I Just Don't Feel It

Sunlight peeks through the trees

With the Winter Solstice, the light has returned. Or so the calendar tells me. My senses say something different. I cannot feel or see the change. I can only hope, imagine and pretend it is so. I have a knowing, of course, about the return of light. I've lived long enough in the North to trust my years of proof. But now, with not enough to accomplish all I want in one day, I'm feeling deceived. 

Every fall, I look forward to winter. This winter, I say, I'll read more books, wade through more documents to preserve or toss, clean out this closet or that drawer, work on the family tree, learn to... well you get the idea. And then every winter, with the imperceptible decline and then return of light, I find myself unmotivated. Even the usually inspirational creek sluggishly moves toward its destination seemingly without aim or purpose. I might as well be in hibernation. 

"The hardest thing about hibernation is convincing yourself it's time to wake up."

The Wrong Lesson From The Creek

I've just discovered that author Stephen Payseur is using the name of this blog, Lessons From The Creek, for a book he wrote in 2013. That's fine, I suppose. I did not copyright "Lessons From The Creek" when I created it in 1999. However, there is one thing I must clarify.

My Lessons From The Creek is thoroughly secular. I have never introduced religion in my writing. Nor do I intend to. I write of nature and the inspiration that comes from the natural world. According to one reviewer,  Mr Payseur's book gives "readers gentle encouragement toward Christian growth."

Please, please, do not mistake my writings for something religious. Mr Payseur and I are not at all aligned. My opinion is that religion, and especially Christian religion, keeps us from knowing ourselves. And further, as a woman, I find religion most often oppressive, limiting and dangerous to my life and livelihood.

Have a wonderful holiday season.

Deb, Lessons From The Creek

Out-of-Sorts Sorting

I have been sorting through my ancestor’s leavings, piece by piece by bloody piece. For years! All left for me to sort, donate, sell, or find the unknown relative who would want the item. The other day. I decided to tackle photos and letters. This was interesting, if not productive, until I moved into the mid-1800s and the Civil War became the focus. This photo was taken just before the "cousins" left for the war. It appears they all mustered in August, 1862. My challenge was identifying them. The person who named the individuals on the cardboard back, described each of the six as “Cousin Jim,” “Brother Jim,” “Cousin Ike”, etc. My dilemma was, just who did the labeling? If I knew that, the task would have been much easier. And so I am, once again, sidetracked in my attempt to catalogue and dispose.

 Overwhelmed by the research involved with this Civil War photo, I move on to some correspondence. And once again I was cruising along nicely until I came to the Civil War letters. Now just where or to whom should these go? I would have to read them to find out. But they were too depressing. Many of the letters were written by women who were maybe more grieved than their husbands and sons. Or perhaps just better at expressing their feelings.

I feel such agitation working my way through all this “stuff.” My parents just packed it all away and left it to me and my brothers. My brothers simply turned tail and ran. I try to look at what might be the advantageous angle of taking on this burden of all my ancestors. Why did I, who has always been the one to keep possessions and collections to a minimum, inherit the chore? It does not seem that this is my lesson. Right? It’s a lot of family energy that is not mine.

Now for those of you who are tempted to suggest reasons for this or benefits to me, don’t! I will snap back. I’m just venting. Unless you are a relative who wants some of this. In that case, I'm very happy to hear from you. Thanks for listening.

Hole Up

I'm good. Really, I am. I hear from many of you who doubt that but, I repeat, I'm good.

Most of what's happening in MI with Covid-19 is in the SE corner (Detroit) of Michigan. It's pretty sparse up here in the NW corner of Michigan's Lower Peninsula. So far anyway. A few spats have broken out between the locals and people with summer cottages and camps up here. We tell them to stay home. They want to come up where they feel safer. But our meager medical system can't handle the influx. So there have been some scuffles. Mostly at the grocery store when a local notices Fred and Marge, who don't usually open their cottage until early- or mid-June, are buying up all the toilet paper. Then it's just a matter of a short time before their kids and grandkids have joined them at the cottage because nobody is working or in school. I figure when The Marge and Fred Family realize that without the lake to play and boat in (the ice is just off), no dairy bar, closed restaurants, a closed hardware where they buy the little nuts and bolts necessary to get the water running and the toilets working again, and limited internet access (certainly not at the bandwidth it takes to watch a movie), they'll scurry on back home where isolation is easier.

In and around my home, it's just me and the dog and the birds and the squirrels and the rabbits and the deer and the beaver and the coyotes. Too, the bear are emerging from hibernation and raiding known food sources and hungry as a... well, as a bear. We will have to remember to bring in the bird feeders at night.

It snowed today. I've started spring cleanup and I've managed to rake some spots around the snowbanks. Isolation is a piece of cake for me; my middle name. Another week and I'll be gathering the elusive morel mushrooms and wild leeks. Two of my favorite solo activities. And right now the river is high and the fishing is good. I won't get antsy until the 3rd Saturday in May when Walleye season opens in N Ontario and I can't cross the border. Then I'll be pissy.

This morning, first thing, I threw a log on the morning coals. As soon as the log went in and I had shut the glass door on the woodstove, I saw a big old spider scrambling around seeking an escape route. There’s really no escape when the door to the stove is closed. But as I peered into the glass I knew I had to help. I mean he (or she) survived the entire winter on the woodpile only to be burned alive!? I don’t think so. I opened the door but every attempt to catch him only encouraged him to scurry away toward the growing fire. Finally, I put on the woodstove gloves (big leather mitts) and coaxed him on to one finger and then transported him all the way to the kitchen door where I flipped him outside. Something in him just clicked and he turned from frantic to mellow. Spider Zen. Isn’t that the way it often happens, when we give in and give up, life turns around.

It’s a wacky, wacky world out there. Use your Spider Zen, find your hole, and stay under the radar.

And do send me your thoughts and news.

March Doldrums

There comes a time in a Northern Michigan March when I am a bit disagreeable. I’m stuck in the doldrums.

One moment, the very thing to do is get up and out. To turn my face to the sun, if I’m lucky, and move; move anywhere as long as my back is to winter.

But still, it is winter here in the North. We know to not be fooled. Some of our worst winter storms come in March. And so, beware you novices to Northern winters. As often happens immediately after that urge to move, you will find yourself being sucked into the couch with the duvet up to your chin. Like Mars, the Roman God of War, March can easily do battle with your desires.

I’ve seen March days so stunning I’m flying a kite over an open field with the warm sun on my face and breezes that feel almost tropical at my back. And I’ve experienced March days so cold the creek is frozen over. Most often though, the warm but heavy March snowstorms are what take me down. One day, I’m thinking I’ll not have to move another bit of snow from the driveway. All that remains will surly melt. The next day I’m thinking maybe I’ll have to finish my winter travels to and from the garage in 4-wheel drive.

Oh, March! Your “In like a lion and out like a lamb” is nothing more than a traitorous saying designed to give us hope but, instead, slaps us silly and walks away laughing, leaving us licking wounds in a pile of slush.