Just down from a chilly sit on the rise. I was fooled by the “warm” weather for this
time of year, in the 30’s by the thermometer, but the wind skidded the feel down
to the 20’s. Still I love sitting there
at any season, looking out on the gentle roll of mountains, striated bands of
ridges, opening and opening off into the distance. I’m taking in as much as I can each day,
letting it reside within so I can carry it with me. When I leave for the holidays I don’t know
when I’ll be back next, maybe not until April.
A bittersweet thought, so I’m letting it go, letting it loose.
The pond is frozen solid now, a grey, opaque crust with
powdered sugar snow sprinkled around its edges and dusting throughout. I’m in the kitchen now, looking out across
the road, a good fire creaking in the jodul stove, Christmas music on the
stereo. Richard’s gone until 3, so I’m
alone to read, write, ponder, work on an upcoming play. It’s hard not to want to sleep all day. I guess that’s the body’s natural leaning
this time of year, toward hibernation.
That’s fine with me. Love naps,
love dreams, love everything to do with that.
Sometime I’ll take my daily walk.
I’ve gotten in the habit of taking night walks down our road,
2 miles to North Road, 2 miles back. There
are things I miss from walking in the day – the vistas, being able to read a
book as I walk if the mood moves me, my tryst with Robert and Lenice’s golden
lab Anu when I pass their place. She
senses me coming and barks and barks making sure it’s me before she barrels
toward me and at the last minute flips onto her back in an ecstasy of
subservience; oh, she’s such a sweet, sweet dog. The dark’s been calling me though. I usually set out just after the last blast of
incredible light from the sunset reflecta off the tall maples surrounding our
orchards, the sun’s own brand of “Adieu, adieu, remember me.” I don my
reflector vest, elastic strap a camp light to my forehead, and step out into
the darkening landscape right around 4:30 (still so weird it getting dark at
that time, my body feels off accepting that).
First, I walk the geese up to their house. They go without a fuss, they know, they’re
almost grateful for the shepherding.
“Show us the way.” We go slowly,
their pace, me whispering “thank yous” to them as they pad methodically
along. I love watching their pliable
orange feet give and take with the earth, those marvelous, prehistoric looking
triangles with claws, so quiet. As they near
their gate, they look down to measure the little hop they have to make over the
2 X 4, peering as if they’re in need of glasses. I give them room. Shmuel’s the last one in and then turns to
give a ritual “don’t cross this line” gesture, sticking his neck out
slightly. To give the gesture a little
oomph, he might shiver flutter his wings and nibble at the fencing across the
gate after I snap the door shut, but that’s rare anymore. We have an understanding now, between men,
that that’s his place and outside’s mine.
The chickens may be ready to be shut up by then too, even though Richard
has their “light” lengthened an hour before and an hour after the sun with a
light bulb mounted on the ceiling near the door. This keeps goings on in the coop a little
more lively than normal. 2 birds are
usually perched atop the door and I have to gently grab them by their feet and
transfer them to a roosting bar before shutting the door. At first this entailed a lot of fuss and
feather flapping, but now we both are letting it be easy. A “thank you” is in order for them too after
the shift is made.
Then I’m off. Now
it’s usually just the sound of the wind and the trudge of my muck boots in the
sandy road. An occasional passing car or
truck, momentarily slowing when my reflectors or light bring me into view. Yesterday, for the first part of the walk, I
was taking words of a script off the page and speaking them to the surrounding
woods, the words on the page illuminated by my head lamp. The woodland creatures might’ve been
wondering who this weirdo was. It was
fun, though. And freeing. The wind, the script’s words given new twists. But most of the walk was just walking
sounds. It gets to be you can hardly
make out anything. I have a sense of
where the road is going, and I have my little head lamp, whose ray at one point
reminded me of the point in “It’s a Wonderful Life” when Clarence has jumped
into the water to “save” Jimmy Stewart and the bridge watchman flips on a
searchlight to fine the source of the frantic screams. Anu saw the light coming down the road as I
neared Robert and Lenice’s and began barking a good guard dog alert. She didn’t recognize it as me, though,
despite my calls to calm her down, trying to get her to come over. She sounded a bit confused by it all, and was
finally called in and I was alone again.
It’s cozy out in the dark, invigorating. Without the distraction of views, the focus
is completely on your thoughts. Out in
the elements with the headlamp acting as a kind of guide, illuminating what
needs to be illuminated. The houses look
like ocean liners on a dark sea as you pass them. A little bit of magic. It’s all comforting. So I suppose I’m taking the darkness in and letting
it reside within me too, taking it with me wherever I go. It seems fitting for this time of year.
