Month: July 2012

Two Roads Converge

Robert Frost once wrote about the value of taking a less-traveled road.  I, however, stood at the crossroads for many years before choosing the more traditional path of partnership and parenthood, and that, for me, has made all the difference.

When I was in high school, I assumed I would take that bumpier road – I had no intention of succumbing to what I saw as a life of housework (to be fair, I don’t succumb to that all that often) and diaper changing.  I fantasized about being an impoverished writer or artist living in a Parisian garret over a cafe where I would have croissants and marmalade for breakfast every day (and somehow be able to enjoy the shoe shopping)  Did I mention it was a fantasy?  Somewhere in the hormone-soaked daydreams, I knew the reality would be different, but one theme was constant – I would have adventure in my life.  And, even though I would choose the same path if I found myself at the same fork again, I sometimes wish it was possible to send a part of myself down the road less-traveled and have those adventures.

Recently, though, I have had a glimpse of that other road through the trees.  Through work and the Hubbard Hall Writer’s Project, I have had the unexpected pleasure of meeting several amazing women who not only forsook the well-traveled path but blazed their own trails.  They dared not only to imagine lives outside of marriage and/or motherhood (something that still sparks heated debate in our society), but they dared to live them.  Some stories I know, some I guess at, and, while I wouldn’t trade my own adventures for all the pastries in Paris, knowing these women and hearing about their adventures enriches my own journey every day.
Vive la difference!

Dog Demoted

Katy is our second shelter dog.  She’s some kind of hound mix, and her gentle nature is a perfect fit for a family with small children.  Even our cats have warmed up to her over the last two years.

They were hardly overjoyed when she first arrived, however.  They welcomed her with World War III – hissing and scratching at every opportunity – and then settled into low-level guerilla warfare for the first few months.  Katy never fought back, and her patience eventually earned her the coveted title of honorary cat, private forth class.

A few days ago, that changed.

We are inundated with chipmunks this summer, and we can’t walk out to the driveway without tripping over a furry striped carcass.  The fresh daily kills are offerings from the cats.  It’s their contribution to the survival of my garden.

Katy is not much of a hunter (or a watch dog, or a working dog).  The cats apparently decided that failing reflected badly on them, so Snoop, the fatter of our two black cats, snagged an unsuspecting chipmunk near the garden fence and brought the struggling rodent to Katy for the final blow.  Snoop dropped their prey an inch in front of Katy who sniffed it.  Then she sniffed Snoop.  The terrified critter started to run.  Snoop looked at Katy for a second before pouncing on and retrieving the chipmunk.  He dropped it in front of Katy again who stood there wagging her tail.  She looked from chipmunk to cat and back to the chipmunk, and the chipmunk escaped again – this time making it to the safety of the crevices in the fieldstone wall.

Snoop stared stonily at Katy for another moment.  Then, flicking his tail, he started walking toward the forest.  As usual, Katy started to follow, wagging tail and tongue at the prospect of a romp in the woods, but Snoop turned and leveled his gaze at her.   Their noses were almost touching.  Snoop glared into her eyes, and Katy’s tail was suddenly still.  Then he turned and walked to the edge of the woods, not bothering to look back because he knew she was not following any more.

She had been demoted.

A Half-Folded Basket

About five years ago, we went off-grid and said goodbye to our charming, but mouse-infested, wallet-draining, blackout-prone 200 year old farmhouse.

That farmhouse had actually inspired our move – not because of its inconveniences, but because it represented a time when its inhabitants had not only survived, but thrived without electricity or a fat bank account. And, while we had no intention of turning our lives into a historical re-enactment, we knew we’d have to make some choices if we were going to live with only the power we made. So, after five years of washing my dishes by hand, I got a super-efficient dishwasher (it actually saves water and electricity) and said good bye to my dryer.

We had line-dried our clothes most of the year before we made the move, but going from line-drying with an electric-dryer backup to depending completely on mother nature’s good mood was a bigger change than we’d thought. It meant setting up a space for drying indoors in snowy weather and, in summer, timing our wash loads with dry weather.

And, if there’s anything that has taught me to look at life from a basket half-folded point of view, it was the adoption of line-only drying. I groaned, for example, the first time a sudden summer storm drenched a line full of laundry. But when the sun came out a day later, the clothes were softer and smelled better than if I’d used a luxury-hotel fabric softener. When winter settled in, I thought drying inside would be slow because of the lack of wind, but because we use the wood stove 24/7 in winter, clothes actually dried faster. And there was another bonus I’d never thought of – the evaporating moisture of the drying laundry was a perfect counter balance to the over-dry air created by the wood stove.

I haven’t found any miracles in the mountains of clothes that I end up having to fold in late-night marathons (when sleeping children won’t rearrange my sorted piles on the couch). But when I’m meditating as I work my way through the pile, free of distractions and requests, it’s more than just laundry.