To first light

We’ve always been told that “it’s darkest before the dawn.” Aside from being true literally, it’s meant to encourage, a metaphorical reminder that hard times don’t last forever.

Now, when was the last time you went outside simply to watch the dawn break over your world?

Almost every day, I witness skies over The Mountain brighten well before sunrise. To see the day’s first moments unfold gives meaning to metaphor. Noticing the constancy of Nature, intentionally, brings the old aphorism to life.

Mine is the sunlight
Mine is the morning born of the one light Eden saw play
Eleanor Farjeon (1931)

Once I’d tumbled to a stop after falling in the woods the other day, I lay there on my back in the leaves a good while, my head downhill from my feet, a chunk of the firewood I’d been carrying resting on my chest. I did a systems check — cautiously, I commanded my muscles to move one limb at a time, and then neck and back and so on.

All seemed intact. I didn’t get up right away, though. I stayed put for several minutes, looked up at the leafless canopy and took stock of my situation.

I say “my situation” in the larger sense — part of living this solitary life is that there’s no one missing me, wondering about me, judging me overdue. (Okay, there’s Smudge, and yeah, some of this blog’s readers would get suspicious if I didn’t post for a few days.) If I truly were incapacitated and couldn’t get a cell signal, I’d be in quite the pickle.

But in that moment I was comfortable, nestled there in the duff. And being late December, chiggers and ticks weren’t a concern. Eventually, of course, I hoisted myself upright and resumed my work.

Believe it or not, I’m pretty careful. I understand the risks and manage them the best I can. That mindfulness applies to recovery time as well.

I have to work, though. I can’t sit still.

Yesterday morning, I deliberated about the sorts of things I could do without dealing my healing knee a setback. I concluded that there’d be a price to pay, large or small, no matter what I did, so I picked the best bad option.

It was time, while I had agreeable weather, to tidy up the wood yard. First on my list was pulling up vacant pallets and leaning them against trees to dry out. (Leaving ’em where they were, in contact with the ground, they’d just rot for no reason.)

I was able to liberate six.

Next, I moved my chopping block and kindling-splitting fixture a bit. That let me place a new pallet at the south end of the stacks, the fourth one I’ll fill for next heating season.

You know what happened next, right? I mean, I couldn’t let that pallet just sit there empty, could I?

I chose a fat oak round from the pile, perched it on the block and commenced swinging. I’m not gonna lie — it was a genuine battle.

It might surprise folks who don’t do this sort of thing (or swing a niblick, a bat or a racket) how crucial leg strength is to generating speed and power. Having a solid base is essential, and follow-through depends on more than arms and shoulders.

And there I was, hacking away on one good leg.

It took forever, but ultimately I dispatched that round, and I stopped at one. I’d had enough.