Internal Contraction
My shoulders curl in on themselves. Garden weeds sneer at me as I push my way through the jungle of greenery smothering my perennial beds and moss spiral garden. Not that I expected ongoing care by my renters, but I seemed to have forgotten how prolific these weeds can be when left alone for a year. The wild berries have grown larger and nastier thorns and now drag their points down my bare arms, grab onto my hair, and wrap their tendrils around my legs. I pull out my pruning snips and cut the stems back, then toss them over onto a started compost pile. Each day I attack another section, pull out the goldenrod, boneset, asters and baby St. John's Wort starts. Without snipping off the seed heads in the Fall, the ripe earth sucks the seeds down deep into the humus for the Winter sleep and in the spring, pops them up into the warm sun and air. These shoots are everywhere amongst the remembered plants, so I sit down on the path and pull the five gallon bucket nearer to the beds. Dirt fills in under my fingernails while I rip them out of the ground and drop them into the bucket. I have ten buckets and once filled, I push them into the bed of my truck for delivery to the corner along the driveway. A bunch of years ago, a coastal storm hit the mainland somewhere in Connecticut and bounced up into Southern Vermont. My beaver pond flooded and eroded the driveway corner, so for these handful of years, my neighbor and I have continued to dump compostable brush, weeds, and clippings to re-build the integrity of the pond's edge. The storm swept through with powerful energy and sent the poor beaver family downstream. Once the food source restores itself, these hardworking creatures will be back. Right now, two streams diverge in the meadow and the corner is easy to fill. I fill ten buckets a day, then move on to other to-do list items—washing windows, setting up my woodworking shop, getting ready for winter. I push the last bucket into the truck for today, uncurl my shoulders, and head into the house for dinner.
My shoulders curl in on themselves. Garden weeds sneer at me as I push my way through the jungle of greenery smothering my perennial beds and moss spiral garden. Not that I expected ongoing care by my renters, but I seemed to have forgotten how prolific these weeds can be when left alone for a year. The wild berries have grown larger and nastier thorns and now drag their points down my bare arms, grab onto my hair, and wrap their tendrils around my legs. I pull out my pruning snips and cut the stems back, then toss them over onto a started compost pile. Each day I attack another section, pull out the goldenrod, boneset, asters and baby St. John's Wort starts. Without snipping off the seed heads in the Fall, the ripe earth sucks the seeds down deep into the humus for the Winter sleep and in the spring, pops them up into the warm sun and air. These shoots are everywhere amongst the remembered plants, so I sit down on the path and pull the five gallon bucket nearer to the beds. Dirt fills in under my fingernails while I rip them out of the ground and drop them into the bucket. I have ten buckets and once filled, I push them into the bed of my truck for delivery to the corner along the driveway. A bunch of years ago, a coastal storm hit the mainland somewhere in Connecticut and bounced up into Southern Vermont. My beaver pond flooded and eroded the driveway corner, so for these handful of years, my neighbor and I have continued to dump compostable brush, weeds, and clippings to re-build the integrity of the pond's edge. The storm swept through with powerful energy and sent the poor beaver family downstream. Once the food source restores itself, these hardworking creatures will be back. Right now, two streams diverge in the meadow and the corner is easy to fill. I fill ten buckets a day, then move on to other to-do list items—washing windows, setting up my woodworking shop, getting ready for winter. I push the last bucket into the truck for today, uncurl my shoulders, and head into the house for dinner.
"Temporal"
Unlike the pre-travel years bumping into themselves, I return knowing my time here is temporal. Each work project appearing into my schedule feels like a leaf letting go from the Fall branch. The wind takes it lightly on the breeze, and softly puts it on the ground to be raked up and deposited elsewhere. Then, it has it's own compostable life, and I walk on to another project.
This is work I know how to do. I hope for an ongoing series of smaller projects which fall quickly from the "branch" and deposit ongoing cash into my bank. My body, filled with muscle strain memory, taps me on the curled-in shoulders, and pleads for mercy.
"I have a vision of your right arm outstretched too often," my chiropractor explains in reference to the tightness along my right side.
"I know....table saw....I have no choice," I respond. I also feel the significance of "reaching" more than I wish to while here, and hold his image in my mind as I work through my days.
"When you can," he continues, "try to balance your body out using your left side."
Is there significance here as well? I dig deeper in to listen to what swirls around my feelings.
"Short term," I whisper to my body, "hang in there!"
Unlike the pre-travel years bumping into themselves, I return knowing my time here is temporal. Each work project appearing into my schedule feels like a leaf letting go from the Fall branch. The wind takes it lightly on the breeze, and softly puts it on the ground to be raked up and deposited elsewhere. Then, it has it's own compostable life, and I walk on to another project.
This is work I know how to do. I hope for an ongoing series of smaller projects which fall quickly from the "branch" and deposit ongoing cash into my bank. My body, filled with muscle strain memory, taps me on the curled-in shoulders, and pleads for mercy.
"I have a vision of your right arm outstretched too often," my chiropractor explains in reference to the tightness along my right side.
"I know....table saw....I have no choice," I respond. I also feel the significance of "reaching" more than I wish to while here, and hold his image in my mind as I work through my days.
"When you can," he continues, "try to balance your body out using your left side."
Is there significance here as well? I dig deeper in to listen to what swirls around my feelings.
"Short term," I whisper to my body, "hang in there!"
Balancing on the Root
I return to a life well known, and dig the dirt out of the way in order to find the Root. I let my local librarian know I have returned and jot down my new home phone number.
"Thank goodness," she says, "we need more volunteers. Saturday mornings still work for you?"
"Yes," I tell her.
She calls soon to schedule me as volunteer librarian at our small village two room library, open each Saturday morning from 10-12 a.m. Sometimes no one comes in. Sometimes a handful of people come to return or take out books and DVD's. We have an old system, which I appreciate, since my level of technological expertise is lacking. I flip the stamp date to a month ahead, and take out the cards from the book pockets to stamp with the date. Then write down the member number (mine, for example, is #222) and place the name card in the index file box. I can handle this. There is a rotation of volunteers for Saturday mornings and Monday evenings. The mid-week hours Tuesday through Thursday use the bona-fide librarian who also runs kids after school reading programs. Way over my head.
I start up Women's Classes in Woodworking. Two sessions fill for the Beginning class, and those having waited for my return, come to learn. I am known here in the greater community, not so much by face, but by name. People know what I do here. I am respected for my offerings.
I visit with dear local friends, drink many cups of tea, and share stories of the road.
I dig around for the root that holds me here. I do find it, down below the surface, but the roots seem shallow now, and I wonder what this will mean as I settle farther away from the road dust.
I reach out to stay in touch with the traveling life by hosting Couchsurfers and AirBnB guests in my spare bedroom. I invite continued road sharings, and hold tight to the tether linking me to the year past.
External Contraction
I pull up mental images of the Mississippi River, bloated and ready to overflow the banks. It swells. It oozes. It pushes. I also see those who need to hold the waters back with piles of sandbags. I see them adding more bags, the finger in the dike. I pile up my own imaginary sandbags against the emotional fluidity lapping up to the edge. "What have I learned from the road?" I ask myself. "Transience, for sure," I answer.
The waters ebb and flow, cycle in and out. At some point, I know that I can remove the sandbags one layer at a time and that I won't drown. The waters will recede.
The temporal quality of my perspective allows me to build a lifeboat in which I can ride the water's force and wait for the receding. On the road, I was able to just move on into a different experience in a different place. "How do I do that here?" The Root keeps pulling me back, not so much like a slingshot, but more like a weak spring. I feel the tug and inch my way backwards. I recoil my right outstretched arm back to my side and reach down to the ground with my left.
"Short term," I whisper again. And then smile in gratitude for this life I get to create with all it's complexities.
I pull up mental images of the Mississippi River, bloated and ready to overflow the banks. It swells. It oozes. It pushes. I also see those who need to hold the waters back with piles of sandbags. I see them adding more bags, the finger in the dike. I pile up my own imaginary sandbags against the emotional fluidity lapping up to the edge. "What have I learned from the road?" I ask myself. "Transience, for sure," I answer.
The waters ebb and flow, cycle in and out. At some point, I know that I can remove the sandbags one layer at a time and that I won't drown. The waters will recede.
The temporal quality of my perspective allows me to build a lifeboat in which I can ride the water's force and wait for the receding. On the road, I was able to just move on into a different experience in a different place. "How do I do that here?" The Root keeps pulling me back, not so much like a slingshot, but more like a weak spring. I feel the tug and inch my way backwards. I recoil my right outstretched arm back to my side and reach down to the ground with my left.
"Short term," I whisper again. And then smile in gratitude for this life I get to create with all it's complexities.