North Ridge Farm

We'll Do Our Best

Our resident woodcock has returned. Before coltsfoot, before peepers, before green grass, there is the unmistakable and hilarious ground level peeent, peeent, peeent, followed by a melodic twirling in the sky as he ascends and descends in an impressive attempt to woo the ladies. Spring is here. 

We have had an unusually warm March. Myself and others find ourselves outside most days, wandering around a little aimlessly, unsure of where to begin this early. Be careful. It looks promising, but more snow will come. It will freeze again. And don’t forget about the mud. And so, we dabble. There are always more projects than time, so we pick and choose tasks that can endure a little snow, freezing, and mud. It’s too soon to step into the garden, so we work in the greenhouse, build a new summer coop for the chickens, upgrade chicken tractors for meatbirds, gather fencing supplies for other projects. There is always plenty to do during any season, even false spring. 

We are in the heart of maple sugaring season! What a strange, slow year it has been. I don’t have any final numbers to report yet, but I can say that we are grateful for the surplus of syrup held over from 2020. We made the decision to tap fewer trees this year than we are equipped to; just something in the air felt little off. Maybe because 2020 was such a mast year for us, all beings are looking to relax a little in 2021. It’s nice to have some years feel extra in many ways; it allows for other years to be more restful. 

I’m already looking forward to preserving less this harvest season. In some instances it’ll be because we simply put up enough to last two years, in other instances, some things although delicious, didn’t really feel worth the summertime labor to produce. We’ll still be sure to put by all that we need plus some, but I won’t be focusing much on novelty this year. 

Adam has been felling diseased beech trees this winter. From the Great Lakes to New England there is something happening with beech trees. I am not an expert on this, but my understanding is that a particular insect first breaches the bark, then a pathogen comes in and attacks, resulting in dark-spotted, scaly bark, and inevitably, a dying tree. This combination is spreading rampantly and there does not seem to be a fix other than culling the infected trees to help prevent spread, and being grateful beech makes excellent firewood. We have many beech trees in this predicament, as do most in this region. It is devastating, they are beautiful trees that contribute greatly to our forest food supply.

Sometimes I am asked if it has been hard for my husband to return to the place he grew up, all those teenage shenanigan memories and such. Truth is most of his friends have moved on; there’s not much that keeps people of recent generations here. I’d say the hard part for him has been returning to a forest unrecognizable to his boyhood self. Aside from the ruthless logging that has become the norm, it is the notable absence of old growth forest he mourns ("old growth" being relative, because by the late 1800s, 80% of Vermont's forests had been shorn; nearly everything below 2,000ft). He tells stories of beech trees so wide you could hardly wrap your arms around them; the trunks covered in scars from bear claws hurling their way up to the canopy to gather tasty beechnuts. Hemlock stands so dense the forest floor remained in darkness throughout the day. He notes the absence of a hunting culture so prominent it felt like a state holiday. Many things are different now, even if to me (a lifelong southern New Englander) it still feels downright remote and wild here, he sees and feels the changes. Change is inevitable, of course, sometimes for the better and sometimes it feels like a loss. I suppose solace comes in knowing that we have committed our time here as one of healing and growth. A rehabilitation for critters of the two-legged, four-legged and winged variety, and all manner of flora and fungi. Our efforts won't heal the world, but we'll do our best to heal a small corner of it. Who knows, maybe a few of those beech trees will survive and when I am an old women, wandering the woods collecting sap, I will notice bear claw scars on the trunk of a tree so wide I can hardly wrap my arms around it. 

I'm Sorry, I'm Not Taking Questions Right Now

Sitting at my desk in the afternoon, next to a western facing window that I’ve opened to enjoy the 45º degree day, I notice a dark brown shrew, two stories below, scurrying across the snowy field. Back and forth, to and fro, round in circles, this way and that. Little guy reminds me of myself and so many other humans I’ve observed recently, emerging from hibernation with a kind of disoriented enthusiasm; too excited to put our finger on exactly what we’d like to do with the first warm and sunny days, so we run about chaotically, hoping to not miss a moment of it.

After that wonderful taste of what is to come, temperatures dipped back down to single digits, whiteout snow moved in, as did 25mph sustained winds. Oh, March! I don’t mind it so much. Permission to continue hibernating  is about the only direction I am good at following. With the sap buckets frozen and winds too strong to ski or do much of anything outside, our winter weary bodies needed to move in some kind of productive way, so we spent most of the weekend spring cleaning. We could not go so far as to wash window exteriors, but we did tend to as much as we could on the inside. Carpets shampooed, lampshades wiped down, chandeliers washed, wall art cleaned, baseboards and radiators washed, bookshelves vacuumed and deeply dusted, interior windows and sills cleaned. All kinds of things that aren’t necessarily addressed weekly, but do need to happen once in awhile. 

I’ve been using the same dusting spray recipe for years, but have recently changed it up a bit. I’ll include it here in case you’d like to make some as well. As usual with this sort of thing, test it on a small inconspicuous spot before dousing your precious Eastlake with it. 

 

Dusting Spray

2 cups water 

1/2 cup vinegar

3 tbsp olive oil

10 drops cedarwood essential oil

10 drops patchouli essential oil

15 drops orange essential oil

Combine all ingredients in a spray bottle, shake well. Be sure to give it a shake once in a while when using, as it does not contain chemical emulsifiers to keep it blended. 

A few months ago, nearly a year into the pandemic, I was having one of those days where it felt like a hundred years since any of us really had any time to ourselves. Normally this isn’t a big deal, but it is something you become aware of when togetherness is forced. Our house is small by American standards for three adults living and working from home, with the supplies of a dozen indoor winter hobbies, to boot. Quarters can feel a little tight sometimes. One Sunday morning while making breakfast for my family, frustrated by my dysfunctional kitchen, I blurted out in response to being asked what felt the tenth question of the morning (it was probably the second... it’s been a long year): I’m sorry, I’m not taking questions right now.

Silence fell on the room. I wasn’t being rude, I also wasn’t being very helpful. My family initially did not know what to make of it. I didn’t know what to make of it! The nerve! I’m sorry, I’m not taking questions right now. Who says that? Well, on that particular Sunday morning, I did. After a moment of stunned silence, my family erupted with praise for such a statement, such a boundary. Who could really argue with it? In fact, they were inspired. What!? We can say that? That’s an option!? 

Of course! We’re all designing this pandemic life however as we see fit, and in that moment, I was not fit to answer questions. 

I’m sorry, I’m not taking questions right now, has become our line in the sand. The single phrase has now been adopted by all family members. We don’t abuse it (that would be rude), but it’s our individual ace of spades when a little space is needed during a long winter, and an even longer pandemic. 

February Greetings

One more month of deep winter, then the pace will pick up quickly. I am grateful to have the month ahead, to continue resting my bones and tending to indoor projects. Soon enough we’ll hit the ground running outside and I will do my very best to not get too caught up in the pace, to tilt my chin toward the sun once in a while and bask in the gentle beauty of a Vermont summer day. We have several years still before our dream for this place is fully realized; the sooner I can adopt an abundance of patience with the ever-growing list of plans and ideas, the better. I think I am beginning to turn the corner on it.

This winter has been one of ease. It snows most days, with just enough accumulation to cover the previous day’s roadside kicked-up grime. The temperature has mostly remained cold enough for mud to not be an issue. In the woods there is a couple feet of snow on the ground, a modest accumulation for the first day of February. 

In the morning I walk up to camp, early enough to catch the sunrise over the eastern ridge. I stand in the very spot we hope to have a cabin someday, and I wonder if this is the year that project will begin. There have been many reasons we’ve pushed it to the back burner, but maybe we need to focus on reasons to push it to the front. 

We have been eating well this winter! The larder is still over half full, with only a few winter squash spoiling before we could reach them. The loss of those few have been the reminder I’ve needed to focus on cold room veggies for the immediate future, taking a break from our reliance on convenient frozen veggies. It is just so easy to grab a bag of broccoli and toss it in a pan to quickly cook; no wrangling impenetrable squash flesh and hour long roasting. But we need to be grownups now and work a little for our meal. I see quite a bit of squash cooking in our future. I have no regret about the volume of broccoli and cauliflower we grew. Beans, peas, and kale, too. Corn we purchased from a local farm. We will appreciate having those frozen veggies still in the freezer come April-June, past any reasonable survival date of most squash and before the garden is producing in earnest. The availability of vegetables frozen at peak freshness as well as the many shelf stable varieties tucked into the cold room, are such a nice compliment to one another and deliver uniquely to our food supply.  

We have a nice amount of snow in the forecast which I am excited for. Nothing like the hush of a snow day. This year we are able to enjoy such days on skis, meandering through the woods around our home and beyond. We’ve rented nordic ski packages for the season, which was a shockingly good bargain, and have been swoosh-swoosh-gliding every spare moment we can find. I hope winter finds you well, in whatever form you enjoy it. 

Same As It Ever Was

There is a tradition here on the ridge that includes walking "the square" on New Years Eve. A two mile square-ish loop of dirt roads, containing three houses in total (two with year-round residents), that for some reason draws ridge-folk even beyond these few homes. A respectable walk with a couple of hills decent enough to feel your heart work. Pretty views, even on a dark winter night. Especially on a dark winter night. One of the roads is generally not plowed, but this year’s lighter snow pack makes it passable to those inclined. 

The waning near-full moon brightened the night, casting shadows across snowy roads in the form of humans, four legged friends, and century old maples. On this clear, starry night, Mars perched visibly over our little home’s rooftop in the western sky. Glowing orange in the distance, seemingly content in its beautiful loneliness.

Looking back on my writings from a little over a year ago, I noted that I was entering 2020 with a drive and clarity that hadn’t been felt in a few years. A welcomed awakening after a chapter that included a slow goodbye to my father, sending our one and only off to college, and packing up and moving our household and my parents’ household. Those years were about getting through, for merely keeping heart and mind afloat. On the cusp of 2020, something had lifted. I felt lighter. Clarity returned and with it, possibility. I stepped into the new year blindly optimistic. As 2020 quickly unravelled before the world’s eyes, I managed to hang on to that initial feeling of drive and clarity. For reasons I am not clear on, those feelings remained throughout the year and resulted in more than a handful of wonderful things that happened in our family's life, despite the very real challenges we all faced. We had the most abundant sugaring season to date, I was accepted into nursing school (specifically for hospice nursing; in the end I decided not to attend at this time), we grew the most productive garden of our lives, we unexpectedly welcomed our daughter home, and we had the pleasure of watching her creatively launch her post-college career amidst a pandemic. I relaunched my own business in a way that feels incredibly fulfilling and sustainable. We made it to the other side healthy and intact. 

There were challenges, of course. Like you, I miss friends and family. I miss faces. I miss babies knowing that I am smiling at them. I’ve seen first hand the devastatingly swift here today gone tomorrow nature of this virus, and I’ve seen others barely miss a beat. 

Early reviews of 2021 are not exactly glowing, but we continue to make our small life here, and we continue to steel ourselves in the face of the unknown as best we can. Which I suppose is the same as it ever was. Tomorrow we’ll enjoy a day of snow; we haven’t had much of it this year. Maybe I’ll make pumpkin pie. 

To Not Feel Acquainted with Boredom

Recent days have felt equally restful and productive. Small tastes of snow here and there, plenty of rain, too. Adam broadforked the garlic beds two weekends ago, despite damp soil. I came in behind him and raked the beds smooth. Then we waited. Just two or three days of sunny weather would dry things enough for planting, but those days never came. The garden has yet to dry out. We’ll be planting garlic this weekend regardless; there is no time to be particular about soil dampness at this point. 

One thing I’ve observed since living here, is that people - men in particular - never seem to inquire about whether or not you’re a hunter. They just assume you are, and jump right into asking how’s hunting going this year? Our new UPS driver introduces himself as Keith. Within a few minutes I learn he has sole custody of his four year old daughter. He seems rightfully proud of his little girl and his dedication to her. He tells me he loves coming up to the ridge, that he has many memories here as a boy. In fact, it was his grandfather that sold this land to my husband’s grandmother more than half a century ago. He tells me that right in the very field we were standing, where our house now resides, his grandfather would take a twelve point buck each autumn. I just shook my head. I think he could tell by the look on my face that we do not see those same yields today. I am still acquainting myself with the differences between hunting here and in Connecticut. Sugar maples fill this hillside, which do a wonderful job of feeding humans, but they are not a food source for deer. We have no oak trees in this region, a primary food for deer further south. We add nut trees to the landscape, but those will mostly be enjoyed by animals in a lifetime separate from my own. 

A man came to inspect our oil tank per the order of a new Vermont law. The inspection took all of sixty seconds, the conversation about hunting, power outages, and deer camp took another thirty minutes. This man shared that he went ahead and bought himself a camp over in New Hampshire, just south enough to ensure plenty of acorns for the deer population. He primarily hunts there now, and has already taken one deer with bow so far this year. 

While the deer may not be as plentiful here, I do appreciate the culture of how’s hunting going this year? It feels familiar. 

I intended to write a proper end of season garden post, to share the highs and lows as well as lessons learned, but I see the calendar is quickly ticking by and my time for writing here is never what I hope it will be. To sum things up: the garden this year was unbeleivably generous to the point of overwhelm. Every day I weeded, fed, watered, observed, and gathered. I kept pretty good notes and records and am grateful for the information it provided, with so little effort on my part. Weighing and recording harvests is more about discipline than added work. It took maybe an extra minute or two and nearly every time I set a basket of produce on the scale, I wondered why I’d never done this in prior seasons. It is such good baseline info to have. So, in a nutshell, we grew over 1,100 pounds of food in a 45’ x 80’ second year garden. I feel pleased with that. In time, the soil will improve and in turn so will our yields. But gosh, there's really nothing to complain about. Our greatest pest pressure was Colorado Potato Beetle, which were hand picked in both beetle and larvae stage daily without fail. We would not have had a potato harvest without hand picking. All brassicas were protected with row cover, which allowed us to grow more broccoli and cauliflower than ever before. Gorgeous heads, free from cabbage worms. Peppers started the season strong and I was feeling optimistic, but they just kind of petered out and failed to fruit plentifully. Research suggests it might be attributed to intense heat and drought right at the point of flowering, prohibiting decent fruit set. I’m not sure. Peppers have always been such a garden staple harvest for us, there is much to learn about growing them in this new climate. There were plenty more highs and lows, but to be honest, as immeasurably grateful as I am for this year’s garden, I am completely over the work of it all, and even my words on the matter feel tired.

Instead, I revel in the wonder of dozens upon dozens of colorful jars, gallons upon gallons of frozen fruits and vegetables, and a cold room filled with potatoes, winter squash, onion, garlic, carrots, and ferments. 

Today I trimmed dried leaves and roots from the last of the onions and brought the many bulbs down to the cool basement for storage. Aside from planting garlic this weekend, the onions were my final task. Oh! Except for shelling dried beans. I need to do that, too. And get all of our cooking herbs from stems to jars. And if there is a deer or two to process... well, I suppose we are never quite done. That is okay. Having purposeful, seasonal projects helps me to feel alive. I am not after a feeling of busyness for the sake of busyness, it’s just nice to enjoy the work at hand, and to not feel acquainted with boredom. 

Snow is falling gently, and the woodstove has our little home so toasty, even the furniture feels warm to the touch. It’s been a good day here, I hope things are going well for you, too.

Enjoying Autumn & Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup

In my corner of the world, autumn arrived many weeks ago and is near its righteous peak this very moment. Skies so deeply blue, catching the scent of overly ripe grapes and blackberries as I go about chores. Geese overhead in the afternoon, departing for winter, one flock at a time. Rose hips plump, sweet and frost-kissed. They are ready to be dried for a winter supply of Vitamin C, and some will be sampled fresh, too. Persimmon of the north. 

The seasons here feel like theatre to me. Every aspect elevated beyond my limited imaginings, each with its own dramatic flair. A production so grand even the finest Broadway directors could not begin to duplicate it. Here, the premium box seats are found on the edge of the garden as I watch my flock cluck and purr their way through the garden for fall cleanup; beneath a crimson maple tree as the sun dips below the western ridge; on the water, enjoying a late day paddle, listening to the chatter of loons as a bald eagle swoops down, talons extended, snatching a plump fish straight from the water’s surface for their dinner. Immediately knowing you might never bear witness to a scene like that that again. 

Inside, surfaces overflow with the fruits of the season. Herbs drying, seeds accumulating, vegetables ripening and awaiting my attention. My two hands can only do so much and this year more than any other, I think they have reached capacity. I am ready to be done with food preservation, but there is much to do still. Kale, cabbage, apples, pears, carrots, tomatoes, onions, leeks. Give the cold room shelves a fresh wipe down with vinegar and water before filling them up with the winter squash that’s been curing in the greenhouse for weeks, bushels of potatoes, onions, carrots, and garlic. Make tomato sauce. Clean out the catch-all freezer so that we have room for the chickens in a few weeks, and hopefully venison a few weeks after that. 

Last week I made a recipe for Pumpkin Spice Simple Syrup that was circulating on Instagram and it was delicious! The idea is to use it in your coffee, which I did with great autumnal pleasure. I went ahead and made a second batch this weekend and tweaked the recipe enough that it no longer resembles the original at all, so I am going to share it here in case you’d like to make some. 

 

Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup

• 2 tbsp pumpkin puree
• 1 cup maple syrup
• 1/4 (slightly rounded) tsp pumpkin pie spice

In a small over medium-high heat, bring mixture just to a boiling point, while whisking. Turn heat down to medium-low and continue whisking for 2-3 minutes, until everything is combined. Watch carefully so it does not boil over. Store in a glass jar in the refrigerator. Shake or stir before use. Will keep for 7-10 days. Use in coffee or stir into steel cut oatmeal. 

Even though our harvest and preservation tasks continue to stretch out before us, it’ll all end soon enough. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise anyone around here if we see our first snow in a few weeks. Another summer has passed us by, and this one for the record books; I will give a proper end of season garden and harvest synopsis soon. For now, there is nesting to do and September to enjoy. 

Late Summer, Checking In

Recent mornings have been cool enough to invite the idea of starting a fire. Too soon, I tell myself. Instead, I perk the coffee extra hot and set to work in the garden. For the first time in many years of growing food, I have been consistently weighing everything that is harvested from the vegetable garden - salad greens, berries, and herbs aside. So far the garden has given us over 300 pounds of produce, with none of the heavy hitters such as tomatoes, beets, carrots, winter squash and potatoes included. Those will come later. And we’ve only been harvesting anything beyond kale for about four weeks, so it is adding up quite fast. Peas, green beans, cucumbers, summer squash, broccoli, cauliflower, a few cabbages, and kale.

On a rare departure from the ridge, during my three mile descent toward paved road, I counted five neighbors out walking. Mostly on separate excursions, only two of them walking together. They were all enjoying a gentle pace, some carried a walking stick, none seemed to have a Fitbit or specialty clothing or headphones plugged into the latest self-improvement podcast. They were simply out for a walk. An old fashioned, pointless pastime to some, a soul filling time of connection for others, My neighbors appear to be in it for the meandering dirt roads, mountain views, late summer breeze, and good company. They seem to know the comfort and pleasure of a good walk.

I’d love to deep-dive into a seasonal update, and let you know all that has been going on since we last spoke, but I think I need to quickly gloss over that and just pick up where things are now. In short, like many of you are probably experiencing, this summer has been restful and laborious and lonely and abundant. Weather wise, it has been exceptionally hot and dry. We put everything we had and then some into our garden this year, and now we are being rewarded tenfold. June and July were all about planting, weeding, maintaining; August and September are for harvesting and processing. I will give a true and thorough garden report at the end of the season. For now, we are grateful for and overwhelmed by the harvests we’ve received. 

I miss my mother and sister and wonder when I will see them again (this has been the longest span of time not seeing them in my life). I think about them living in a densely populated area of Florida. Adam will miss his mother’s 75th birthday. She is in a state that he would be required to quarantine upon returning from for 14 days, and that is not an option for his profession. We are saddened by the cancellation of Adam’s uncle’s special visit (whom we bought this house from). Life during a pandemic, you understand. I am thinking of the families who are forced with the task of maintaining a livelihood while also needing to school children at home. What a difficult scenario, especially for those with employment outside of the home. I think of families with special needs children who thrive and depend on the resources of their school district, who may now be without. It’s just hard. My inner Pollyanna-survivalist wants to tell you all that we can do this, that we are designed for challenge, for discernment, that things could be so much harder than this... bootstraps and all that. But I also know that as a collective we are so far removed from true hardship and discomfort, that some will experience debilitating stress and hardship in the months ahead. While the mind can do a fair job of deciphering, categorizing, and managing various degrees of stress, the body less so. I guess I just want you to know that I am rooting for you. Keep taking steps forward as best you can.

Mid-summer garden, 2020.

I have carved out time for writing once again, so I will be back soon and often. I just wanted to pop in today and break the silence. I’ve missed being here, but I have so enjoyed this summer, even if it is not looking exactly the way I thought it would. I wonder if you are feeling the same... could be better, could be worse. So much to be grateful for and revel in. 

As for Quiet Me?

As promised, winter ended less than three weeks ago and now we are fully into summer. I’ve been visiting this northern spot for the entire length of my quarter century marriage, but until living here, I could not quite grasp the uniqueness of how quickly winter changes over to summer. This year, after a mere seven days of spring. And now, we’ll spend the next ten weeks doing our best not to blink for fear of missing a moment of these perfect summer days.

Everything is green and lush, conifers showing exceptional new growth this year, which makes up for the modest apple blossom display (it’s okay, last year was such a banner apple year most people put up enough for two years). The days are laborious, fueled by quart after quart of water and just enough food to keep it all going. There isn’t much time to make a big fuss out of mealtime. The gardener’s waltz of dashing rain storms and black flies has begun. There is no planting by the moon here, there is only plant-whenever-you-can because the season is too short to depend on perfect planting conditions during a single moon cycle. The garden is humming along, receiving hundreds of plants as weather allows. 

We have enjoyed the return of songbirds, the peepers are symphonic, wild edibles poke through the forest floor. In the early springtime evenings, on the way to lock up the chicken coop, we are treated to the unusual sounds and acrobatic displays of our resident woodcock. He is such an entertainer, that many evenings find us at the picnic table, pausing to listen to his distinct sound and watch his spiral flight path against the evening sky. He shows impressive effort when it comes to wooing the ladies, almost rivaling the dedicated strut of Tom turkeys. 

Occasionally we venture out for a drive, always encountering wildlife which feels like an undeserved bonus to the purple-orange sunsets over verdant mountains: moose, bear, rabbit, turkey. Such riches! It feels garish to observe such perfection from the confines of a clunky automobile, but it cannot be helped, it is just the nature of taking a drive for ice cream around here. 

Our daughter has graduated from college. Despite there being no ceremony, no family gatherings, no celebrations with her friends, no fanfare whatsoever, we are incredibly proud of her achievements. It is part of our family culture to raise our children to adulthood, including college or vocational training of some kind. Our only request of her was that she milk every available drop of opportunity out of the overpriced system, and she did. Most of the time we never knew which courses she was taking, they seemed secondary to her debate teaching and competing travels around the world, her study abroad, her published work, her honors thesis, her work with and advocacy for imprisoned women, her political campaign work and subsequent senatorial internship. Even with all of that, my favorite part of her college experience has been watching the incredible relationships she has formed along the way. I cannot imagine collecting a more wonderful group of friends (including professors who are now friends) than she has over these last four years. Overall, she leaves college with a collection of experiences and riches that transcend the limited potential of a textbook. 

She is now settling into this new chapter of life during a global pandemic, working virtually from northern Vermont for an institute located in Washington DC. This arrangement is not exactly what she envisioned for herself, but I am selfishly enjoying the geographic change of plans. 

The world is hard right now. No, that's not right. It’s always hard for many, it is just being filmed now for all to see. I am witnessing things that my skin color prevents me from experiencing. I don’t know how to fix it, how to make the oppression stop. I don’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said by a thousand memes. Social media saviors have indicated we’re all saying the wrong things anyway. They also say it is wrong to say nothing. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, it’s wrong. It would be a mistake to view the five minutes I spend posting on social media each day as an indication of my remaining 1,435 minutes. I have not raged publicly, but in silence I donate money and applaud establishments brave enough to sever contracts with those who perpetrate brutality and murder. I know exactly who the real looters in this country are. I check in on friends with black and brown skin. I get up at 2 am to write because honestly, who can sleep right now? 

If you know someone who still does not understand why specifically Black Lives Matter, please show them this four minute clip.  

As for quiet me?

I donate. I check in. I feed my family. I wash the dishes. I light the fire. I check in. I donate. 

Critical Medicine of Our Times

On Friday we awoke to snow with more on the way. Nothing that sticks very long once the strengthening sun arcs across the sky, but enough to reduce morale, if only temporarily. Despite this, the greenhouse quickly warms to 80 degrees, and once inside, the loamy scent of spring welcomes the days work. But I have decided to take two full days of no work, something that feels strange but much needed, so I simply uncover the brassicas and head out for a slow walk to camp and back. 

I am grateful to be of a certain age that does not include feeling guilty for recognizing the need for rest, and acting on it. I do not travel, I spend zero time at the spa or salon, there is hardly a speck of dining out or shopping or any other similar activity our culture tells women we need in order to feel good and worthy. I just wanted to rest in my home and on this land. Two full days of reading and knitting and hot showers and feet up and herbal infusions and not cooking or cleaning yet still enjoying the most amazing food thanks to my family. It felt medicinal, and today I am restored and ready to (slowly) begin anew. 

Years ago, a friend fifteen years my senior who happens to be a mother of four, shared with me how exhausting family vacations were for her. I was a young mother at the time, doe-eyed and optimistic about the prospect of picture perfect family moments, so I couldn’t quite relate to the workload of parents while traveling with children. But my friend assured me that lost shoes, belly aches, constant hunger, disrupted sleep, and soothing the moods of weary overstimulated travelers ruled her "leisure" time.

Many years have passed and it turns out and Adam and I have never been much for traveling. We tend to like the idea of travel, but not so much the execution. So when I need a break, I just take one free of charge with no additional carbon footprint. What better place to rest deeply than my own nest, with my own coffee, in my own bed, surrounded by my own pleasurable projects to tinker with if the mood strikes. 

Even though most of us are planted firmly at home these days, are we really taking the time to rest and restore our weary body and spirit? Many of us are working harder domestically than we ever have due to extra family members being home all the time. It might not feel like restoration is needed when life remains relatively easy for most of us. After all, there is still Netflix and whipped coffee and Tiger King, but the undercurrent of global stress prevails. I needed to take a day or two of deep rest. No expectations, no guilt. Just rest. A critical medicine of our times. 

As it turns out, you don’t have to be a middle aged woman with adult children to pull this off (though it is a quieter version, for sure). This can absolutely  be made into a family affair. Leading up to your day or two of rest, go ahead and tidy the house, clean the bathroom, make a few meals, snacks, and a big jug of herbal iced tea to carry your family through. Create a mellow playlist of music. Plan to dim the lights and light some candles. Gather some aromatics to simmer in water on the stove. Let it be known that a day or two of Time Off is coming up and how exciting that is. You’d be amazed how receptive children are to this idea; it’s as if they still possess the innate wisdom of caring for one’s self, something that our species tends to lose sight of as we age and the consumer world makes its impression on us. Moral of the story: Self care does not need to cost money and it is high value medicine. Also, children have immense capacity to grasp this idea. 

Today, I feel ready to begin again. 

You're Sitting on a Gold Mine

It has been snowing since Saturday afternoon; soft, fluttery flakes gently accumulating in the most patient way. There seems to be no rush, no urgency with this band of moisture.  A comforting kind of snow that invites exploration, not overwhelm.

One recent evening, we’d just finished a hearty dinner of Shepherd’s Pie, made with turkey I’d squirreled away in the freezer after Thanksgiving. This humble casserole is one of my favorite meals to make, as it showcases so colorfully the abundance of stored homegrown vegetables, homemade bone broth turned into gravy, and local, wild, or homegrown meat. A tasty, colorful, frugal meal, and, it is total comfort food. Simple fare with tremendous attributes.

After washing up the dishes, Emily settled in with her book, I with my knitting, and Adam mentioned taking a walk with Scout. He asked if I’d like to go, and having just put my feet up for the first time that day, staying put was the more appealing option. He took off and I knit a few rounds. Soon after, a text, which surprised me as he does not usually keep his phone on or near him when he’s home. “I’m up at Birdy watching shooting stars. It’s amazing out here, you should come up.” Not one to resist an invitation like that, back to the basket my knitting went; I could put my feet up another time. The stars were calling.

He was right. The sky darker and clearer than seemed possible, stars shining warmer and brighter than any of the hundreds of twinkle lights I string all over the house, attempting to mimick the same. Magnificent is not enough of a word. Leaning back in the Adirondack chair, head tilted skyward, every little thing in the world made some kind of sense. Maybe not agreeable sense, but for a moment, I understood. The ease, the imbalance, the beauty and the pain. We stayed there for a while, not saying much, just looking up.

Eventually we made our way back down the camp road, and for no particular reason, at one point I looked over my shoulder, upward at the sprawling night sky we’d found such comfort in a moment ago. And there it was: beyond the leafless trees, beyond the stratosphere and beyond all atmospheric layers, traveling across the dark glittering sky, a shooting star for my very own eyes. Not the rarest of sightings, but soul soothing every time, whether you are seven or forty-seven. We continued on, not a human sound to be heard other than that of our own presence. Such vast darkness, land, sky, quiet. One of us mentioned, you can’t get this in Connecticut. And the other agreed. No. No you can’t.

We don’t spend a lot of time comparing this life to our former one, but things are generally new here still, and with Adam continuing to work several days a week down there, our arrangement is unconventional and with that, comes frequent assessment and discussion. We need these reminders as to why we are here. It’s not that it’s difficult to remember, it’s just that it’s easy to forget. This life we have set up is not simple nor is it common; we’ve described it as an experiment from day one, and I’d still say that’s pretty accurate. 2019 was the year my husband and I slept apart more than together. This is by choice, but only a temporary choice. A necessary, difficult step in fulfilling this crazy dream. A separateness that we would not have chosen in our family raising years, but felt it was okay to give it a shot now.  At times we've felt discouraged by the challenges of making a house in need of work feel like a home when our all-hands-on-deck time is so limited, but we must remember that we aren’t here for the house; we are here for the vast darkness, for the land, for the sky, and for the quiet. And we have all of that in spades. We feel fortunate to enjoy a certain peace of mind, that in our experience, can only be found on the land.

Our slow walk continued, until this warm dwelling of ours came into sight: candles in the windows and gentle wisps of smoke rising from the chimney to welcome us.

A few days later we rung in the new year in the mellowest of ways. I am entering this new Gregorian year with vision and ambition that I have not experienced in several. The details are private, but I can share that I am grateful to feel so much clarity right now. Finally. The last several years have felt like survival followed by heartbreak followed by grief followed by remarkable change followed by loneliness followed by slow and steady healing. There hasn’t been room for much else, until now. I am ready and armed with plans, goals, and energy that has been absent for too long. My enthusiasm is wisely tempered by realism, as these first few days of 2020 have reminded me: all those best laid plans are subject to change without notice. Life has a way of getting impossibly hard real quick, emergencies and tragedy are always unplanned. I won’t delude myself into believing the best-year-yet hype. But I will take this feeling of drive and creativity into the months ahead, as best as I can, both for myself and for those around me.

I wish you the very best in your own pursuits this year, I hope you know good health, and you feel deeply that if you’ve got love, then you're sitting on a gold mine.