Spring renewal

It’s not that the world has suddenly healed itself and “life is good,” like the pastel tee shirts declare, and it’s not that I am suddenly stress free and feeling good. It’s simply that I have re-found that sweet spot, that balance in my life I have so carefully constructed between my beloved New York City and my soul-renewal New Hampshire. My feet have shucked my pavement worn shoes. My watch gathers dust on the bookshelf. My car does not have to move to one side of the street one day, and the other side the next; it sits beneath my beech tree in my yard and is ready whenever I am to take a spin to town, or up the road to see if the baby moose is still naïve about human’s capacity for stupidity. The winter fall branches are gathered, sawed up for kindling or quick warming morning fires in the pot belly stove; the perennials are uncovered and the annuals planted and covered a couple nights a week right now to survive the frost. I climbed the roof to lay out the solar sheet, and struggled to get back on the ladder to get down; not as young or as agile as I used to be, but what the heck, makes for some exciting moments. The cat seems to know that when I seem to be packing or moving things like laundry bags to the car, it doesn’t mean I am ready to pounce on him, stash him in his cat carrier, and launch us on yet another trip back to New York City, (three times this spring). The tom turkey brought one of his more sizable lady-friends to feast on the chipmunk seeds, and a lone hen turkey not so sizable came alone later on in the day. The ravens come every morning for bread, and if I forget, they squawk outside my bedroom window until I do get up and remedy my oversight. Yes, all is well here. The mosquitoes and the black flies are double-teaming this spring---the air is thick with them you inhale them if you open your mouth. They are hungry and I have fed some well. It’s too cold to swim right now, so heating the water in the kettle will have to suffice, even my outdoor shower hasn’t warmed up yet—not much sun during the day, and too cold nights. People drop by, people from my childhood, people from my community here, my family, people who seem as if I just talked to them yesterday, but it was months and months ago. There’s a sense of belonging that is totally different than in the city, not better, not worse, just different. Someday I will have to explore words to capture that difference yet sameness, but I’m too tired tonight. My brother Larry stopped in with a word processing question; he’s working on some political epistles for the Town of Jackson. This should be an eventful summer; you don’t stir the pot up here unless you are ready to have everyone and his or her brother gets into the act. Nothing happens anonymously up here. In New York City, it would be weird if three or four people a day dropped by for a cup of coffee, maybe borrow a book, and shoot the shit with you. But here, it would be unsociable if you just drove by. I am a lover of aloneness, of self ness. Both in the city and in the mountains, I mark my territory with invisible fences. They’re just a bit more porous here.