SLow

Winter slows things up.  I sat at the keys yesterday after a doozie of an 'Ole Cycle (it is not all cruise and chill-out, as I flippantly wrote in my last post) with an idea for a two-part article.  Pete was tucked back into the vardo and JOTS tended to herself with no particular interest in blogging.  Getting back into the  practice of writing on the keyboard takes a bit of retraining.  My solitary life sometimes freezes me up with over analysis, and no writing and that can simply defeat the purpose of being alive.  I feel the pressure of my the belt move against my belly.  Okay, there is life.I spent a chunk of time researching the topic for the article and began the 1st draft.

Some writing, most writing is done over time.  Good writing grows with practice, and the technology of blogging and social mobility of the internet would have me(us) believing writing just happens.  Well, yes and no.  Sitting here this morning, I write to get my fingers moving and my practice in place.  Winter does slow things down, and often the illusion that our tiny world lives from the vardo as 'less than____________" can dampen the soul. 

The late November ice-skid of an accident with our faithful 'Scout' the Subaru had the old gal in the auto body shop.  Pete worked with the repair man to be as careful about the methods of repair:  cautioning him to use no chemicals to clean, and to do as much of the body work outside the shop.  But after all of his best efforts, the hood and left-front of the car were painted and the VOCs from the job make it a no-go for me.  It's been almost three weeks since the car is back to us, and ten days for the work.  So the freedom of movement via a car has been slowed down. 

I notice the empty limbs of the apple trees and the cherry look bleak in the orchard beyond the wire fence.  Their old leaves rot into ground-cover turned over by the kick'n chickens and rooting ducks.  The trees don't seem to mind slowing down. 

Akin to the Beaver

American Indians called the beaver the "sacred center" of the land because this species creates rich habitats for other mammals, fish, turtles, frogs, birds and ducks. Since beavers prefer to dam streams in shallow valleys, much of the flooded area becomes wetlands. Such wetlands are cradles of life with biodiversity that can rival tropical rain forests. Almost half of endangered and threatened species in North America rely upon wetlands.

Besides being a keystone species, beavers reliably and economically maintain wetlands that can sponge up floodwaters (the several dams built by each colony also slows the flow of floodwaters), prevent erosion, raise the water table and act as the "earth's kidneys" to purify water. The latter occurs because several feet of silt collect upstream of older beaver dams, and toxics, such as pesticides, are broken down in the wetlands that beavers create. Thus, water downstream of dams is cleaner and requires less treatment.

http://www.beaversww.org/beaver.html

From the comfort of the vardo, still wrapped in the quiet of night sleep, I heard the song of birds.  Small voices they did find their way to me inspite of the very manicured and humanly residential nature of the Mill Town.  On my feet I pulled the soft worn flannel curtains away from the windows, inspecting them for the moisture that collects after a night of being sealed against the sulfur of pollens and kiln from the mills.  Almost as a sleep-walker I wiped the moisture from the windows to keep mold from forming on the milk-painted oak frames.  Making up the bed waits for a time later this morning.

With my robe tucked about me and slipped into my boots and down the three short steps from our sleeping loft and onto the sidewalk.  There they were, a family of tiny sparrows looked from the roof ledge.  We talked a bit and I was happy to feel a smile gently taking over my sleepy face.  Inside, Pete had already been at this computer printing out insurance forms for his new business in the making...the legal trappings of becoming a small biz owner.  "I saw the sparrows on the roof...heard them chirping, too."  Busy with his focus, he said, "I don't feel connected to the outside."  Oh, I thought what a price to pay for beavering away.