It is early morning, and the sun has yet to rise. Perhaps there is a faint brightening over the mountain to the east, but the light is not enough to amount to anything.
It is cold. I know, because I needed wood for the stove. So I went out. Out into the dark. Out into the morning that is still night. The air assaulted my body like a bucket of thrown water. It made me wake up.
I do not want to be awake. I want to be in bed, in that luxurious, in between state of half wake and half sleep, when thoughts drift in and out of awareness, incomplete and yet seemingly full of meaning.
Awake means thinking ahead to the day’s work. Today is January 2nd, the day after a holiday and the first of the month. Work is guaranteed to be heavy. There may be water bills or electric or Co-Op magazines or Tennessee Electric magazines or DTC magazines or any combination of them all. Maybe there will be something in all of it that someone actually wants. Certainly an anticipated package. I rermind myself there is meaning and purpose to what I do.
There. The day grows brighter. At least the light reveals the heavy, gray clouds that cover the sky like a thick blanket. A blanket that reminds the land and the leafless trees to sleep.
Seasonal depression is real, y’all. Have a good day anyway.
Saturday evening I got a text message from a coworker, “You’d better bid on Route 1. I’m bidding on Route 3!” Well, I already had, just in case.
Route 1 is the route I trained on. Route 1 is the route I live on. I would argue that Route 1 is the most rural of the rural routes in the county, and I love it.
But I also love my little, barely-a-route in Bradyville. There’s just the three of us in the office of a morning. The atmosphere could not be more relaxed. The roads are decent, and the route is short. I’m done for the day by 1-2 pm. What’s more, Amazon delivers their own packages in Bradyville, so I don’t have to deal with that mess. However, it is a six-day-a-week route, because it is so small.
Moving to Route 1 in Woodbury would mean moving back to the larger Woodbury office, but I enjoy those folks too. It would mean a significant increase in pay, which will also affect my retirement income. But it means longer days, Amazon packages, and, the worst of it, the purchase of a van to deliver them.
Not that long ago, I was holding down a route (the one that’s finally opened up to allow these moves and the availability of route 1) and working over sixty hours a week. The money, for a substitute carrier, was insane. But I was miserable.
We are conditioned by our total and complete immersion in capitalism to believe we should make all the money we can. At least that’s true for my generation. When I left that route and moved to Bradyville, my income was cut by about a third. But living off-grid as I do, I don’t have many expenses, so I was okay.
If I move to Route 1, I’ll be making about what I was when my job as an editor was eliminated some six years ago. There’s enough of that capitalistic indoctrination within me to be proud of that possibility.
Really, the thing that gives me the greatest pause is the idea of buying a van. That’s a huge investment that will take awhile to recover. I’m only planning to work for five more years. On the other hand, I’ve been uncomfortable not having a backup vehicle even on my current little route.
As I have pondered the decision, I have asked myself, “What will make me happy?” It is with delight that I say I will be happy either way. If I move to Route 1, with its additional hours and additional pay and additional packages and additional vehicle, I will still find time to enjoy the things I love, time with the boyfriend, time in the garden, time piddling and nesting. I may need to be more intentional about it, but happiness will happen either way.
I’ll probably do it. If I do, I hope I can remember to be happy as I deliver mail and packages on the country roads that I call home.
Every morning, this rooster across the hollow crows in a minor key. It makes me think of that children’s toy, the See N Say. What if the rooster from that toy sounded like this mournful bird I hear crowing every day?
I can imagine the play time. The parent says, “What does the cow say?” “Mooooo!” the child replies happily. “What does the dog say?” “Arf! Arf!” comes the reply with a smile.” And what does the rooster say?” Sad face, lips pouted, shoulders slumped, “Cockadoodledoo.”
What happened in this poor rooster’s life that taught him this melancholy cry? Maybe nothing specific happened. Maybe the rooster isn’t a morning rooster. Maybe the rooster is just being realistic.
Back and forth. In and out. The bluebirds work throughout the day to feed their chicks. Is it really work that drives them? Instinct? Or is it love? If love makes possible all that is, then I see love at work as I watch the bluebirds.
The bluebirds’ love spills over me. As I observe them, my heart rate slows. My respiration steadies. My stress melts away. I feel love.
I hear their sweet, soft song. It sounds like comfort. It sounds like promise. It sounds like love.
(Food and Water is part of a series inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem, Poets to Come, which expects writers to write about the main things.)
Dinner is served, each dish familiar and lovingly prepared. The family and a few friends stand around the table that has become an altar and give thanks. It is Thanksgiving. Though each of us is grateful for the food, none of us mentions it. Instead, we express gratitude for those main things that make us happy. This ritual is a main thing. It makes us happy, and we are grateful.
Whether it’s an elevated holiday meal steeped in tradition and shared with family, or a Sonic #1 combo eaten alone in the car, meals are communal. Even when eating fast food alone, farmers, distributors, cooks, and wait staff make the meal possible. But it’s harder to see the connection.
I have eaten alone more this past year than at any other point in my life. There’s a loneliness and sadness to that. I miss meals with college friends, when we laughed until our faces hurt. I miss hurried breakfasts, as the children rushed off to school. I miss weekly neighborhood potlucks, canceled because of the pandemic. The food that I eat alone nourishes me physically, but I am emotionally and spiritually hungry.
I bet there are others who feel the same. May we find each other and share a meal.
Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me. I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define it, Expecting the main things from you.
—Walt Whitman
If I’m to be a writer, Walt Whitman expects main things from my writing, so I figure I should know what the main things are. Below is an ordered list without explanation. The explanations will be what I write about. Thank you, Walt.
Making the list, especially prioritizing it, was harder than I thought it would be. I welcome additions and reordering suggestions.
Not only is there not enough time for both Whitman and Facebook, but also, more importantly, there’s not enough space in my brain.
Reading Walt Whitman makes me slow down. I can’t scroll/like/scroll/refresh as is my wont on Facebook. Facebook is drive-through fast food. Whitman is a sit-down, five-course (or at least three-course) meal. But just like stopping at Sonic for a number one with tater tots and a vanilla sweet tea can easily become a habit, scrolling Facebook can become one too. Do it too much and I start to feel lousy.
You are what you eat. I don’t want to be Facebook. I want to be Whitman. Anyone who’s been on a diet will tell you it isn’t easy to stick with it long enough to see change. But it’s possible.
I’m going to change my diet from Facebook to Whitman. And I might let my beard grow out again 😜
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Repent and believe the gospel.”
That’s depressing as hell. “Happy Ash Wednesday!” Said no one, ever.
These words, at the heart of the Ash Wednesday liturgy, are abrupt and harsh. They force us to think about that which we normally spend time and energy avoiding—death. We don’t like being reminded that we’re mortal, that there’s this looming end for us, that our lives will cease to be.
Our fear of death leads us to find ways to mask our mortality. We pay for makeup, anti-aging creams, hair dyes, and medical procedures that we hope will make us look younger. We laugh at death when we joke about our age. Ha! This birthday I got an AARP card invitation in the mail. Time to use that senior discount! We entertain ourselves with sacry movies that are about out running death.
Ash Wednesday cuts through all that deflection and says, “You are dirt, and you are going to be dirt.”
But then the liturgy immediately offers more, “Repent and believe the gospel.”
“Repent” literally means “turn around and go the other way.” In this context (and really in every context), repent means to stop being afraid. You might associate repentance with sin and think that to repent means to stop sinning. But if you look deeper, you’ll find that fear is at the heart of all sin.
So repent, stop being afraid, and believe the gospel. What is the gospel?
See, I’ve already lost so many friends at this point in this post, because the post is just too churchy. So many people I know want nothing to do with Christianity, and rightfully so. The church, which claims to house the faith, has hurt them too long and too deeply for them to see words like “repent” or “sin” or “the gospel.” Frankly, I somewhat count myself among them.
It’s sad. Because if you strip away all of the religiosity and church trappings, “the gospel” simply means “love.”
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Repent and believe the gospel.”
Means…
“Yeah, you’re going to die. Stop being afraid of it and love instead.”
I’d much rather spend my life loving and being loved than being afraid. Wouldn’t you?
No, I had enough half-and-half for my coffee, and the Häagen-Dazs sure as hell ain’t melted. I came home around 9 pm after a lovely, if a bit surreal (we were the only four folks at the restaurant) dinner with Førge and friends. The source of direity was: it’s cold. 27° was the low.
My oil lamps were frozen again, and my 1 lb propane canisters were empty. The plan was to refill them from the big tank I’d purchased earlier in the day. This refilling relies on the smaller tank being colder than the larger talk, so when they are hooked together, the liquid propane transfers to the cooler tank. It’s worked several times before, but last night the tanks were not cooperating. No propane transfered, and I couldn’t warm up the room before bed.
I could have gone to Førge’s. I could have gone to my landmate’s place where I saw evidence of a toasty fire. But some kind of—this will put hair on my chest, I’m a survivor, don’t be a wimp—mentality kicked in. Instead, I layered the bed, and I layered myself, then I nestled under the covers with Fred. (Gracie’s is in hospital at Førge’s while I work today.) Eventually, warm and cozy, I started drifting off to sleep until I thought, Don’t people say they start feeling warm and sleepy BEFORE THEY FREEZE TO DEATH?
No, it really wasn’t that. I truly was warm and cozy. The most dire thing that I experienced during THE COLD NIGHT WHEN MY PROPANE CANISTERS WOULDN’T REFILL AND I ALMOST DIED was, when I started typing up this account of it, my fingers were too cold to make the keypad on the phone work correctly.
I’m ok. May love and warmth find those for whom the cold is no joke and really is life threatening.
icanhasgrace 