Getting Mugged

 

Now that it's spring, I needed a new mug. 
When Mother came home today with one for her and one for me, I held mine up to my husband and said, "My spring mug!" 
"Your what?"
The look on his face reminded me of something I wrote after our renovation ten years ago... 

Gentlemen, if you’re going to ask the woman in your life the question, “Do you really think you need...?” don’t be surprised at the response. There’s only one reasonable answer to give you, and that’s The Look. 

Familiar, centuries-old, perhaps even genetically implanted, this facial expression is a mixture of disbelief and disdain. It is usually followed by the word, “Yes.”

Shoes. Scarves. Hats. Magazines. Nail polish. Cookbooks. Cats. It doesn’t matter what the collection is, if it’s in a woman’s house, it’s important. If it means something to her, it’s unquestionable.  

My husband and I were slowly putting the house back together after the renovations are completed. Since cooking was a priority once we’d moved back in, all the boxes containing pots and utensils and graters and measuring spoons were unpacked first; the only boxes left to unpack were two boxes of mugs. My mugs.

“Do you really think you need so many mugs?” my husband asked after I announced that my least-favourite mugs would have to go on the top shelf because I couldn’t reach it without a stepping stool.

I froze, mug in hand, and stared at him. This from the man who uses the same two mugs every day for every beverage. This time, however, instead of giving him The Look and The Word, I tried a new tactic: The Explanation.

“Well, each of these mugs serves a specific purpose,” I began. “Some are for morning coffee, others are for afternoon tea. Within those categories, they are further subdivided into mugs for perked coffee or instant coffee, mugs for black tea, mugs for green tea. Of course, if it’s chai tea in the morning, it’s a certain mug, the one that matches my yoga mat since that’s what I’m doing when I drink that tea, BUT if it’s chai tea in the afternoon, I use that tall brown mug there...”

By now, my husband’s eyes had glazed over and he had this strange half-smile on his face.

“You’re doing a great job, honey,” he murmured before stumbling off, shaking his head as though there was some strange buzzing sound inside it. 

I looked down at the mug in my hand. It was dark blue, picked up at a pottery shop on the Island many summers ago during a day trip with my parents. What a shame my husband walked away so soon. Every one of my two dozen mugs had a story and I would have gladly shared each one with him, over a pot of blueberry tea...which goes in the dark blue mug.

~ by Sara Jewell - cross-posted on Facebook 

My Favourite Sight

I will never, ever tire of seeing this view out my bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen windows. In any season, looking out and seeing the chicken coop makes me happy, makes me feel content -- even when I'm fretting about things. It appears my current bout of fretting and anxiety and even despair has passed; I'm fortunate that these things do pass for me, since they are career-related. The past year and a half certainly makes me more empathetic to those who struggle daily with depression and anxiety. 

Speaking of making people happy, the book sale - which ran again on Sunday because of low turnout on Saturday - raised over $600 for a local, rural library. Very pleased about that. And it was nice to have conversations with people - live and in person! - about books.

We woke up to a couple of inches of snowing that arrived silently during the night. Apparently, it is only snowing down river this morning; Dwayne drove into town and says "half a mile up the road, there's nothing". Oh, the micro-climates in Nova Scotia, and we seem to live in a micro micro-climate! It may seem unfair to teachers and students to have a snow day on the first day of March  Break, but I thought it a good day to stay in my pajamas and read; that lasted until 11 a.m. Shouldn't have turned my phone on.

As much as I love this view, I don't write much about country living anymore; it does develop a rhythm and a sameness. I value that, even if I chafe at the isolation (not related to the pandemic but because resources and opportunities are so far away from where I live). It seems my writing is moving into a new area: my spiritual writing may be taking me in a new direction. That will require exploring new ways to get my thoughts and ideas out into the world -- a new blog? a video channel? what else is out there?! -- but none of that needs to happen soon. I realized that I was trying too hard and putting pressure on myself to create my "next big thing" without actually knowing what that entails or what I need. So I put the brakes on. Actually, I braked, pulled the car off the road, and parked it. 

Figuratively, I got out of that car and walked away. Right now, I consider myself "laying fallow" like a field, taking a rest, resting my heart and my mind in order to rejuvenate them, taking a break from all the striving and pushing and not getting anywhere; it's time to lay back and watch the clouds float by. I've done enough work that I can rest and be still, let the soil of my spirit regain nutrients -- be inspired again -- and see what road opens up because of that work. 

And you know, living where life is quiet and simple, relatively unchanging, and predictable still seems the perfect place for a writer like me to live. The chicken coop remains my symbol of belonging and contentment, as well as a reminder that sometimes you have to break the eggs in order to make something new... 

Every Sunrise, Every Sunset

 

As I go through my books to see what I'm willing to part with in our book sale -- and that's hard because so often, I'll let a book go then need it for an article or sermon -- I'm realizing how many pages are dog-eared to mark important ideas or ideas that I liked.

I found this one in Sharon Butala's memoir of moving from the city to the country, in Saskatchewan: 

"In my reading and occasionally in conversation with urban visitors, I hear or read people either saying directly or implying indirectly that true rural people don't notice or appreciate the beauty in which they live. Although I don't say so, the arrogance and ignorance of such remarks always makes me angry, implying as it does that rural people lack humanity, are somehow an inferior branch of the human species, that beauty is beyond their ken. It is one thing to come from  the city and be overwhelmed by the beauty of Nature and to speak of it, and another thing entirely to have lived in it so long that it has seeped into your bones and your blood and is inseparable from your own being, so that it is part of you and requires no mention or hymns of praise."

~ The Perfection of the Morning: An Apprenticeship in Nature, (2004), page 89

Having moved from the city to rural Nova Scotia nearly twenty years ago, having lived here in rural Nova Scotia for almost 14 years, I know what Butala is writing about. I am still in awe of the huge sky and the sprawling fields and all the trees [that are left], by the deer and rabbit and coyote tracks, by the creaking of the ice on the river, by the eagles flying overhead.

There will never be a day when I don't notice, when I don't appreciate. Because I'm still delighted to realize I live here, under that big sky, alongside that winding river, beneath the wings of the eagle. 

But my husband, A TRUE RURAL PERSON, he understands this space, this place, these woods and fields and rivers in a way I never will. He doesn't notice or appreciate in the way I do - consciously, intentionally, vocally. His noticing, his appreciating is done in breath, in heart beat, in eye blink, in the subtle twitch of an ear. Woven into his genetic fabric, through several generations, he doesn't even know he's noticing, isn't even aware he's appreciating. 

With his chronic pain, and his frustration at not being able to do the things outside that he used to do and wants to do, I think Dwayne is even more in tune; grief has a way of honing the senses, of focusing on what is lost. Yet I can't help but hope the sky and fields and woods and river are healing, even if there is no cure for what ails him. 

The Butala book is staying on my bookshelf, I think. 

BOOK SALE!

Mother and I usually donate books to the Cumberland Public Library's annual book sale but, thanks to the pandemic, that didn't happen last year and, thanks to the pandemic, it's not happening this year. That means there are A DOZEN boxes of books clogging the upstairs hallway.

My husband fears the whole upstairs is going to collapse on him (I've said this before - because he keeps saying this - yeesh). 

So we need to get rid of some books. 

At the same time, the Oxford branch of the CPL  is moving into its new location -- and it needs money to buy stuff! So we're holding this BOOK SALE as a FUNDRAISER for our local library.

Saturday, March 13

9 am to noon

My house on Route 301 - there will be a sign at our driveway.

(If you're up for a drive & need more specific directions, email me at jewellofawriter "at" gmail dot com)

There will also be HOUSEHOLD STUFF for sale, with those proceeds going to the "new" Oxford library as well. 

It would be really nice to have the hallway to my office free and clear again! I feel like it's been a long time since it was a proper hallway.

Notes: I know that font in the graphic is hard to read but it's very cool. Also, that is not my country road but it, too, was a cool photo. There is very little in me that is practical. I know the rules but I choose to follow my heart! 

Driving In Silence

 

When I am booked for a day of substitute teaching, I start my day with this view: the sun rising over the River Philip where it meets the Northumberland Strait. 

I have a particular practice for my drive to school: I do it in silence. I listen to the 7:30 local news as I'm pulling out of my driveway, then I turn off the radio. No more news, no chatting, no music. Not even classical.

I tried classical, it was lovely, but I prefer the silence.

I need the silence.

Whether I'm doing the 15 minute drive or the 30 minute one, this time of silence -- and eye-boggling beauty -- centers me for the day. It calms me and allows me to speak kindly to myself (especially necessary if my brain has given me a 3 a.m. blast of negativity and doubt and worry). I tell myself I am a good teacher, I am capable and intuitive, and trust my instincts. I remind myself teaching is meant to serve the students; this work is not about me, about my insecurities and regrets, but about being the best teacher and mentor and cheerleader these students deserve. Even if I feel I have failed to become the teacher I should have been twenty-five, even fifteen years ago, I am not failing them when I bring my enthusiasm and creative and good nature into the classroom, when I meet them where they are in that moment on that day. 

And it works. By the time I arrive at school, I embody the words and I carry the power of the silence into the school. 

One of the greatest problems of the modern world is our lack of silence. We are bombarded all the time with sounds and images -- noise for our ears and eyes, for our minds and spirits -- and we don't get the chance to think our own thoughts, hear our own voice. 

We don't give ourselves time in silence anymore. We are afraid of what we will discover, what we will hear, what truth we will face. It happens -- I've been shocked and upset by what surfaces in the silence as I walk or drive. But it's necessary -- the silence AND the truth. We can't keep rolling down our road without knowing who is driving and why we are going in that direction. 

I told this to the Grades P-1-2's the other day, that we need to take breaks from our computer games, that we can't hear our own voice if we don't find silence every so often, that we need to hear our own thoughts and our own ideas rather than listening to everyone else's all the time. 

I attempted to plant a seed of knowledge, self-knowledge, in them. 

I do this, in my substitute teaching -- toss little seeds of hard-earned wisdom to them. I get a day, one chance, and all I can hope is my seeds fall on a couple of fertile hearts and minds. 

Drifting

 I tried to put it into words in a conversation last night with my best friend: "It's as if everything else has to fall away so that I am forced to do what I've been avoiding, so that I'm forced to do what I have to do." 

That's as eloquent as I could be but she understood: The writing is done because the teaching wants attention. As long as I can justify writing a book or working on an article, I will not pursue teaching opportunities, and honestly, I want to. And I need to. 

I never thought, after the last fourteen years, that I would reach a point where I wouldn't be writing anymore. But I'm tired of my freelance life; I'm tired of juggling three jobs that don't provide a routine or financial stability. The pandemic, and the new focus on Indigenous writers and writers of colour, has shrunk publishing, leaving little or no room for the gentle musings of a white, middle class, middle-aged woman. It's sad that my writing is better than it ever has been, but it's still not good enough. 

This happens. A great hockey player gets hurt and can no longer play; what does he do with the rest of his life? A famous soprano develops nodes on her vocal chords; what does she do with the rest of her life? A brain surgeon hurts her dominant hand in a car accident; what does she do with the rest of her life? 

You get my drift. 

Someone is always letting go of a dream, of a goal, a plan, a relationship, a future they'd hoped for, counted on, really, really wanted. 

Right now, I have five books on submission. 

Five. In four different genres. That's incredible. Incredibly stupid, perhaps. It's just me doing what I've always done: not putting my eggs in one basket, throwing a lot of rocks up into a tree to see what I knock down, trying to keep my options open. If no one wants my non-fiction, why not try fiction? If no one wants my novel, maybe they'd want a children's book? People seem to like my spiritual writing so let's pitch that book. It doesn't matter, as long as I'm writing. 

Then again, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different result. 

I've run out of options, and I've run out of hope. That's why I've shifted to curiousity. Hope is attached to something - a certain book I want to publish, a particular class I'd really like to teach - and that hope can be dashed. But curiousity has no attachment; curiousity allows me to try, apply, reply, to  see what happens, and be happy when it does, whatever it is. It's different, I promise - hope versus curiousity. The non-attachment is important; it frees me up to let go of writing, let go of expectations, and lets me try anything. Curiousity gives me confidence, whereas hope makes me anxious. 

Trust me, I know what the opposite of hope is and it's not a happy place. So I'm curious about what is going to happen next. 

I'm still writing, of course, but there's no pressure on it. It's contest season so there are four essays to submit to four competitions; likely the last year I'll do this. There's a novel I'm going to work on but I'm not thinking about getting it published; it's just to keep me writing, it's just to say I finally finished it. 

Being adrift -- drifting like snowflakes in the wind -- piling up and melting away -- is not so bad. I'm curious what I'll end up doing. I'm confident I'll end up doing something interesting. I realized the other day, I've always done interesting things, I just didn't realize it. Didn't appreciate the opportunities I was given because I had certain ideas about my life and my goals locked down -- which didn't allow me to see better ideas. 

What am I going to do with the rest of my life? I don't know. For the first time, I'm not concerned. I'm not even scared -- and I should be! I really should be! That's the power of curiousity: Something better will come along, and now I'm ready to welcome it, whatever it is. 

The Death of a Chicken, Then and Now

When I first moved to Nova Scotia and married Dwayne, our first goal was establishing a flock of chickens. 

A year earlier, before I'd even met Dwayne and while vacationing alone at our then-summer home on Pugwash Point, I decided having a chicken coop in my backyard was a major sign of success. It meant I'd accomplished something. 

So Dwayne made that dream happen. 

Chickens are a great way to start with farm animals (sadly, despite my greatest efforts, they have not proven to be a gateway to bigger livestock); they are easy to take care of, but there was a bit of a learning curve for me (often involving my Disney-style of chicken keeping and Dwayne's longtime country boy style). Especially when it came to dead chickens. 

It's been over 12 years since we built the chicken coop and moved in an ever-changing flock of hens; we're on our third rooster. Our first one was short-lived; being inclined to fly out of the pen, he was grabbed by a fox on his third or fourth day with us. When it comes to death and the chickens, we've been lucky; we haven't had any issues with marauding raccoons getting into the coop, or the pen, and killing a bunch of hens all at once. We lost one pet hen, Betty, to a fox -- she was snatched out of the yard while Dwayne was mowing the lawn! 

On the other hand, Sasha, who suffered a terrible head injury at the beaks of her fellow hens, survived the attack then survived free-ranging all over the yard as she recovered. That's the hen who passed away of natural causes, but ended up riding around in the back of Dwayne's truck in the days following his stroke. 

That marked the first time I personally disposed of a dead hen. Up until then (2018), I'd always left it up to Dwayne to get rid of the bodies. But the day after he returned home from hospital, I realized what his chore the week before was supposed to be -- and we both realized he'd forgotten to drop Sasha's body off in the woods on the way into town. It was up to me to drive the truck, with Sasha's decomposing body in the back (remember, this was August!), up the old lane and cart her deep into our woods where the dog wouldn't find her. 

I placed her under some ferns and placed leaves over her body. As I held my breath. 

From then on, disposing of the bodies of dead hens was my job, which is why they now get a burial and a little ceremony. 

When I think back to the first time I opened the coop door to see a chicken lying dead on the floor and remember how I freaked out and cried and couldn't deal with the floppy-headed body, it's a source of pride (okay, this might get weird) that I now can pick up a body, place it on the shovel and take it out to the field to bury it. 

Or take it into the woods and place it in a snowy grave where the fox might find it. 

This was the subject of one of my essays in Field Notes, and it keeps coming up: how people in the country, people who live around wildlife, who have livestock live closer to death than people who live in towns and cities. Many of us experience the death of a pet, but the consistency and dependability of death in a rural area is unique, I still believe, and gives us a greater appreciation of life and a better equanimity about death. 

What do I say to a hen I'm burying? 
"Thanks for the eggs. Thanks for being a good hen."