Let There Be Silence

Never did I think that 33-degrees would feel warm, but coming on nearly three weeks of temperatures around 18-degrees during the day with a wind chill of -2 or less, it did! To celebrate, after I fed the critters, I took some time to feed the wild birds and to just watch the sky.

Living so far from anyone, we have a very delicious opportunity to enjoy complete silence -- at least as silent as one gets in the country.

While I crunched along on the icy snow, Waldo, our orange cat, made sure to keep me in sight and to help me with the feeders. As I took the feeders out of trees or off shepherd's crooks, Waldo would scoot up the nearest tree, posing as if he were a cat bird, which, in fact, he was. He'd perch on the most unlikely limbs, bobbing up and down, hanging by his nails and enjoying the reprieve from the bitter cold.

Moose and Anabelle were preoccupied with the Franken-deer they have dragged into the yard, but they paused to chase Lydia, our black and white cat, and to snoop under the feeders to see if there was anything there for puppies. Then, they would return to their cairn, as dogs do.

Feeders filled, I settled on the front steps to watch the sky a little longer. Snow, sigh, is forecasted yet again tonight. I had forgotten, in all the brittle cold, how the sky takes on a nearly silver-grey colour with charcoal clouds resembling sheep and how it all begins to ebb and flow. The sky becomes nearly fluid as the clouds seem to jocky for position, making sure to fill each inch of the sky. Specks of blue slipped in and out of the coming snow fall; the moon began to rise behind the ridge across from the house, but was shielded from view by the flock of clouds.

All was silent except for the infrequent crowing of Petie, our rooster, or the does' bells as they silently settled into their stalls. The guinea, who sleeps with the goats, announced their arrival with her usual "pot-rack, pot-rack, pot-rack!" Hollie lowed, as mother's do, urging Copper to come settle down for the night. A few birds flitted to and from the feeders for one last snack and then, hush, all we could hear was the creek as it giggled and warpled through the ice toward the river.

The dogs and cats clamor to me, stumbling over my feet and settling in my lap and on either side of me. We sat in silence, watching the deer in the few bare, brown spots on the hillside. How long we sat, I do not know. A calm filled me and I was grateful for home, for silence, for time. Slowly, I realized my hands were growing numb from the finger tips up; the dogs were restless, ready for dinner. The cats were eager to begin their night stalk of the mice and rats in the barns. Regretfully, my reverie over, I stand, turn on the porch and enter the back door.

Twilight

This is the view from the front porch of Lazy Bee Farm just at twilight.... the most perfect time of day. Tonight, as I came in from milking, both guys were gone and I could linger and watch the night come on. The crisp air was broken by the kiss-kiss of one of the cardinal pairs we have living in the woods just behind the house. I adore hearing them call, sounding as if they are tossing kisses to each other.

The chickens had put themselves to bed and were singing their night time song. It is a cross between a hum and a whisper and makes me smile to myself when I hear it. They sound so content! The goats baaad in unison as they began their stroll to the shelter in their pasture. With the nights getting colder, they are due to move to the stable again this weekend. The cow began her night time chat with our neighbor's cows -- mowing back and forth until they have caught up on the news along the creek -- and then they tuck in for the night.

The world takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out again.

Twilight.

The dogs are restless. The coyotes are howling and Annabell, the Pyrennes, responds, as if to warn them that she will not tolerate any foolishness on her farm. The baying stops and the coyotes are heard again, this time farther over the ridge, most likely sizing up my neighbor's fall calves. I listen and hope they are not hungry nor prowling tonight.

Waldo winds around my legs as if to encourage me to pick him up for a kitty kiss. I oblige and he rewards me with a sweet purr and a second kiss to my nose before he leaps to the ground to begin his nightly hunt for mice. Lydia stops for a second for a pat and then (yes, he) joins Waldo in the quest for unsuspecting mice or moles. I know that in the morning I will have to watch carefully when I open the back door for breakfast. No doubt, there will be a fine display for my "eating" pleasure.

And then, as I turned to survey the ridge one more time, the moon burst from behind the mountains, lighting the ridge as if it is a giant spotlight. It takes my breath, which is now tiny white wisps, as it is so unexpected and so beautiful.

Moose speaks to me, "rararrraw" which means, "Hurry up, woman, dinner time." Taking a last glance at the moon, I pick up the egg and the milk buckets and slowly, deliciously, stroll to the back door and back into the harsh house lights. The spell is broken, but the memory remains.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Robert Frost

This is one of my favorite poems and this morning even more so. It is remarkable that yesterday Iron Mountain was green and lush; today it sparkles with golds, burgandies, and oranges that would make Monet weep. I am in love.

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year, so much so that my last Lab was named Autumn. Yes, I love the lushness of spring and the promise of May. I am, after all, a Mother's Day baby. However, it is the richness of fall, the crispness of the air, that breathes life into me. I long for it in July. I dream of it in January.

What is there not to love? The astors dance in the fading sunlight like violet pinwheels held tight by the center; the sky is a blue that reminds me of my Grandmother's eyes; the air is crisp, like a Virginia Beauty apple, sweet and tart at the same time.

In the Autumn, I can indulge my love of all things knit. I love wearing wool and have a shawl for every day, it seems. I have Tasha shawls, short shawls, long ones, and round ones. Every kind a different fiber and pattern. Fancy, plain, simple, sweet, and elegant. It is, without a doubt, my favorite garment. I have tried knitting summer shawls, but they pale in comparison with the texture and richness of the Autumn shawls. Wearing one connects me spiritually with those of earlier times when such a thing was necessary. Now, it is a luxury.

The most delicious part of Autumn is the twilight. We moved to Florida when I was a teenager and I learned the most sorrowful lesson about twilight. There is none in the deep South. It is day; it is night. I relish most of all the delectable feeling of walking the dogs across the pastures above the goats' paddocks as the sun wistfully hugs the mountain ridges one more time before slipping into night. The air is a certain kind of stillness that one can only experience at this time of year. The light is magical. It is almost as if one is between two worlds -- a la Brigadoon -- and can feel the magic as well as the reality. Perhaps it is the Scot-Irish in me; I expect a fairy at any moment to brush my face.

As the dogs dredge the ground for the scent of a foe worthy of chasing, I pause on the small ridge and look down at Lazy Bee Farm. The candle shining in the front bay window welcomes the unexpected, but hoped for, return of those I love. The goats baaaa softly; the cats leap on hidden mice; the chickens sing their soft song as they roost for the evening. A slight breeze tousles my hair and my shawl, wrapped tightly across my shoulders, lifts gently. No other sound. Silence. And in that moment I know that I am home. I can see the years ahead of me -- berries, bees, weaving, goats -- living and dying where I belong.

Welcome home. Welcome Autumn.