The words smoldered on my screen, full of angst and regret and sadness, just two lines, a wee-hours social-media post by a friend mired in loneliness. I felt for her, knowing there was nothing I could do.
Though I myself live a solitary life, I’ve said here before that loneliness isn’t a battle I fight. I don’t long for companionship. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company and affection of good people — it’s just not oxygen to me.
The reason for that is pretty basic: I’ve decided that I am enough.
Each of us, especially after suffering the loss of an important (or at least familiar) part of our life, can fall into wondering how we’ll go on without [whatever]. The only way that traps us is when we believe that we’re not enough alone.
Everyone’s wired differently, I suppose. Some people crave affirmation, validation, connection for its own sake. That exacts a price I’m unwilling to pay. I am enough.
So are you, by the way.
With the low Easter morning nudging into the 30s, I lit the woodstove. It had been a while, and Smudge was elated, bouncing around and barking as if she’d heard a cheese wrapper.
We won’t see many more cool, work-friendly mornings like that, and I wanted to take full advantage. Harvesting firewood may be done for the season, but I figured I could find something else to occupy myself outdoors.
Weedwhacking seemed like a good idea. I got the trimmer out of the shed and proceeded to neaten things along the driveway.
I finished that and then, with energy, trimming line and battery still remaining, I moved down below and tidied-up around the burn barrel, the soft shed and the compost tumbler.
When I ran out of line, I pulled out loppers and cut down every pokeweed shoot I saw. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep this up all summer long, but I’m way ahead of last year.
Weedwhacking near the wood yard reminded me about something. The last few times I’ve re-supplied the cabin, I’ve had to pull out and set aside dozens of splits that were too damned big for anything but all-night burns. I couldn’t imagine what I was thinking a year ago when I stacked them without splitting them once or twice more.
Since I was still feeling froggy after whacking and lopping, I decided to deal with that wood yesterday. I mean, I’d have to do it anyway by next heating season.
So I dismantled what was left on this year’s last pallet and sorted it — good wood went one way, and I pitched the too-big chunks in the direction of the chopping block. I picked up my splitting ax and addressed the problem of my own making.
There must’ve been 40 or 50 pieces in that heap. And I quickly found out why they hadn’t been split more — every single one featured at least one big-ass knot. Apparently, I was either too tired or too pissed last winter to mess with them.
But my mechanics are better now. I’m stronger than I was then. I’m happier. I’m coming off of a successful season of processing everything I’ll need to heat the cabin next winter.
I didn’t hesitate to wade right into the pile and get crackin’.
The result (pictured, above) speaks for itself.
Then, of course, I got to stack it neatly on the empty pallet. That was its own reward.
The pallet was over one-third full when I was done. Even that year-old oak will season better now. And I’m sure that with windfall and random pickups between now and fall, I’ll be able to fill it before I begin harvesting in earnest for 2027-2028.
What a great morning.
“The bottom has a rocky reputation.”
JosephWoodwardFidler Walsh
. . .
A song triggered a memory the other day.
It was the fall of the year — 1987, I think. I’d ridden my motorcycle from Connecticut over to visit a college buddy in northeast Pennsylvania, where his family had a hundred-acre farm. We stayed in the only structure on the property, a ten-by-ten cabin with a potbelly stove.
Late on a starry night — and I can’t say that beer wasn’t involved — we stepped outside, put a cassette into my bike’s stereo and played Joe Walsh at ludicrous volume. Our mutual favorite cut was “The Confessor.”
Though not the best-known song in Walsh’s impressive catalog, “The Confessor” may well be his opus. It’s musically and lyrically textured. It’s over seven minutes long.
Back in the ’80s, I loved that song viscerally, both for its power (which I understood) and for its raw fury (which I didn’t, really). Fast-forward 40-plus years — now I get it.
“The Confessor” didn’t teach me anything. Once I learned the lessons on my own, however, it rang like a bell. The closing lines, especially:
Take all the trauma, drama, karma,
The guilt and doubt and shame;
The what ifs-and if-onlys,
The shackles and the chains;
The violence and aggression,
The pettiness and scorn;
The jealousy and hatred,
The tempest and the storm —
And give it up!
If you’re familiar with the song, or if you listened to the audio I included above, you know that the last words are a command, shouted:
Give it up!
We humans fail — and we fail to learn — because, most of the time, we don’t move on. We don’t move on because we refuse to let go.
It’s a self-inflicted wound. Eventually, I figured that out. It made all the difference.
And I still love the song.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable