Tonight his airplane comes in from the West, and he rises from his seat, a suitcoat slung over his arm. The flight attendant smiles and says, “Have a nice visit,” and he nods as if he has done this all before, as if his entire life hasn’t been 170 acres of corn and oats, as if a plow isn’t dragging behind him through the sand and clay, as if his head isn’t nestling in the warm flank of a Holstein cow.
Only his hands tell the truth: fingers thick as ropes, nails flat and broken in the trough of endless chores. He steps into the city warily, breathing metal and exhaust, bewildered by the stampede of humanity circling around him. I want to ask him something familiar, something about tractors and wagons, but he is taken by the neon night, crossing carefully against the light. ~Joyce Sutphen “My Father Comes to the City” from Straight Out of View.
Photo by Abby Mobley
I’ve lived a mostly quiet farm life over the last four years – minimized air travel and avoided big cities, as I was never fond of either even before COVID. Flying recently to visit family reminded me how challenging it is for me to get used to large crowds again, navigating unfamiliar urban highways and sitting with a hundred people in a winged metal tube 35,000 feet in the air.
But even farmers have to leave home once in a while. We shake the mud off our boots and brush the hayseeds from our hair, and try to act and be presentable in civilized society.
But my nervousness remains, knowing I’m out of my comfort zone, continually yearning for the wide open spaces of home.
Travel will take some getting used to again, but there is a world to be explored out there. It’s time to see how the city’s neon night compares with one illuminating barn light on the farm.
I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, and clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don’t cut that one. I don’t cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be. ~Tess Gallagher “Choices” from Midnight Lantern: New and Selected Poems
Might I be capable of such tenderness? Might I consider the needs of others, by saving not just one nest, but all future nests, rather than exercise my right to an unimpeded view, wanting the world to be exactly how I want it?
I must not forget: my right to choose demands that I choose to do right by those who have no choice.
We stand creekside. It’s tomorrow somewhere else and we’re discussing if we’ll have a tomorrow together. Coyotes howl in the woods behind us. We keep waiting for one of us to save the other, but we’re quiet. We can leave here still a family or we can walk separate directions. We listen to the chorus, coyotes and baby coyotes, a tornado of cries as if they’re circling. ~Kelli Russell Agodon “The Moon is a Comma, a Pause in the Sky” from Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room
Coyotes have the gift of seldom being seen; they keep to the edge of vision and beyond, loping in and out of cover on the plains and highlands. And at night, when the whole world belongs to them, they parley at the river with the dogs, their higher, sharper voices full of authority and rebuke. They are an old council of clowns, and they are listened to. N. Scott Momaday in House Made of Dawn
On summer nights, with light just fading from the sky at 10 PM, it will be only a few minutes before the local coyote choristers begin their nightly serenade. This can be a surround-sound experience with coyote packs echoing back and forth from distant corners of farmland and woodlands below the hill where we live.Their shrill yipping and yapping song, with hollering, chortling and hooting, is impossible to ignore just as it is time to go to sleep. Like priming a pump, the rise and fall of the coyote ensemble inevitably inspires the farm dogs to tune up, exercising their vocal cords with a howl or two. It becomes canine bedlam outside our windows, right at bedtime.
Coyotes send a mixed message: they insist on being heard and listened to, yet are seldom visible. In a rare sighting, it is a low slung slinking form scooting across a field with a rabbit in its mouth, or patiently waiting at a fence line as a new calf is born, hoping to duck in and grab the placenta before the cow notices. They are not particularly brave nor bold yet they insist on commanding attention and ear drums.
Irritating not only for their ill-timed concerts, they also have a propensity for thieving sleeping chickens from coop roosts in the night. I know a few prominent politicians who are just as noisy and sneaky at the same time. They too know how to take care of themselves in a dog-eat-dog world, primarily by eating whatever they can get their jaws around and carry away, no matter who it may belong to.
Perhaps I should be more understanding about wild canines gathering to giggle and snigger in the dark at their own silly stories of the hunt. Maybe I only wish to be let in on the joke.
Just once I want to howl back, plaintive, pleading, pejorative as just another bozo the clown adding my voice to the perpetual nocturnal yodeling – hoping somebody, anybody, might listen to what I have to say.
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May I, though sagging and gray, perilously leaning, be porous enough to allow life’s gusts to blow through me without pushing me over in a heap.
The wind may fill my every crack, crevice, and defect, causing me to sing out.
Someday, when I do shatter, toppling over into pieces into the ground, it will be amidst a mosaic of praises.
same abandoned school house near Rapalje, Montana – 2012 photo by Joel DeWaard2012 photo by Joel DeWaard2013 photo by Joel De Waard, a few days after the school collapsed
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What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what if When you awoke You had that flower in your hand Ah, what then? ~Samuel Coleridge “What if you slept”
This mountain, this strange and beautiful Shuksan flower that appears suddenly as we round a corner on the hour drive up the Mt. Baker Highway: this mountain has one foot on earth and one foot in heaven – a thin place if there ever was one.
The only way to approach is in awed silence, as if entering the door of a grand cathedral. Those who are there speak in hushed tones if they speak at all.
Mt. Shuksan wears autumn lightly about its shoulders as a multi-faceted cloak, barely anticipating the heavy snow coat to descend in the next few weeks.
I hold this mountain tight in my fist, wanting to turn it this way and that, breathe in its fragrance, bring it home with me and never let go.
Ah, what then?
Home is not nearly big enough for heaven to dwell. I must content myself with this visit to the thin edge, peering through the open door, waiting until invited to come inside.
Original Barnstorming artwork note cards available as a gift to you with a $50 donation to support Barnstorming – information here
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Sometimes you don’t get a chance To pause and rest Even to just take it all in Sometimes life just goes too fast And if you halt, even for a moment You could get rolled over By the momentum of existence So, push yourself and keep going Because once you stop You may not get started again And if you need a breather Do it after the big stuff is done – I guarantee you the view Will be a whole lot better ~Eric Nixon “The Momentum of Existence” from Equidistant
The weather app on my phone tells me precisely when sunrise and sunset will happen every day, but I’m often too distracted to be present to witness them. I miss some great shows because I don’t get up early enough or don’t return home in time or simply don’t bother to look out the window or pay attention.
These are brilliant light and shadow shows that are free for the having if only I pause, take a breather, and watch.
The view from our hill keeps getting better the older I get. The momentum of daily life slows enough to allow me, breathless, to take in the best art show around.
No charge for admission and the Artist’s exhibit rotates daily.
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What lies at the end of enticing country driveways, curving off among trees? The big trees enclose an expanse of sky, trees and sky together protect the clearing. One is sheltered here from the assaultive world as if escaped from it, and yet once arrived, is given (oneself and others being a part of that world) a generous welcome. It’s paradise as a paradigm for how to live on earth, how to be private and open quiet and richly eloquent.
It is paradise, and paradise is a kind of poem; it has a poem’s characteristics: inspiration; starting with the given; unexpected harmonies; revelations. It’s rare among the worlds one finds at the end of enticing driveways. ~Denise Levertov, “A Clearing” from This Great Unknowing.
I’d made up my mind to it, I’d stay in and read. But a light shower, earlier, had imbued the woods with a peculiar sweetness that drifted in through the open window and tempted me out of doors.
And now, with the mountains reflecting that last slanting light that dusts everything in gold, there was no help for it; I felt an enchantment that encouraged me to venture to deeper realms, deeper far and more mysterious than my favorite armchair would have allowed.
I paused at an opening in the trees, where a russet needled path beckoned inward with an irresistible charm.
Under a canopy of branches, a tiny bird flitted back and forth, as if to guide me on my way; and, on either side, forget-me-nots nodded, sprinkled there, no doubt, from a truant elf’s watering can.
A curve ahead… and I took the strange fancy that at its end I would find a thatched cottage with a chubby “Hansel” peeking ‘round the corner.
Ah, such is the magical quality of a little lane winding its way through the woods. I will return often to wander here, where dreams and reality merge and meet in the moment. ~Melody Rhodes “A Country Lane”
I have always longed to live at the end of a long driveway but have not ever had that opportunity despite living in some lovely rural settings. I think I come from highly practical people who saw long driveways as unnecessary fluff when you can build your home right next to a road.
So, driveway-deprived as I am, I look for enticing country lanes wherever I go. It is partly the anticipation of what my imagination might find beyond the curve and the trees, but much of my pleasure is in looking for the perfect lane to make the mental journey.
Life of course is never perfect and certainly there is plenty that impedes the journey to my destination. Yet I know what all is promised and how I must persist to get to that most heavenly of homes, waiting just around that curve.
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Probably Mary Oliver doesn’t stress out about her hair or quote Led Zeppelin or start to go upstairs to write something mystical about a wood duck, but get sidetracked by The Millionaire Matchmaker, watching four episodes until, panicked by self-loathing, she hits the remote.
She lives somewhere kind of remote. Is there even a Walmart out in Provincetown? Mary never, in an episode of frugality, shops there instead of the food co-op and starts lying about where the Moose Tracks ice cream came from, feigning loyalty to the mystical oils and bulk grains of the co-op where Mystical Mac ‘N Cheese costs an absurd $3.95 a box. There’s a remote chance Mary, while pondering lilies, would get sidetracked by a voicemail from her agent. Even Mary Oliver spaces out on occasion and forgets to turn off her phone. Her days start before dawn; wouldn’t she sometimes have episodes
of thinking, “To hell with the swan, I’m going to watch episodes of Lost in bed all day?” It must be exhausting to be mystical all the time, having to think up poems that start with a smelly turtle and end with the glory of the soul. The remote, sleek as an otter, lolls on her nightstand, calling out for her to take just this one morning off, to follow the tracks
of Matt Lauer and Dr. Phil instead of mucky tracks left in the marsh by tick-ridden deer. Euphoric episodes bound like grasshoppers through St. Mary’s poems, but out in nature there must be days when nothing is special, when mystical epiphanies can’t break through the clouds. Is Mary ever so remote from it all that touching a leaf leaves her blank?
Does she start to get frantic, to fear she’s lost the connection? She starts picturing herself in a smock with a nametag, cleaning finger tracks off the automatic doors while wearing Mona Lisa’s remote smile, a smile barely wide enough to keep her employed. Fighting episodes of despair, she can’t figure out how to turn a shopping cart into a mystical symbol for death—piece of cake for most poets, but not for our Mary, out
there with the flora and fauna, not remotely accustomed to the episodes comprising life for those of us not “married to amazement,” the unmystical singles’ club, sidetracked by diversions. We start toward the door, but we rarely make it out. ~Christine Heppermann, “Pure” from Poisoned Apples: Poems for You, My Pretty
Moose Tracks ice cream has nothing on Tillamook Mudslide ice cream. And I can quote Simon and Garfunkel but not Led Zeppelin. Cracker Barrel Mac n Cheese is better than any other. If I’m going to take a day to get lost in a binge of streaming episodes, it is most likely going to be Outlander. And I don’t fuss about my hair.
<sigh>
I am well aware I fall far short from the example set by Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, Annie Dillard and others for whom writing became a mystical passion of self-discovery in their observation of creation and search for understanding of the Creator.
As someone who as a child could spend hours fascinated by the tiniest bug or follow ant tracks through the woods or catch pollywogs in the creek or lie motionless in a hideaway of tall grass watching clouds roll by on a summer afternoon, I can easily be accused of way too much “blissing out” on sunrises and sunsets as I walk through my days on earth.
The reality is something completely different. I compose my writing and photos as I go about my day, whether it is scooping manure in the barn, taking quick breaks to see how the light is changing outside, or gardening, or hanging up the laundry on the clothesline. I pull over on my way to work for a quick picture if something catches my eye. A trip to the grocery store offers opportunities for a back-roads drive to see how the surrounding cornfields are growing and raspberries are ripening. When I’m fortunate, I’ll spot an eagle in a roadside tree or a new calf nursing.
So every day is a new exploration of what is in my own backyard, not remotely mystical but simply there to be seen and mused over. Rather than married to amazement, I’m attracted to the remarkably mundane. But it does mean I need to walk out the door to meet it head-on.
Even After All this time The sun never says to the earth,
“You owe Me.”
Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the Whole Sky. ~Daniel Ladinsky, from “The Gift”
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She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly. ~Ranier Maria Rilke from “Black Cat”
Pangur Bán and I at work, Adepts, equals, cat and clerk: His whole instinct is to hunt, Mine to free the meaning pent.
All the while, his round bright eye Fixes on the wall, while I Focus my less piercing gaze On the challenge of the page.
With his unsheathed, perfect nails Pangur springs, exults and kills. When the longed-for, difficult Answers come, I too exult.
So it goes. To each his own. No vying. No vexation. Taking pleasure, taking pains, Kindred spirits, veterans.
Day and night, soft purr, soft pad, Pangur Bán has learned his trade. Day and night, my own hard work Solves the cruxes, makes a mark. ~Anonymous Irish monk from “Pangur Bán”, translated by Seamus Heaney
Cally, our first adopted calico cat, was quite elderly and fading fast. Winter is always a tough time for barn cats, even with snug shelter, plentiful food and water. We had lost our 16+ year old tuxedo kitty just a couple months previously, and now Cally, not much younger, was not going to last much longer. She still got up to eat and potty, and still licked her front paws clean, but couldn’t manage much else. Her frame was thin and frail, her coat dull and matted in places, she had been deaf for some time and her eyes were rheumy. She spent her days and nights in a nest of hay on the floor of our horse barn, watching the comings and goings of horse hooves and people rolling by with wheelbarrows full of manure. One evening she allowed me to bring her a little rug to give her a bit more cushion and protection from drafts, as I wouldn’t be surprised to find her permanently curled up there the next morning. Her time was soon to come.
Cally was one of a litter raised in the mid-90’s by good friends, the VanderHaaks, on their acreage a few miles from here. When they had to make a move to a city on the east coast, their Cally and an orange colored kitty were in need of a new home. On arrival, the orange cat immediately ran into the woods, only rarely to be spotted at a distance for a few months and then completely disappeared, possibly a victim of the local coyote pack. Cally strolled onto our farm and decreed it satisfactory. She moved right in, immediately at home with the cows, horses, chickens, our aging dog Tango (who loved cats) and our other cats. In no time, she became the undisputed leader, with great nobility and elegance. There was no one who would dare to question her authority.
We knew Cally was unusual from the start. Tango initially approached her somewhat warily, given the reaction Tango elicited from our other cats (typically a hair raising hiss, scratch and spit). Instead, Cally marched right up, rubbed noses with Tango, and they became fast friends, cuddling together on our front porch whenever it was time to take a nap. They were best pals. Tango surely loved anyone who would snuggle up to her belly and keep her warm and Cally was the perfect belly warmer (as Garrison Keillor says, “a heater cat”).
Our free range rooster seriously questioned this dog/cat relationship. He was a bit indignant about a front porch communal naptime and would strut up the sidewalk, walk up and down the porch and perch on the railing, muttering to himself about how improper it was, and at times getting quite loud and insistent about it. They completely ignored him, which obviously bugged him, proud and haughty bird that he was.
One fall morning, as I opened the front door to go down the driveway to get the newspaper in the pre-dawn mist, I was astonished to see not just a cat and dog snuggled together on the porch mat, but the rooster as well, tucked up next to Tango’s tail. As usual, Tango and Cally didn’t move a muscle when I appeared, as was their habit–I always had to step over them to get to where I needed to go. The rooster, however, was very startled to see me, almost embarrassed. He stood up quickly, flapped his wings a few times, and swaggered off crowing, just to prove he hadn’t compromised his cock-sure raison d’etre.
No, I didn’t have my camera with me and I never found them all together ever again. The reader will have to just take it on faith.
After Tango died, Cally rebounded by taking on the training of our new corgi pup and making sure he understood her regal authority in all things, and demanding, in her silent way, his respect and servitude. He would happily chase other cats, but never Cally. They would touch noses, she would rub against his fur, and tickle his chin with her tail and all he could think to do was smile and wag at her.
So I figure a dog, a cat and a rooster sleeping together was our little farm’s version of the lion and lamb lying down together. We can learn something from the peaceable kingdom right outside our front door, a harbinger of what is possible for the rest of us. Despite claws, sharp teeth, and talons and too many inflexible opinions, it is possible to snuggle together in harmony and mutual need for warmth and comfort.
Our special Cally made it happen here on earth. Up in heaven, I suspect she has met up with Tango, and one rooster with attitude, for a nice nap on the other side.
The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the goat; and the calf and the young lion and the yearling together; and a little child shall lead them. Isaiah 11:6
Peaceable Kingdom by Edward Hicks, The Met
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After writing for a week alone in my old shack, I guide the car through Ortonville around midnight.
The policeman talks intently in his swivel chair. The light from above shines on his bald head.
Soon the car picks up speed again beside the quarries. The moonspot on the steel tracks moves so fast!
Thirty or so Black Angus hold down their earth Among silvery grasses blown back and forth in the wind.
My family is still away; no one is home. How sweet it is to come back to an empty house—
The windows dark, no lamps lit, trees still, The barn serious and mature in the moonlight. ~Robert Bly, “Living a Week Alone” from Like the New Moon, I Will Live My Life.
Being introverted, I would expect to enjoy time alone. But I don’t. A conversation with myself is uninspiring, leading me back into the inner circle of my thoughts when I would much rather explore the unknown of another’s view of the world. Alone, I feel exceptionally unexceptional and extraordinarily ordinary. Quite simply, without others around me, I’m empty.
At night, when I drive up to our farm and see both house and barn glowing with lights and life rather than still and dark, it is a warm blessing to return home. Someone left the lights on for me.
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