EM Journal Entry: July 9

This local lovely flower is called self-heal

Penned on July 9:

There is a riot of wind today. Usually the presence of strong wind through the trees means the peskiness of flies is no bother, but not today. Today they anchor to any part of exposed skin I dare to show for safe harbor. Though I’d prefer to be outside, I’ve retreated inside the cabin to take a break from them. My tolerance level has had enough of them landing on me whilst I was trying to sit and write.

With an excess of sun and our house batteries full, I grab the battery from the shower house that operates the water pump and stick it on the charger to fill. I worked the job I do for money this morning and I do not work tomorrow, which feels nice. Nice that I have work and nice also that I am able to arrange my life in such a way that I do not have to work full time all the time every day. Balance, not burn out. I appreciate and value the ability to derive purpose from my work and also not have it be what gives my life sole worth and meaning.

Recently my dear friend Kelly shared a passage from a book she’s reading that talked about how “many of the native cultures believe that the heart is the bridge between Father Sky and Mother Earth. For these traditions the four-chambered heart, the source for sustaining emotional and spiritual health, is described as being full, open, clear, and strong.” (from the book The Four-Fold Way by Angeles Arrien)

I feel what this speaks to intuitively in my body and in my spirit, living so closely and simply to and with and part of the land here in the woods of Empty Mountain. Guided by the shift and swell of seasons in the north country mountains; led by the weather; uplifted by the colors of dawn through uncurtained windows, because we are blessed to have the privacy and sanctity of the woods all around us and no two-legged neighbors or passers by; nourished by the scent of fir and pine and the sound of birdsong. The absence of people and presence of quiet is a soothing balm I am not equipped with adequate words to convey. Even I as a writer know full well that the all of the very best things cannot be confined and caged by words spoken or written. The very best things travel far beyond words. They can only, as any good poet knows, be felt.

Early morning @ EM on July 8

I am solo on the homefront this week. Mike is away working and rather than commuting the 90-minutes each way to and from the job each day, he’s van camping to avoid the drive. I planned on making myself a good stirfry dinner but with the warmth and wind I may opt for a meal that doesn’t require cooking. We have a two-burner Coleman stationed outside for making meals when the temperatures soar high, so as not to add more heat inside our small cabin when it’s hot out, but with the wind whipping cooking outside feels both a small fright and a mild bother.

Every season - like each of us humans - has its boons and challenges. A few of the boons of summer include: enough sun to meet all of our electricity needs solely through the PV panels (vs supplementing regularly with our generator which is required through most of the rest of the year); the ease of collecting & storing water outside; the abundance of green growth, colorful wildflowers, and huckleberries. A few of the challenges include: the sometimes proliferation of bugs (though as far as bugs go it could be way worse); the occasional discomfort of high temps; the dry conditions that situate us at risk of wildfire activity (did I mention we live in the woods?).

Living more tethered to the seasons and weather, mid-summer my attention starts attuning to the still distant but soon approaching fall, which turns to winter. Not in a doomsday or Oh no sort of way, but in a winter-is-coming-best-to-start-preparing sort of way. I am nothing if not a pragmatic woman who is guided by both practicality and poetry. Thank goodness for the four-chambered heart and the poetry parts of myself that are strong. What a dry and serious sort I would be without the grace of the poetry of living mixed in.

This way of living how we’re living - in the small, close to nature, off-grid & without running water - promotes both practicality and poetry I have found. It encourages and supports a different lifestyle with different priorities. A lifestyle where rest, stillness and ease, quietude & solitude, are nurtured, fostered, on continual display, and celebrated. Busyness is not a thing one sees in the woods. The grind culture, as Tricia Hersey calls it in her book Rest is Resistance, is not part of the deal here. The trees are not in a hurry to get anywhere. The animals are not in a hurry to get anywhere. It’s nice to live with surroundings where the motivations of the locals are more in line with my own. Busyness is not a badge of honor here. When living in town, it requires a great deal of effort and energy to resist the mainstream vibe of do more and go faster. It’s possible to do it but it takes a lot of hard work. In the woods, doing less and enjoying more is much easier.

Earlier this afternoon, I thought about driving to the river for a lovely swim in the 90-degree heat, which is wonderfully just 3-miles down the canyon. I considered going for a ride on my motorcycle, which I dearly love to do. I thought about maybe going berry picking further up the canyon and higher up the mountain, which I could easily & happily do for hours. But my heart was blissfully content on staying put, so I stayed joyfully put. I read. I wrote. I sat and listened to the wind. I enjoyed the quietude of the woods and the solitude of my own company. And I sent my four-chambered heartsong out on the breath of the spirit-wind weaving through the firs & pines, to be carried to all beings in all directions.