KNITTING A HUT IN THE FIELD

Front of the hut in the field after the 6th snowfall-11.20.2014

 

Back of the hut 11.20.2014

KNITTING A HUT IN THE FIELD

Dearest Readers,

Building The Thinking Place is like knitting a rough-hewn mohair sweater. I am not trimming stray branches yet, so the entire process is a build-up of interwoven boughs with all the offshoots and filigreed ends still attached.  Sometimes it resembles a rat’s nest. I harvested two additional supple maple sproutlings to add to the arched bones of the sides and roof. Now I’m stacking and twining sticks, hand-sawing and puzzle-piecing them up and up the arched supports.

I will need to fill in the spaces between boughs, but not yet.  As I construct the shell, I am slowing down to listen to the wood itself. I sense that there is a secret aesthetic that will be revealed if I have faith in the process and take the time to feel and hear. Right now I'm not sure what I'm doing, except that I'm keeping on. The increasing cold temperatures and snow on the ground is adding to the time it takes me to proceed.

Here's my progress in pictures during the last three weeks:

Testing the suppleness of a maple seedling for a roof support

Sawing the seedling for an arched support

Trying unsuccessfully to bend the third roof support-10.26.2014

The third branch support cracks-10.26.2014

Third and fourth branch supports added for the roof and sides 10.31.2014

Building up the back and sides 11.3.2014

Sticks rising up the back and sides 11.5.2014

Back view-11.10.2014

Back view-11.11.2014

Front view-11.13.2014

Back view after 2nd snowfall-11.14.2014

Front view after the 2nd snowfall-11.14.2014

BECOMING A TREE

Cecelia inside the ancient maple, oil on canvas_8.5" x 14"_2014

THE PERCH

There is a fork in a branch

of an ancient enormous maple...

I climbed up

to the perch

and this time looked

not into the distance but at

the tree inself; its trunk 

contorted by the terrible struggle

of that time when it had its hard time.

After the trauma it becomes less solid.

It may be some such time now comes upon me.

It would have to do with the unaccomplished,

and with the attempted marriage

of solitude and happiness.

-Gallway Kinnell (1927-2014)

Vermont state poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and the National Book Award

 

Inside the guts of an ancient maple

Dearest Readers,

I wish to become an ancient maple like the grande dames that stand like wise, sentinels along Hapenny Road here in Peacham Vermont. I wrote about these last summer in a blog entitled: The Hallof the Mountain Maples.

If this wish is impossible, I want to sink deep inside a hollow belly, squeeze next to an exposed maple heart or merge along a downed log, mingling myself within this natural kinship. I recognize the knurls, and rough-hewn skin in my own hands and face. I want to be inside the trees and paint them.

Squeezed inside an ancient maple–hallowed straight out to the other side

Nestling against twisted bark

Lying along a fallen trunk

My head behind a fallen body

Giving my arm to a limbless trunk

Growing my arm from a stump

 

WINTERIZED

Etta in her "pet parka" with extra velcro tab I sewed to the back end. I'm tempted to get her "mutt-luks" for her paws

Dearest Readers,

Etta (my dog) and I have been ready for the Vermont winter for almost a month. It finally snowed on Friday. There was a distinctive cold snowy smell in the air, and an otherworldly dim gray lighting that enveloped the landscape. The leaves are really off the trees now. Bare brown branches creaked and clattered in the wind, disappearing into the slurry of thick white sky. Most of the day the flurries were miniscule white dots blowing horizontally, and sometimes in small circles. The roads stayed clear. 

The start of the snow flurries from my upstairs front window

 

Snow building up on the raspberry canes. Flurries thick in the air.

 

Final snow Saturday morning from my front window–a light dusting as it turned out

Snow is old hat to the local Vermonters, and a source of pride in their own hardiness,  but I’m registering a mix of excitement and trepidation. I haven’t driven in Vermont snow since 1980.  Will I remember how and be brave on the roads?  

I'll close with a photo gallery of all the paraphernalia I've accumulated to keep me and Etta warm and mobile this winter. Vermonters are serious about warm gear. I've had a lot to learn.

Studded snow tires for my little Scion XB

snow shovel is ready

A serious windshield scraper is ready–(I used to use a credit card in Atlanta to remove ice)

Spiked walking stick and ski pole are ready

Purchased clothes: warm slacks, wool blend socks, tight knit ski hat, down vest, full insulated underwear, wooly lined slippers, and deep-tread-waterproof-puffy-interior hiking boots

Donated clothes: fleece jacket, scarf, heavy gloves, lined raincoat, turtlenecks, wool sweater, over-the-boot waterproof spats for legs and ankles, and wool blend tops. Not shown: ear muffs, face and neck muff, down parka, and a combination face-neck-head wind protector.

Ready!