“For months I’ve been annoyed with my fireplace poker. The one that came with the house. It wasn’t designed by anyone who uses a wood stove, I can guarantee you that. Unable to get a grip on a burning log, I’ve cursed its lack of utility many a time. I don’t know what moved me to demote it, on this particular afternoon. Maybe being trapped indoors by freezing drizzle, or the three hour phone call: who knows. Picture me grabbing it, all bundled up in about ten layers of clothing, and yanking open the sticky back door. Not a fast exit, on a slippery porch, littered with lumber off-cuts, now frozen in place by ice, amidst cat foot prints, delicately stamped, like flowers. Former seasons become less apparent, but are always there. I feel the green lawn, once mowed, under my feet, under the snow. I remember, I do. How quickly the longest, darkest months, pass away. How urgently the calls begin to collate, urging me to action. This is my down time. My “replace the poker” time of impossible tasks. For I have many, and always have. The fairy tales about finding needles in haystacks, or spinning straw to gold, are not mere metaphors for me. The crunch underfoot is pleasing, my traverse over the ditch, past the apple tree where I buried my cat last week, the root cellar, the burn pile. I can’t make more sense of my life, than this. I love the options of my land, being able to walk uphill, or down. The visceral absence of those who’ve left their mark here, be it goats, or squash, or stone movers, or tobacco laden shamans, or borrowed tractors providing a mechanical thrust to the hidden power of dreams. I feel my middle place, straddling many, many worlds. Miracles of an indescribable nature, flummoxed or more rightly, tumbled, into what is going to occur. I don’t know if you’ve noticed lately, that time is being manipulated. The more we engage with what we didn’t imagine was possible, the more we create the future we want to become. I hold each person accountable, and myself especially, for every formidable, tangible, foundation we willingly contribute to, as new, from-the-ground-up buildings arise. Don’t fuss, with the dysfunction, too much. I believe in miracles, not because delusion is seductive, but rather, because delusion, as it crumbles, makes firmer ground. I’m reminded of my trip to Victory Bog, my traipse over boardwalks and game trails, that lured me deeper into an impenetrable wilderness. I’d felt drawn to something, went looking for what I thought I wanted, & got something I didn’t want: a wild, uncrossable frozen river. This, perhaps, is a cautionary tale. But an entirely human one. Similar to the more mild climb, to a yurt, at altitude, in the mountains, of Vermont. To seek out a fireplace poker. A better one, than the one left randomly, at the main house. One with a simpler design, just one right angle. Or maybe, one right angel. If things go according to plan.”
