The circular nature of things

I never cease to be amazed at the cyclical nature of life. Between birth and the inevitable but largely-feared thing we call death, our lives move in circles much the way our earth moves around the sun to give us the seasons by which we mark off spent years. It’s a good thing we move in circles, I say. This way when we find a place that is special or a friend who is dear, we can return for another look or share another day. Just think how odd it would be to always move straight ahead, never being able to make a go-round, never being able to get one more taste of something surprising and sweet. I’m not interested in a route through life that never brings me back again or gives me another shot at something I’m good or bad at.

One month ago I wrote this post about the closing of February, the end of what was, by all accounts here at our farm, a hard winter. I brought my camera to document my morning walk to the wood pile and the photos I brought inside showed a stark but beautiful landscape encrusted in ice. One month later, the scene has been redrawn in gold and green and blue. Spring has arrived both on the calendar and on the farm. Spring has done more than arrived. It has returned! And isn’t that a better way to look at it?

One month ago I looked across the expanse of frozen water and couldn’t discern the far edge of the lake. Throughout today, though, I have watched the ice retreat from one edge of the lake to the other. Tonight, I enjoyed my first sunset over glistening waves, my first sunset, that is, of this year. I looked forward to it all weekend as I watched the darkening ice break at the edges then in parts of the lake’s center. Saturday, I watched Canada geese land on the surface, break through and then struggle to get airborne as the surface gave way beneath their weight. I knew today was going to be ice out day. I’d seen it happen before. Ice out is just one notch on the life cycle that envelops me here. It’s a day worth celebrating as much as — if not more than — those days that commemorate presidents or statesmen or lovers.

I look forward to dozens more ice out days and sunsets over glistening waves as the seasons continue to cycle. I will watch migrating birds fly north and then south and then north again. My trees, now spattered with tiny buds will soon burst with blossoms and then leaves and, eventually color. And then they will stand naked against the frozen sky. My heart, watching our seasons cycle past, will fill with hope, and then joy, and then dread, and then hope once again.

I can even note the change in the stacks of wood. The split and dried wood is mostly gone, burnt to keep our fuel costs low and my fingers warm. Next year’s fuel is piled not so neatly yet in place to absorb the wind and heat that will give us an autumn chore of splitting and stacking. Autumn. Its arrival is as inevitable as the Canada goose taking a break from migration on my shore. I will not lament it because it’s part of the cycle.

One month ago, winter held our farm, and me, in a firm and icy grip. I’m glad life moves in circles. Spring is here now. I don't look for my boots anymore. Tonight’s walk to the shore was made in my slippers!

Book with universal themes is classic

I just finished reading “Emily of Deep Valley,” juvenile fiction written in 1950 by Maud Hart Lovelace. I have written about Hart Lovelace here before; she was a native of Mankato and based most of her juvenile fiction on experiences she had in the small but picturesque town that is but a short carriage ride from here.

I didn’t grow up a fan of Hart Lovelace books. To be honest, before moving here, I’d never heard of her. (My summer reading lists were filled with Agatha Christie mysteries, all of them on short loan from the St. Paul Public Library.) As I build my network in and around Deep Valley, I’ve met lots of Hart Lovelace devotees who like me hadn’t found her Betsy Tacy series or her high school books when they were young. They did, however, discover the books after they had had daughters of their own. With her characters unwrapped in the midst of mother-child bonding, I can see how the author can command such a loyal following with clubs and societies around the world charged with keeping her work available and her memory alive.

But what appeal can books written 60 years ago and set 100 years ago have for twenty-first century, text-messaging pre-teens who could just as easily flip on television for entertainment? How can Hart Lovelace remain as relevant in theme and plot in 2010 as she was during the Eisenhower administration? It was that question that led me to pick up and read “Emily of Deep Valley,” which is set in 1912 as Emily graduates from Deep Valley High. (Trust me dear ones, I don’t have many juvenile fiction titles in my home library and St. Paul Public is a long carriage ride from here.)

As it turns out, a girl in high school in 1912 suffered from the same sort of social challenges and self-doubt as girls in my grade had and, I suspect, as do girls in school today. “Do I fit in?” “Are my clothes fashionable?” “Am I smart enough?” “What am I supposed to do with my life?” And, of course, “does that boy I’m in love with even know I’m alive?” The more the world changes, the more the world stays … .

But Hart Lovelace goes deeper with her character in the book; she takes Emily face first into social issues of her time, social issues faced by the citizens of the real Deep Valley, and this is where Hart Lovelace snags me as a lifelong devotee even though I don’t have the advantage of sharing her work with an offspring.

Emily befriends a few children who belong to the town’s immigrant community: the Syrians. Her friendship leads to new introductions, discoveries and an education about a people with a rich culture; people, she learns, who have been largely shunned and marginalized by her community. Emily is able to find peace with herself when she turns her attention away from her worries about her looks and her future; her self image grows by leaps and bounds when she throws herself into helping others. That theme alone is a winner. It’s basically the call of Christianity.

But for me, the story goes deeper. I have ancestors who were known around another river town as “the Syrians.” And like the Syrians in Hart Lovelace’s book, my family was marginalized, called names by the “better” citizens of their town. Their immigration was not welcomed by those who felt the United States had enough people. They struggled with language and social structures and yet lived full lives in “shabby houses that needed paint.” I like to think that someone like Emily might have wandered into my ancestors’ neighborhood, into my ancestors’ lives, to extend to them some version of Emily’s small-town spirit of friendship. And why not? Hart Lovelace’s fiction is based on her early life experiences. Her stories are authentic. Her stories are timeless.

It is 2010 and the immigrants living on the fringe of our communities in shabby abodes hail from a different part of the world than Ottoman-controlled Syria. Yet, I’ll bet they hear people whisper derogatory names when they pass. I’ll bet some people feel they don’t belong here; the country is full enough. Still, I’d bet my carriage that despite the majority’s indifference to them, they are living out rich traditions and full lives in the shadow of the American dream like my ancestors once did. And I’ll bet somewhere in America there’s a teenager who, because of the example set by the fictional Emily Webster, is confident enough to step forward make a difference in their lives.

And so I’ve found the answer to my question. Maud Hart Lovelace remains relevant long after her death. We should all be so fortunate.

A cold morning's routine inspires

At Four Cedars, my February ends much like it began. I make a cold morning's walk to the woodpile, marveling with each step at how beautiful and complex a barren landscape can appear when one is fortunate enough to take note. I am a lucky soul this morning to have so much to take in around me. The blue sky. The hoar frost. The deep snow pack showing evidence of scampering wildlife. The expanse of frozen water disappearing in the fog. And yes, the optimistic chirping of a nearby robin. It is the end of February, it reminds me. We have made it to the other side of winter, you and I. It may not be the warmer side, but surely it is the brighter side. Chirp. Chirp.

The TV weather person said today is our 80th day of snow pack. We haven't enjoyed much melting around here; it seems there aren't enough trees and buildings in these parts to absorb solar energy from our strengthening sun. And so our temps lag behind those enjoyed by our urban brethren. This seems a small trade-off today. I know the temperature is below zero and I must collect my wood, and yet I linger with my camera and my thoughts. It feels good to be part of the expanse, free from the oftentimes confining walls of a heated abode.

When busyness allows, I'll be keeping my eyes on the channel above, looking for signs of melting. Two months from now, this will be a bustling place with red and yellow winged blackbirds singing Spring's praises while mud hens chatter like old women at a hairdresser's shop. The rushes will change color, from tan to yellow to green and ultimately auburn. The wind will make the marsh dance. And I'll stop here to watch and listen as often as possible, for this is the view that lured me to this place nearly four years ago. This view. The stage for glorious sunsets. The balcony at nature's nightly operetta.

At the corner of my vision I notice the hoar frost has saturated the ends of my hair. My desire to linger among the ice-coated limbs of the barren trees wanes as the cold penetrates my flesh. There is wood to retrieve and a home to warm this morning. I decide I will return to lake's edge later in the day when the sun is a greater ally against the chill. I bid the robin farewell. We shall meet again soon, my friend. We have both made it to better side of winter with our optimism intact.

Walking on water (sort of)

The snowshoes arrived and the pruning continues.

Winter (dormant) pruning is not for the faint of heart for several reasons: walking in snow shoes raises the heart rate; it's still pretty cold outside; and the deep snow requires plenty of bending. But mostly, pruning requires courage because once the snip is made there's no turning back, no Undo button to click on, no history to delete.

That's me enjoying an afternoon outdoors not standing knee-deep in snow.

Remember when Andre Agassi had long blond locks? Then suddenly he was bald. Exactly!