of year, seemingly confused by the fluctuating temperatures. I went to town a couple days ago to get my mail at the post office, and buy a few supplies. It can seem like a foreign country, or maybe the world at large is just different than my world. Not always, but more often than not. Maybe we all feel it. The vortex of human activity is like a fast moving vehicle, sometimes we’re in it, or it drives by leaving us behind. I try not to let it upset my equilibrium. The stronger my friendships become with neighbors, & like-minded creative types, the less I need to be concerned with trends, fears, external judgements, news headlines or stupidity. In the pre-dawn dark, before light spills over the eastern mountain, I often pull on an old jacket, and stand in the doorway of my woodshed, to size up my door yard. There I see the rough timbers of a newly framed wall, horizontal, yet to be raised, built by hand, representing hours of someone’s labor. Through the trees, a warm glowing rectangle tells of another early riser on the hill. The feral cat’s tracks are clearly seen punched into a light powder, though no sight of him, yet. At the nearby rental cottage, a deep, country sleep reverberates, for this is the land that takes you in. Thank you, land. May the sleepers continue sleeping, as long as they need. I would rather be awake, at least today, groggy but alert, well rested, and watching over things without malice of intent or any residual need to control others. I feel free, if only for this one, uncomplicated moment. It’s a daily touchstone, undisturbed, operating under the tutelage of crows, and mink. I dare not take the recycling to the garage, for fear of startling the motion detector. I won’t go as far as the mailbox, either. It’s enough just to stand here, and see how nothing has noticed me, and all is as it should be, running at a smooth, glacial speed. The timeless speed of an invisible love that hasn’t yet turned to question, or doubt, or hate. A place in my heart where I know I love, with the depth of atoms, and the strength of galaxies. Human, still human. Not a borg, not anything surveilled by technology, fitbits or phones. Just a person standing in a real place, unobserved. Pondering an ash bucket, a lumber pile, a truck with its emergency brake possibly frozen on. Maybe I’ll venture out as far as the temporary cinder block steps, and sweep them, with my broom. And gaze again, upon the warm light, just barely visible, that indicates someone’s having their first cup of coffee in another house nearby. Leaning on that broom, I might learn what it is to not be alone. For the first time I can remember that it no longer hurt me, either way, but I know which I prefer.”
