Thursday, November 16, 2017

Rare and Sharp

It hasn’t snowed yet, not really. There have been some powdered-sugar dustings. There have been some flurries between footsteps during morning chores. Every few days the wind picks up and the dial turns down low enough that it smells like snow; but it hasn’t happened yet. I so look forward to it.

When it does snow a couple thousand decisions gather together in my heart and collapse like sand in a funnel. Some of the grains are beautiful memories, accomplishments, sunsets, and soft kisses. Some of them are terrible monsters, failures, dead things, panic attacks. They add up one at a time inside me with their tiny weights. Seven years here at this farm (soon to be eight) and the grains add up to a handful. I’m still farming because most of that weight is from good decisions. It’s from good memories. There’s a black stone’s worth of bad weight in the bag and I value it just as much.

So when it snows here I will have that sand-sunk heart. And the weight of it will be just enough to slide into an old armchair with some hot coffee and watch the snow fall. As the world turns mean outside I will have the firewood burning and candles lit. I’ll have a kitchen stocked with hundreds of pounds of stocked food. I’ll have hay in my barn. I’ll have bred does and ewes. I’ll have kind dogs at my feet. I’ll have a hawk ready to hunt when the snow lays like a promise, perfect and still. I’ll have the stories in books that fill me up with adventure and joy.

And I’ll sit with that sand. All the good and bad parts swirling together into that exact moment in stolen time where new snow falls on tired land. I’ll sit with it and know I am okay with all of it. And feeling that way about your life and what brought you to the place you are at right now — that’s a lucky thing. Rare and sharp.