Solstice thoughts

Putting things together for a holiday trip away from home and feeling sad about leaving all of our animals. Just listened to a podcast of "Favor Nation" over VPR which I'm told is a Christmas tradition in these parts, a heartwarming yarn written and spoken by William Lange. Part "All Creatures Great and Small" and part "The Waltons." It was enjoyable.

Here's something from a day or 2 ago:

"I stood in the garage this morning watching our geese gather around a white plastic water bucket I’d placed for them just outside the garage door. It was frigid out – finally, seasonal weather – crisp and brightly sunny, a newly washed sky. They didn’t mind me watching them, they weren’t spooked or confrontational, they were busy, in their element. The pond’s frozen over, has been off-and-on for weeks, will be (knock on wood) for months, so this bucket of water is their touchstone to their world. It’s almost as if they come to worship. Sure, they drink from it. They are need of it to wash the grain down their gullets. And the way they drink, mesmerizing, a delicate dip of the neck, a clackity-lapping sound, and then a tilt up and their heads cock back to let the water flow down the inside of their long necks. Lovely. But there’s more. Their ablutions, a ritual. They go individually to the bucket and splatter shake their heads, their beaks just under the surface, over and over, splashing the water back onto themselves, onto their feathers, carrying the water back along the feather’s shaft to clean and prune, cleaning their beaks too. It seems as if there’s ecstasy tied into it all. It’s connected to who they are, an extension of who they are. And inevitably, at least one of them tries to climb into the bucket, Felicity did it this morning. It so moved me. Why? She wanted to be closer, nearer the source, or so it seemed. Maybe she thought it was a portal to a larger body of water somewhere. Moments later it was Shmuel’s turn at the bucket and Felicity moved aside, but she carried on as if she were in the water instead of a driveway with gravel. She dipped her chest down as if diving beneath the surface of the water, something I’ve watched them all do on the pond, diving and flapping and belly flopping. Is it just their nature? Or is it also fun to them? And then the patient sprucing of the feathers, the necks so limber, bending back on themselves, reaching every feather, sewing machining down the whole feather with such thoroughness and pride, immaculate. And then, when finished, they flap their wings whomp, whomp, whomp, one after another after another. I always thought that was Shmuel’s way of saying “I’m boss!” but maybe there are myriad meanings. Little miracles all around."

Richard pointed out the quality of the light the other day and he's right, it's marvelous. Very much of the season, a winter light, bright, but slightly dulled and buttery, sepia toned almost. It's comforting.

I can just eat this place up sometimes I love it so much, just the simplicity of it. I marveled at the kale in our garden, still going strong, growing despite the cold, hearty and dark green. We feasted on it last night and I feel fortified deep down, fantastic. And the parsley too which is even more miraculous to me because it has the color of grass, bold and lively green. It too is a member of the Polar Bear Club. Bring it on it seems to say. Very impressive.

The shortest day once more, the cycle of seasons. A white grey palette to the sky today, our hill beige brown. I must take a walk out in this, say goodbye for a bit. Our chickens are out; I can see Red Vestey, our rooster, and his particular harem of hens up visiting the open goose pen, strutting through the straw and stealing a feed while Shmuel and Mary Ann and Felicity wander about the lawn. Lovely seeing all this LIFE around a seemingly dead countryside. Oh, I can hear some muffled crows from the roosters. Yes, unfortunately some of the hens we thought were hens have turned out to be roosters and once we're back from holidays, Richard has marked them for the chopping block. Too many roosters around mean harried hens.

I wish you all a pleasant and abundant holiday season, filled with warmth and laughter and fun. Happy Solstice and Winter!