Changes

The freezing rain sitting on top of the layer of snow is soft underfoot, but will  ice over by morning.  The salt sits by the door in a impractical plastic bag with handles. Not trusting the handles, carrying it from the car and into the house, I nestle it against my body like I would a baby.   Early in the winter, I found a large tin can that holds enough salt to cover the steps and then some.   I broadcast the salt on the steps and walkway in the same way I would feed the chickens leftover cooked rice. I know what I am dealing with when it comes to winter, so far I have survived.

Despite the cold, the snow and ice there is evidence that the ground is thawing. Puddles and mud are abundant.  As the seasons change, so must there be a shift in my thinking and planning.  I realize that I am so unprepared for this next season.  I don't know what to expect.  I don't even know if I have a working lawnmower to manage the nearly 5 acres of lawn.

The challenges that winter has brought are faced day by day.  When I need help, it comes.   Spring is just another season with different set of challenges that I will face day by day.  When I need help, I will get it.  All I have to do is ask and trust that all will be well.

Just What Is Going On?

I gently peel back the curtain, carefully revealing the light of day. A frenzy of jays are on the ground and on the platform feeder gorging.  A lone chickadee flits from branch to twig waiting a turn.  A couple of mourning doves feed on the mounds of seed that have fallen to the ground,  the result of the fights between flocks and the gulping appetite of aggressive jays.  A lone crow, slight compared to the thickness of the ravens who visited a few days ago is perched high in the craggy apple tree. Simultaneously a downy woodpecker flutters for space on the suet, the bigger hairy woodpecker gave notice and makes room. It is as entertaining as watching a three-ring circus. For three months, I have kept a log weather and of activity at the feeder.  For three months I have never witnessed a mix of birds feeding at once, always jays with jays, chickadees with chickadees and titmouse alone with their own kind.  Just what is going on?

For days we have been anticipating a big winter storm with nearly two feet of snow.  I think the birds are getting ready.  Keith Carson, our local weatherman says we are "going to be crushed!" I can't wait.

Patience

Sometimes my bed is the only place to retreat.  The simple fact is that it is cold again.  The recent 37-47 degree temperatures lulled us into a false security that spring-like weather was here to stay.  Instead, this evening I am burrowed under the puff of down and a handmade quilt.  My husband is reading in bed beside me.  I slide my cold feet nearer to his.  The radiating warmth forces my feet onto his like little iron filings attracted to a magnet.  Once my feet and his feet touch, there they remain.  His warmth becomes my warmth, which becomes our warmth.  My hands also feign icicles, but instead of pushing my luck, I wring my hands in the layers of down and quilt.  That does little.  So, I begin to imagine them curled around a hot mug of tea.  Still ice-like. I drape them across my torso interlacing my fingers. I close my eyes and face reality.   It will take time.  Patience.  Warmth will come.

Patience is wearing thin among most northern folk.  Another winter storm is coming. In reality most things in life, we have little control.  Patience.  It will take time, but spring will come.  Someday.

Slowing Down

A light, but steady snow has created a powdery coating over everything outside.  Maybe it is my aging practicality or that I must make an appointment for myself to remedy anxiety, but I am already thinking about the trek to work.  I go slowly, but everyone else is in high gear.

The first alarm goes off at 5 and I grope in the dark to turn it off.  It is an annoying sound choice, no trill of a harp for me.  The chances of slumbering through an angelic musical ladder of notes is quite high.  I must take my medicine 30 minutes before eating. (This is something new for me-out of the ordinary to have to take anything on a regular basis.) The second alarm goes off at 5:30.  For a half hour I am drifting between sleep and wakefulness.  There is only one cat at my feet and I snuggle deeper into the bed pulling the comforter just under my chin.  I am not too cold nor too hot, but just right, cozy and comfy.  I smile in recognition of this condition of near perfection.

Turning off the alarm and leaving my husband to rest, I pad out to the kitchen.  It has been only three mornings-a routine already.  Oatmeal, a half a bagel, fruit, tea and water.  This is the fare that will sustain us until sunset.  During this nine-teen day period (The Baha'i Fast) I am always surprised by how frequently food and drink become part of my day.  My lunch-time is now spent in prayer.  Often I walk along the woods near my work.  This too helps to create mindfulness and give thanks. Perhaps it all sounds a bit contrived, but The Baha'i Fast is always well timed.  I am able to breathe, slow down and trust all the while creating a sense of gratitude for all.

Listening

I slammed the door behind me.  Cell?  Keys? Debit card?  List? Everything I need.  Let's go.  All morning was spent catching up on course work with lots of reading and writing.  Had I cut it too close?  Someone has told me that passing through doorways activates the brain.  Barely out the door, I felt a nudging.  Camera.  Bring it.  Pressed for time, I opened the car door.  Go get the camera. ( I must admit that my iphone has been my go to camera for convenience slipping into my pocket or purse.)  Slipping through the ice, I raced back into the house, switched the to the big zoom lens (for some reason) and was barreling down the driveway onto the grocery store.  Cake, frosting, salsa, guacamole, cheese plate, pork pot sticker, cranberry teriyaki sauce.  I had so much to do before guests arrived at six.  Turning onto busy Route 3 from the rural Crooked Road my eyes behold a sight that I never tire.  Our quaint little cove with rocks chiseled, edges sharp and angular.  It's mid-tide.  A car catches my eye on the edge of the road. A photographer in gear has lens poised for capture.  My eyes dart to the water.  An eagle swoops close to the water wing tips threaten the calm water when suddenly the bird elevates and begins the dance over and over again. My camera, yes the one I almost didn't bring snaps over and over in maybe a three minute period.   Following the show, the lone eagle flies toward hotel property near the threat of human contact.    Soon on one branch sits two regal birds just doing what eagles do and it takes my breath away.  I am so glad I listened.

Creating History

There are a few things that change around here as soon as the cold weather arrives-the wood stoves are cranking, I have all I can do to stay up until 9 p.m. and the family gathers for what has become traditional Fall and Winter meals.  Thoughts of Friday night conjure up testing yeasty dough for proofing and using four hands to decorate the pizza pie.  Some weeks the house is filled with hungry teenagers and older Keene children with significant others, while other Fridays are pretty quiet with wedges of left over pizza available for a snack late into the night or for the perfect "take and go" breakfast in the morning.  Food does not last long around here.

My childhood Sundays were filled with mass at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and then a big family brunch at my home on Dearborn Avenue.  I think that is where I learned to overeat.  This meant that family was gathered around the table eating and chatting until everyone was finished.  The longer I ate english muffins slathered in peanut butter and bacon (after a course of bacon and eggs) the longer I had to listen to family stories.  These tales uniquely bound us together.

My children are big story tellers.  Recently, Jerry and I learned over Sunday waffles (homemade by the way) that Gabrielle was the scape goat for many escapades instigated by her older brother Alex and twin sister Elizabeth. No wonder Gabrielle was always in trouble, I ponder as I toss a few fresh strawberry slices on my blueberry waffle.   Of course, no one else was there on this particular Sunday to deny or to support this point of view, but nonetheless the stories flow freely among the Keenes and their significant others or friends who choose to join us.    

While writing about my childhood and family through the years, I realize that what has been most important to me has been the constancy of traditions and routine.  Over the past week, we have jostled between summer like temperatures in the mid-60's or have endured the frigid task of scraping frost off the car windshield when the thermometer read 23 degrees.  This is our season of gathering and telling tall tales over some mighty good homemade food which is part of our family history. I am ready.

After Winter

The rocks tumbled by the fury of the sea begin to warm way before the earth.  The weight of heavy or light step, shuffles and slides the gray and pink speckled egg-like shapes. A shore walk is never quiet amidst the colliding stones.  These rocks accustomed to movement underfoot,  are under the strong pull of the sea. It is a full moon. This gravitational force causes an astronomically low and high tide of push and pull. These rocks have little say about where they will go.  I lie on my back atop the layers of dry warmed pebbles of varying sizes. My eyes close. I listen to the rush of the sea.  Energized after a long winter, yet at peace.

The In Between

The rusty red brilliance of the wintered over blueberry barrens emerge with the snowy melt.  The hours of light lengthen.   According to the calendar, we can say that we survived another Maine winter.  My feet are still bound warm by woolies and a hand knit alpaca scarf is wound loosely around my neck for the snuggly warm effect.     Winter-like evenings remain punctuated by warming stews and soups, long luscious reads and early to bed under the weighted piles of blankets. All this is comfort amidst the harshness of winter.  I can’t say that I am grieving the passing of this cold season.  There is an impatience that I cannot temper easily.  Gone are the clamp-ons that allowed me to walk safely on frozen ground, gone are the down jackets, snow shoes, ice scrapers and snow melt thrown onto the steps. Gone at least in my mind at this moment, that is until the next spring snowstorm pays the Northeast a visit.  I’m doing my best to accept whatever comes.  Yet, I can’t help it, I find myself anticipating my toes wiggling free in flip flops and that first long swim in the lake-the cool water slipping passed me between strokes.   For now, I try to embrace the in-between.

Just Am

I could blame it on a lot of things, but sometimes it just isn’t worth the energy it takes to analyze, but I just can’t help it.  Winter’s been long.  As the days lengthen, the long hours of darkness that I have grown accustomed, almost unaware of, begin to close in on me.   Tonight my belly is full of stew with root vegetables and a lightly seasoned broth, my body supported by my Lazy Boy knock-off, the constant snap of the burning wood keeps me warm but awake, ever so slightly.  My breath moves in and out, a slow easy rhythm.  For a few moments, I accept solitude and quiet.  Clearly content, I do not move.  There is not reason to move. 

Suddenly, my eyes snap open and my mind comes to attention.  The time?  What time is it?  All sense of time is lost in my dozing and I think, Bed time!   I check:  barely 7 p.m.  Embarrassingly early. 

I write.  I doze.  I yawn.  My eyes roll and my chin drops to my chest catching me from a deep sleep.  I am awake to write just a few words.  And then my eyes close again.  I am headed to bed and I won’t even note the time. It really doesn’t matter why I am so tired.  I just am.  

Petite Island

 

 

With a foggy day comes a quiet calm. I drive by this little island everyday, take notice of the beauty. Today it is barely visible. Standing silent-in hiding.

Sledding of Old

 

 

Years ago, the neighborhood would gather on Shaw's Hill and slide from daylight until dark during the winter months. I remember the couple of layers of long underwear and cordoroy pants did little to protect from the cold and wet. Once adjusted to the warmth of the house my legs would burn and itch, but the hours and hours sliding were worth it. Snow pants you say? I didn't own a pair until I was in Junior High School and certainly it wasn't fashionable to wear, but they kept you toasty and dry.
I had the old fashioned wooden sled with the steel runners. This relic manufactured in Paris, Maine offered great steering, but only good in packed snow and it was a little rough on the bumps. When I was in 7th grade I tore my ultra colorful winter jacket on a nail protuding from this sled. Secretly, I hoped that this would happen, but I never let on to my mother for she adored that jacket, that jacket wild with brushstrokes of pink, green, yellow and purple. When I wanted to just quietly exist among my friends as a thirteen year old, it screamed, "Notice me! I am here!" Later, walking home I reviewed the scene over and over in my mind reporting the news to my mother that the jacket was ripped beyond repair and was headed for the trash heap. Of course I had to act disappointed and sad or as penence she would force me to wear the ripped jacket. Nimbly her fingers repaired and soon I was off for the rest of the winter (and the next) as a beacon on Shaw's Hill and anywhere else I went.

Photos: December 2010 Kebo