It's a way of life

During a recent conversation, I had to excuse myself so I could head home. I had been away for nearly six hours, and I needed to get home to tend to the fire.

"You sound like you live like a settler," replied my friend sarcastically.

I guess to some, we do. My house is heated solely from firewood.

Early in the morning before dawn, I emerge from the warmth of my flannel sheets into the cold house and head downstairs to stoke the wood stove. I have no propane, so I can't just turn a dial and wait for my house to get warm. I have to work for it. No matter what the weather, or my mood or health, certain things have to be done. Animals need cared for. Eggs need gathered. Fires need stoked, and firewood brought inside and stacked. I like to think it builds character as well as muscle. 

There is no television as in "cable T.V." We entertain ourselves with books, animals, coloring, games and obviously, the Internet.

The Ranch has become a sort of sanctuary. Without the clamor of television, it's so quiet and the sounds of nature fill the air.  In the evening, we burn candles after dinner, and the dogs fill our seven acres with song; sometimes coyote join in. A neighbor two doors down reported a black bear on his back deck last fall. One evening, across the road in the farmer's field, my daughter and I counted 16 deer. In the evening, we sometimes see half dozen rabbits hopping along in the grass. Foxes bark in the woods around our home. Bald Eagles and Red Tailed Hawks are frequent fliers;  bats swoop in the air at dusk in summer. Field mice scurry across the country road.

We move with the seasons and we never, ever stop.

Somehow living in solitude and in sync with nature grounds me, and I think it grounds my family. Some may see this way of life as difficult; others, desolate. We see it as beautiful.

There is not a day that I miss city life. We have lived at the Ranch almost six years, and I can't imagine ever going back to the suburbs, the luxury of turning a dial for heat or the sounds of traffic filling my ears.

Coyote and Bob Shaw

We are plunged into darkness, as if these cloudy, overcast days weren’t dark enough. Daylight savings time. Whose brilliant idea was that? Random, very faint snowflakes fall haphazardly from the sky. It would be easy to miss them, they’re so tiny.

Last night, I woke at exactly 2 a.m. to the sound of coyote frolicking very near the cabin. Their excited yips and barks were loud and made me think of laughter. I smiled to myself, threw another log in the wood stove, and snuggled back into my fleece sheets.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard my dog yard explode. Miles is the alarmist. On the edge of the beginning of the dog yard, nothing gets by his keen ears and he is quick to bark to warn the others of any activity. First, I heard Miles, then all the dogs began barking. There are several types of barks, and this was definitely a hackles-raised kind of bark. One of my females is in standing heat right now, and I worried that Mr. Coyote might try to breed her. I was just about to hop into my truck with a headlamp and a leash and go retrieve the female in heat, when as suddenly as it began, the barking stopped.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with Bob and Jan Shaw. Bob never tires of teasing me. He is jovial, with a pot belly and a fuzzy gray beard that gives him a Santa look that is endearing. His blue eyes sparkle with mirth. He began showing me pictures his trail cam had taken from his hunting cache, mostly funny stills of portly raccoons in mid-heist, and black bears.

One series of photos left a lasting impression, however. Bob had found a large roadkill deer and dragged it back into the woods in the last month to get it off the main road. He set the trail camera on the carcass, and the slideshow that followed was an eerie illustration of how handy nature cleans up after herself. A flock of turkey vultures descended on the carcass, stupidly unaware that they were being filmed in their decadent feast. One large bird seemed to look right into the camera, as if to pose, its large red face blank and expressionless.

A flock of raven then appeared. Within just two or three frames, the raven had skillfully peeled back the hide of the carcass, exposing the deer’s large rib cage ominously.

The next frame showed a large, beautiful coyote standing at attention next to the carcass. Its fluffy mane and strong stature made it look regal. In several frames, Coyote appeared startled, cautious – perhaps he’d heard the “click” of the trail cam going off. The temptation of the carcass was too much, and soon, he was gorging himself: first sharp canine teeth visibly tearing into a hind leg, then diving into the belly of the deer.

The last clip from the deer carcass series made the hair rise on the back of my neck. Throughout probably 20 slides, the deer was shown in various stages of decomposition. But, quite suddenly, on the last slide, the entire deer carcass disappeared. There was no evidence that the carcass had ever been there; not a trace remained, only the backdrop of conifers on a floor of pine needles and orange leaves that had once cradled the deer's lifeless body.

Nature is indifferent. She does what she does – whether it is hurricanes or carrion – apathetically and matter-of-factly.  She cares not. And we animals do what we must to survive. Even if it means carrying off whole carcasses to feed our families.

Anyone who feels that nature intently focuses on us, stalks us, or even cares one way or the other about us humans is a fool.

A Homage to the Human Body

The human body is amazing.

Nearly two gallons of blood is pumped through our bodies daily. Like budding leaves on the ends of trees, human lungs contain 600 million aveoli - enough to cover a tennis court - that filter carbon dioxide and process the oxygen we breathe. The average person's largest organ, skin, covers about 22 square feet and is one of our first protectors against the outside world.

Really, we are amazing creatures. Not only in our ability to live, think, contribute, but also in our abilities to heal.

Healing. To heal. To make whole. To repair. Physicially, cells regenerating to replace or repair damaged cells.

There's all kinds of healing and methods to get there: spiritual healing, physical healing, emotional healing; wound healing, the healing of a broken heart, wholistic healing, faith healing, self healing.

Okay, we get it. So what are you getting at, Shannon?

I had a doctor appointment today, and received for the first time since July good news.

It appears that the abscess on my remaining ovary is responding positively to the antibiotics. My doctor kneeds on my abdomen like a kitten. For once, I do not wince in pain. In fact, I'm in no pain. I feel better than I've felt in three months.

I return next week for one more ultrasound, just to be sure.

To think that not even six weeks ago, I underwent a complicated abdominal surgery that sent me into a tailspin near death is unfathomable...and absolutely astounding. So many times in those first couple weeks after that surgery I didn't think I could hold out, muddle through. So many times I thought my life would never be the same again. And, actually quite quickly, in five and a half short weeks, I feel like myself again.

The antibiotic I still take daily leaves a horrible taste in my mouth that stubbornly holds on despite the strongest, longest dose of Listerine. But that's okay. There are worse side effects. And it's a small price to pay to keep my remaining ovary and have my life back.

But it's not just that mauve pill I take nightly that heals me.

I believe I am healed by each breath I take toward wholeness.

I believe I am healed by that tiny tiger moving through my veins, from the simple act of positive, forward thinking.

I believe I am healed by the love and light sent my way from friends and family near and far.

I believe I am healed from a Light that shines.

I believe I am healed every time I step outside, to see my children, my dogs, the trees, the sky...

And I believe the human body is a truly miraculous thing. And I am so thankful.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?



In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Every time I am on the water, I think this same thought: with every touch of the tip of my paddle, I am disturbing an entire universe. From fishes to turtles to plant life to the tiniest micro-organism, just the simple, slightest movement of my paddle stirs it all.

At first, I never want this evening to end.

Finally back in my kayak. I threw caution to the wind this evening and headed out to the water. How I've missed my time on the water, paddle in hand, the steady rocking hip-to-hip row, row, row in perfect rhythm, nothing out there but me and several hundred species of animal.

I am rowing like this, poised and peaceful, simultaneously calling to a Bard owl somewhere in a forested distance and chasing a Blue Heron when I receive the phone call.

I had my second CAT scan Monday, the follow-up appointment with the doctor today.

In the office, the radiologist hadn't yet given the reading to my doctor. She promised a call, reassuring that, more than likely, the abscess in my pelvis had receded.

"It is very unlikely that it's grown," she said.

Schools of tiny water insects skim across the lake in zig-zag formation as I answer the call.

"Remember how I said it was very unlikely that the abscess has grown?" she says from the other end of the line.

"Well, true to form, you're the one case to go against the odds."

A painted turtle paddles under the surface, his thick, clawed feet moving like slow rudders. My heart sinks.

"The report says the abscessed area has grown since the last scan, now over four centimeters," she continues.



I sit with the setting sun for a long time tonight. It was an amazing sunset - like orange sherbet scooped from God's own hand. I cried on the water. I felt and feel all these emotions: regret, fear, anger, sadness, helplessness.

There's nothing I can do.

Then, I hear the owl again, calling to me from the same forested distance - only now it's closer. I'm reminded, from nature, of just who I am, and more importantly, that it's not up to me. Again, I need this message.

The owl calls, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you.." in the infamous monkey-like call of the Bard owl. He asks me a good question.

I am floating in this water. And though I can paddle, steer, stay afloat, I am not in control. It's not up to me. The boat holds me, its buoyancy sturdy and strong. I let my weight rest in it, and let go.

Mind like a lake

It is the perfect time of day, when everything is golden in the waning hours of sunlight.


"Cove"


I find peace listening to the fish jump; with their splash-landing in the water, the concerns of the day dissipate.



The birds sing their evening song and the waves splash the hull as I paddle, watching the setting sun.



Sometimes I paddle with my eyes closed; deprived of this sense, my other senses cue in, become more alert. I’m rocking with the waves and the paddling, lulled in the slow and easy cradle of the lake. It’s like my lake. I’ve grown up on this water.



I am so drawn to water.



It’s reflective, shimmering streams of light bounce from wave to wave. I am drawn to the movement of water – ever changing, always in motion. I am attracted to its delicate nature, how even the tiniest movement sends a ripple moving across.




Tonight, like my cares, the ripples slowly fade until the water is a clean sheet of dark glass. And so is my mind.


"Fog" - one of the best photos I've ever taken. Fog rising off the lake around 9:30 p.m. The light in the corner is from a couple people fishing with a Coleman lantern. My shutter was open for about 12 seconds for this shot

Mother's day

I leave an hour before sunset or so, fully intending to greet the moon on the water. I wonder what will be in the water to greet me as I push off shore, paddling slowly, steadily toward the black abyss. Fish jump. This is my church, the practice of being still, silent, my religion. If you are quiet enough, nature reveals itself to you.



A pair of muskrats bob up. Bard owls call from distant trees.

I remember trolling with my dad at this time of day - dusk, when the dew settles, and eerie sounds echo from shore. Now, as an adult, I know those sounds are just animals celebrating and giving thanks to the end of another day. Somewhere in the distance, a bald eagle cries in the east.

There is no better medicine for me, and no better prescription for me to find peace.

Here are some photos from mother's day:


"Bliss"


"Bliss II"


"Gift"


Jack

Happy Mother's Day

Duck, duck, goose....goose!

A pair of Canada geese nesting with a pair of mallards behind

Everything is paired up for spring. Canada geese squawk if I come too near them; they're not thrilled about this photo opp. You see, they're expecting. And the mallards behind them (yes, back there. They blend well, don't they?) - they're expecting too, and they take cover under the protective hyper-vigilance of the geese.

There's a lot of action on land.


Karma the cattle dog runs super fast, trying to dry off and warm up after a cold dip in the lake

People seemed to be out every where today. Motorcycles roared, bicycles buzzed on the Towpath trail in the Cuyahoga Valley. But out on the water, solitude was still attainable.


Karma and Gracie cool off in Indigo lake



As my paddle tip touched the water for the first time this year, my hips fell into a familiar, easy sway with the rhythmic splash, splash paddling, and I remembered quickly why I feel at home and at ease here. The day was not bright; it wasn't even warm. But as the hull of my kayak hit the water, I officially embraced spring's return.

The days in between

Sigh.

This happens every year at this time. Days start getting warmer. People rejoice at daylight savings time and vernal equinox. But the dogs and I mope at the rise in temperature, panting in the muddy spring thaw, dirty and bored. It gets warmer - half of this week it was in the low 70's here. Everything we've looked forward to for six months is done.

Sigh.

These are what I call the days in between: too hot to run dogs, but still too cool to drag the kayak into the water.

During this time, I resume training at the gym, making the daily, regimented trek to the track, where I run in circles for over an hour around a neatly-lined lane. I chalk up over five miles. It keeps me sane. But even this is boring.

During this time, I also spend a lot of time reconvening with nature in a more relaxed way. The pace slows down.





I reconnect with my family. And I am grateful for them - realize how much I have missed them during the hectic winter season.

One look in my closet reveals how much I've missed my "professional" clothes too. My sweatshirts now have frequent flier miles, my mud boots, an "easy pass."

This week, I literally dusted off a few blazers and pairs of pumps to attend a couple important events - one in particular for the Greater Akron Chamber of Commerce, one of my clients. Rubbing elbows with this town's elite isn't something I typically do. Drinking chardonnay at a VIP reception, I felt out of place, but simultaneously fascinated.

At the end of the day, I'm still that sweatshirt-and-jeans kinda girl.

Tomorrow, I'll be attending my kind of soirée: running dogs in the early, crisp morning...in the mud, with my mud boots on at Jim and Lori Wellert's.

Stay tuned...and keep your tail up.