New born

I love morning
I love coffee. I love the smell of it brewing, the sound of it percolating, the gurgle and train hiss hush when it's finished.
I love the light on our hill, earlier now, earlier every day, the green aching to break through.
I love our pond, the ice covering finally thawing back in a slow reveal, giving the Canadian Geese more room to swim and do that bottoms up feeding thing they do, a little dip down to show off their feathery asses.
I love our morning routine, slightly different every day. First, waking to the cries and complaints of Sofia and Oliver wanting food or a faucet turned on or just us UP! Then, the plodding downstairs naked - even with the mercury at 25 degrees outside (inside, before Richard's stoked the fire, it's 60) - talking to the cats all the way, reminding Richard not to open the curtains just yet, begging Sofia's indulgence while I crank up the caffeine before dishing out their chow. Richard's in and out of the kitchen through this, checking on chicks and eggs, and gathering kindling for a nice warm fire (he's a Promethian pyromaniac) Sometime during this one of us starts the music from our i-pod speakers which usually accompanies our shufflings about - Aaron Copeland's "The Promise of Living", a couple of brief chants sounding very medieval, and then a piece called "Hidden Rivers", a gentle "becoming" piece which fits the beginning of the day quite nicely. Next, it's a bit of a jolt with "Jupiter; The Bringer of Jollity" from Holst's "The Planets" conducted by Leonard Bernstein; and finally there's Copeland's "Appalachian Spring" very apt now, and which suits our cabin and morning to a T. Food usually comes a little later, all the above taking place in 6 or 7 am range. Then upstairs for clothes and writing; Richard sticks to the stove area for correspondence.

Morning is most often set aside for writing. There's a pulse to the morning, something electric that calls to me. And if I don't heed its call, if I don't write or create in some way, that pure energy turns in on itself, it lashes out, like an electric high voltage wire severed and whipping around, spewing sparks. And I cab hear William Blake's warning: "Better to strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires." So I fill the mornings with play ideas, blog writing, jabs at poetry. Poetry is tempting me these days, the writing and the reading of it. It suits our place. And Vermont. I'm reading a wonderful little book by Ted Kooser called "The Poetry Home Repair Manual" that I highly recommend. It's easy, accessible, talking specifically about poetry, but in a larger, universal way about all creating. In addition most days I read a chapter of Edward Hirsch's "Poet's Choice" and listen to Donald Hall read his poems courtesy of my Subaru's CD deck. I was even drawn to read a piece of "Canterbury Tales" yesterday, despite the shuddering memories of bone-crushingly BORING English poetry classes in high school. It may have been April that called me to do it, my pilgrimage back to the poem at the same time of year the pilgrims were wont to tread toward St. Thomas's slaughter site. I chose one of the Wife of Bath's Tales, and was surprised how much I enjoyed it and how easily it leapt off the page. That Geoffrey Chaucer has a future. He's good.

Afternoons have been given over to helping Richard with his construction and puttering around the property, picking up, planting holly bushes, getting the garden ready, and stacking wood. We just had 2 cords of wood delivered in a huge mound on our side yard and for the past couple days, I, Sisyphus-like, have been toting and stacking it on 2 of our 3 porches. It's been great exercise and the weather has been fantastic, so I get good views of the property as I back and forth from the pile to the porch, stepping around our gossiping and interested hens. Just when my back starts to twinge, Richard calls me to come nail up a few more boards and the change-up gives relief and balance. It helps my soul being out here without a clock. Left to my own devices, I can TIME everything and measure its worth by how it's clocked in, how much I've produced within a given chunk of time. I suppose that's helpful at times, but it becomes so business-like to me, a bit anti-art, anti-LIFE. It gets me wrong-headed; I don't like myself when I'm in that frame of mind. I'm impatient, nothing's enough, least of all anything that makes me happy. And I think I've just begun to tap deep, constant, and easy happiness and joy.

I can see why the pilgrims chose April to shake off the sloth of March and get moving. Your spirit needs the stretch, needs to get out after being cooped up. The air calls to you. Buds are coming, flowers, animals. We saw a group of wild turkeys - 2 Toms and 9 hens - parade across our hill single file the other evening in a pilgrimage of their own to the far forest line, pecking along the way, the Toms stopping every once and awhile to pomp out their full back feathers. Very impressive. Our hens seem to have gotten over the rigors of their enforced pilgrimage back home and are enjoying their new digs. 3-5 eggs laid a day speak of good spirits. Our new chicks are on pins and needles waiting for their journey from utility room to new coop; they're packing their things as I type. Gardens are being worked on, soil turned over. There are calves, baby goats, chicks everywhere. Productivity abounds. Everything's in motion. And the sap is still running. Early mornings, local trucks pass by our place, their backs weighed down by full plastic vats of sap on their way from the trees to the sugar houses nearby. The truckers look to our house and wave. It's a common good-natured practice here, to look towards a house and, seeing someone, wave. And it's another good reason for Richard to keep the curtains closed in the morning when I'm prancing about naked as a newborn.