Embracing the Struggle

Weds., Mar. 5,2014

Even when we're fully entranced by our dream, we face struggles.  But the heat of the struggle can make us feel alive, can give us the occasion to stop and see the larger beauty of our lives, can challenge us, and in forcing us to meet the challenge, can make us stronger.

The wind bit at my fingers yesterday as I hung wet sheets, flapping, on the laundry line. The 20 degree F air and gusting wind stiffened the fabric within seconds, until the cotton sheets felt like cumbersome canvas sails.  A thick winter parka kept my body untouched by tendrils of cold, but my bare fingers turned red and numb, and I paused every few minutes to tuck them against my neck to warm them.  Oh the cold!

As I was forced to stop work and reinvigorate my fingers, the kinetic rhythm of my life paused.  I was able to see a larger picture -- the blessing of being outdoors among the cardinals and crows, the cucumber tree and the cats in the yard.  I could see the terrain rolling away out to the horizon.  The light covering of snow outlined every curve and hillock underneath the bare-limbed woods.  Down in the pasture below me, a solitary Song Sparrow sang his optimistic tune.  The scent of fresh clean air filled my lungs.  The wind brushed my cheek.  The invigoration of a moment in nature after a winter tucked away like a mole indoors filled me with joy.

 My dog rolled on his back and kicked his feet in the air, his mouth hung open, tongue lolling in a doggy grin.  He could feel my excitement at the gift of being in nature, the gift of the lilting music of the Song Sparrow's bouncing call, the gift of being fully alive in the moment.  Hanging laundry often does this for me.  It should be on the chore list, but pegging out clean, wet garments to let nature dry them with a breeze, and bringing in the scent of fresh air to perfume my house feels like a balm.

The experience brought to mind a video made in the 1970's about Dolly Freed, author of Possum Living.  Dolly and her dad lived the tightwad dream, growing, gathering and making what they needed to survive with their hands and their wits on $1,500 a year (or $9500 in 2014 dollars).  I delighted in watching Dolly sort through wheat she had bought at the feed & seed, pouring it out onto the kitchen table and manually cleaning it of stones, bugs and chaff before grinding it to make flat breads. (Possum Living Video part 2 of 3 ).  Her sure, quick motions, her confidence at knowing how to provide for herself and her dad through simple means drew me in and made me admire the plucky young woman.

What is it about simple manual labor that makes it comforting to watch, even if tedious to perform?  I admit I am always trying to get done with the grunt work to move on to something "important."  But, having clean fresh-smelling laundry is important.  And manual labor has its own rhythm and charm. Done with skill and appreciation, manual labor is beautiful, an ancient dance performed by humans back down the years.  What is it about modern life as a woman that has me downgrading its importance?  I have seen my mother-in-law's hands fly through a peck of sweet peas, shelling the tiny peas out of their wrappers in a trice.  Beauty I admire.  I suppose I am always pushing myself to be more and to get more done.

At the end of the day, if I've been efficient in my manual work, I have well-tended chickens, fresh bread, a clean house, and a home-cooked dinner to show for my time. In the summer months, a day's manual labor buys me rows of neatly-planted onion starts, or the broccoli crop transplanted into fortified soil (alfalfa pellets, bone meal, greensand and rotted horse manure added), alongside soaker hoses all contained under plastic "mulch" (a sheet of black plastic) and covered over with hoops and insect netting to foil the cabbage moths.  A pause to look over the work done, and the gift of the day is wrapped up with dinner with my family, and a chance to share stories, relax and laugh together.

May your day be filled with appreciation for whatever work you do, struggle and all.
Betsy