"Maybe, when we live so close to nature, so near to the tree next door that provides shelter and heat, we can better hear the tick of its clock." It snowed yesterday. I walked the three and a half miles to town, grateful that the clean powder had temporarily covered the ugly slush of spring melting. The tromp seemed long and dream-like, bathing my face in melted snowflakes and soaking through my cotton leggings, almost as a punishment for my temporary lapse in care surrounding wardrobe practicality. The time of transition arrived two weeks ago, but it is not sudden in the way I imagined, like the weather cannot bear to sever ties just yet. We are walking into spring gradually, splashing water on our feet and our knees and ever-so-slowly wading in to our torso and backing out when the change feels too abrupt. When I think back to the dusky light of early December, the days feel sleepy and veiled. Never before have I felt such a biological tie to seasonal change. The light and the weather affect everything from daily activities to modes of transportation to bed times to energy levels. I feel like I’m awaking from an internal hibernation, full of activities that deeply engage the self and disengage from the external pillars of reality. And I, like the weather, cannot quite decide whether I am ready to sever ties with winter, to embrace the forward movement and the new faces and responsibilities. To part with the stars, the deep cloak of nighttime, the expectant light of dawn and dusk; to replace them all with the bracing sounds and smells of sunlight at three o’clock in the morning: what a perfect mixture of regret and hope. As I write, I think of the sunlight that indirectly powers my ability to share these words. Maybe, when we live so close to nature, so near to the tree next door that provides shelter and heat, we can better hear the tick of its clock. And maybe when the whims of the outside world have a real and deep effect on the quality and texture of our daily lives, we more closely embody the shifts in seasons. To me, the winter blues or the carefree feelings of summer are the mild effects of these sways, but here, different facets of my person seem to live in different seasons. It feels dynamic and deeply instinctual, like I live at the mercy of the wilderness that surrounds me. It is satisfying, and a wonderful exercise in loosening my grip on the control board. Along with the expectancy and stickiness that accompany the in between, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I survived the winter. I survived the dark and the cold, although they were not as intense as they often are. I learned how to knit and cross country ski. I spent time with writing and music and gained wisdom from yoga and books. I grew in directions that I didn’t even know existed. And my sense of what I need, what is essential to a happy, healthy, human existence, downsized and shifted to a much simpler perspective. The starts in the window are beginning to poke through the soil, sloughing off pepper and tomato seed hats to unfurl their proud green of new life. They encourage me to embrace the spring and summer to come, to release the internal cave of quiet winter, and to dance in the midnight sun. Check out the first section of my new Alaska-inspired short story here! Also, I’ll be posting a series of short, how-to articles about everything from growing sprouts at home to knitting a hat to converting an old freezer into a composter. Stay tuned, and happy spring!
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Meet ErinJournalist, adventurer, writer, musician, dancer, linguist, and cook, ready to tell you about her ridiculous attempts to live in the Alaskan wilderness without running water and live beyond the woods Archives
April 2016
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