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greenstormIt snowed yesterday in the bush.
Tucker might buy a condo this weekend in the one place I can't live.
I made soap last night, and put up 6kg of turnips to pickle. I put in the traditional beets so they turn bright pink.
This morning there is snow on the ground outside again.
It took me three or four years to bond with this land.
I don't know what my future will hold but I know it will hold seeds for food, woody plants of many descriptions, the act of putting plants to bed for winter, the process of nourishing soil until it's rich and crumbly.
I could decide now that Threshold is where I want to live forever and I might be able to make that happen. I could decide to stay here, plant my tomatoes and peppers in the spring, re-embrace my heart as a revolving door where people come when they can and leave when they are done their business. For awhile I would be suspicious of all people who applied to that heart. It would reaffirm my belief that the only trustworthy relationship is the relationship to the land.
I haven't spoken much about the name of my home. I feel superstitious about it: Threshold isn't what I would have chosen if I were trying to anchor the place and make it mine. Instead it's the name that came to me persistently, something whispered by the curve of the hill that hides the pond but that it seems like you can see over, something that offers an unfolding the deeper you walk into her. Walk over the curve and you're at the pond; from the pond there's another field that invites and then, accepting that, a forest is offered. It's a name held by the arch of the house that stands like a doorway from the road. It's a name of becoming. Before just now I thought of it as meaning a place that you passed through on the way to another place and that's always been sad for me; I'd wanted to land permanently. In writing this I see that Threshold is what you are always passing through on the way to be coming yourself, and that self is the threshold for the next self. There's no arrival, just becoming.
I don't know how much sense that makes. I woke up with enough time to sit here in bed and feel my emotions. Tucker is going to maybe buy a condo in the city and we didn't talk about it. This has happened before; he put an offer on a condo two years ago and told me about it but the offer didn't get accepted. That creates what the therapists call an attachment rupture: "hey, I will just drastically change the relationship without consulting you". Or maybe we did talk about it; we both know he's not going to stay in Fort long term. To my mind the next steps would be to talk out options until we had an agreed-upon set of plans. Maybe those plans would be that he buys a condo for a year while we figure out what happens next or maybe we'd look for somewhere together or maybe we'd decide not to continue together in the way we have been. Whatever the result, I want the process. I want to feel heard, I want to feel I understand my partner's point of view, I want to discuss costs and benefits of different options to each of us.
So I retreat into the ties where I feel secure: into the land with whom I work.
Mom is still here and we'll go work on things outside together. That will be lovely. It doesn't escape my notice that mom tends to drop out and parachute in. I like that kind of connection generally because it feels authentic and comfortable to me. But. I want one relationship in my life that doesn't have that style, a weekly or daily relationship.
The sun is fully up. It's time to go out and play. Be well.
Tucker might buy a condo this weekend in the one place I can't live.
I made soap last night, and put up 6kg of turnips to pickle. I put in the traditional beets so they turn bright pink.
This morning there is snow on the ground outside again.
It took me three or four years to bond with this land.
I don't know what my future will hold but I know it will hold seeds for food, woody plants of many descriptions, the act of putting plants to bed for winter, the process of nourishing soil until it's rich and crumbly.
I could decide now that Threshold is where I want to live forever and I might be able to make that happen. I could decide to stay here, plant my tomatoes and peppers in the spring, re-embrace my heart as a revolving door where people come when they can and leave when they are done their business. For awhile I would be suspicious of all people who applied to that heart. It would reaffirm my belief that the only trustworthy relationship is the relationship to the land.
I haven't spoken much about the name of my home. I feel superstitious about it: Threshold isn't what I would have chosen if I were trying to anchor the place and make it mine. Instead it's the name that came to me persistently, something whispered by the curve of the hill that hides the pond but that it seems like you can see over, something that offers an unfolding the deeper you walk into her. Walk over the curve and you're at the pond; from the pond there's another field that invites and then, accepting that, a forest is offered. It's a name held by the arch of the house that stands like a doorway from the road. It's a name of becoming. Before just now I thought of it as meaning a place that you passed through on the way to another place and that's always been sad for me; I'd wanted to land permanently. In writing this I see that Threshold is what you are always passing through on the way to be coming yourself, and that self is the threshold for the next self. There's no arrival, just becoming.
I don't know how much sense that makes. I woke up with enough time to sit here in bed and feel my emotions. Tucker is going to maybe buy a condo in the city and we didn't talk about it. This has happened before; he put an offer on a condo two years ago and told me about it but the offer didn't get accepted. That creates what the therapists call an attachment rupture: "hey, I will just drastically change the relationship without consulting you". Or maybe we did talk about it; we both know he's not going to stay in Fort long term. To my mind the next steps would be to talk out options until we had an agreed-upon set of plans. Maybe those plans would be that he buys a condo for a year while we figure out what happens next or maybe we'd look for somewhere together or maybe we'd decide not to continue together in the way we have been. Whatever the result, I want the process. I want to feel heard, I want to feel I understand my partner's point of view, I want to discuss costs and benefits of different options to each of us.
So I retreat into the ties where I feel secure: into the land with whom I work.
Mom is still here and we'll go work on things outside together. That will be lovely. It doesn't escape my notice that mom tends to drop out and parachute in. I like that kind of connection generally because it feels authentic and comfortable to me. But. I want one relationship in my life that doesn't have that style, a weekly or daily relationship.
The sun is fully up. It's time to go out and play. Be well.
