“He drove into the birch grove, sharing with us a piece of history, while maneuvering hummocks & fallen logs. The land has been through ownership changes, but the continuity of care remains unruffled. Funny, this dead end location, though remote, touches a tiny portion of my own, long dormant past. I could not be more mystified. I won’t go into it here, but his recently departed neighbor, was due for a booting. I’d known this character decades prior, and been entangled, and part of a strange kerfuffle, of my own making, all those long years ago. One could say they were unrelated, to this current, beatific scene. Or, alternately, one could call foul, and admit that we are never but a parsnip away, from the follies of our youth. A lesson, perhaps, throwing up what is still in need of healing, & of letting go, right into one’s face. I would gladly trade a thousand hours of honest digging, to cleanse this property of anything untoward, or misaligned, brought to it, by this nefarious ruffian. My life has been a patchwork of encounters, with some of the worst posers, and liars. Even here, on this corner of sacred earth, where old roads, and farming met with hard won bounty, and established byways thru virgin forest; here where the best people did amazing things to make a vibrant community thrive, and go beyond .. even here, the touch of greed and taking, still persists. trying to twist simple truths, into modern fabrications. I would say that the antidote persists as well, though it may be forced underground, for generations, sadly. This is my real experience, of being present, and working, on lands all across the state. I’m always happy to take an alternate route, to check in on the changes. Driving a longer way round, tells me things that are worth noting. The unassuming, hand-painted sign “Tontine” gone now, from the yard of a notable silk screen artist, who painted Vermont, for decades. An ancient stand of lilacs missing, revealing ugly updates, to a formerly iconic barn. One truly forgotten summer road, completely unchanged, its old buildings still sagging, as if frozen, wafting a gentle timelessness. The hayfields on my left, backlit as if party to some ethereal summer; contrasted with those on the right, already drifting towards a drowsy, mirthless, chill. I don’t know if I can take much more of this world of oppositional certainty. Each side is so convinced of its own, righteous cause. For me, the nuances outnumber the stanchions of nonsensical, never-ending statistics. I see and feel, with my own physical body, how mood, and art, effect all statements of fact. Who then, might we trust, as the definitive arbiter? I point my trowel, into the massive daffodil leaves, sorrel weeds, and allium. The sharp spike of my claw, makes decisive insertions, into things that have mixed themselves up. I’m especially fond of my hand brush, bought at Aubuchon Hardware, in lieu of a handle: a device that makes quick changes, by removing excessive dirt. As always, the rake. It comes down upon the grass, as if ordained by some orderly, on high. What remains is a combed representation of what we expect hair to look like, on a good day. If only we could realize, we are mostly subject to criticism, we don’t deserve. I’d give anything, to release everyone from this. And then start from love, and start fresh, with an open heart. Making us all look as good as we are, bar none.”
