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Not So Liminal
Sep. 25th, 2019 07:58 amThreshold is my home.
It's true that I don't always recognise the importance of things in my life until I might lose them. Perhaps this is why like go-and-return relationships; I always know they're important. It's also true that I probably don't have to leave Threshold if I don't want to.
Still, fall is turning here. I finally cleaned the chimney and lit the woodstove a couple days ago. The stove is the warm heart of Threshold. When it's running the indoors becomes a place of its own, alive: not merely the brief refuge from sun and heat it becomes in the summer. The stove beats once or twice per 24 hour period in a slow rhythm of cooler to warmer as I add wood.
The fencing is always only half-done. More winter shelters need to be built. Snow is forecast, or at least frost & precipitation, and I need to get the beans and the green tomatoes in.
I've been spending some time at home lately. Working those very long days at work gave me some leeway to drift away a little bit with banked time. I don't have any all-consuming work projects right now, or even any really engaging ones. I've still been filling the pigsheds with hay for the winter and ashing the chicken house, but I've also been sitting in the fresh hay and letting the piglets suck on my jeans hem and scratching behind their mothers' ears. I've rearranged the basement so I can eat in front of the fire.
And I have found that Threshold is home. Threshold is *my* home. It is the extension of my skin; I am coming to know it with the kind of intimacy that will build and build until my blood and my memories are layered into every inch of her.
Today I am preparing to head down to Washington State to a pagan event. Later this fall I'll need to do the 24-hour round trip to Vancouver again with a trailer to pick up some things. In anticipation of leaving I find... I'll be leaving my skin and my home behind. Today I've taken off work to can the beans, pull in the tomatoes, and clean the chicken sheds. I should pull everything off the ground in case it snows too, so nothing gets caught in the snowblower. All those things that are necessary to do, all those pieces of the rhythm of the year, they are part of Threshold and part of my self and part of my life.
These words aren't much. Looking up from the laptop I see painted drywall and the old second fridge that needs replacement and booze that needs bottling and things to do. I'll step out into those things soon and get swept away, for just a day, into what I think I can call contentment.
These words aren't much. I haven't had a home for over twenty years. I've only had a series of waypoints I needed to leave. I've loved some of them; I love everything. But.
Threshold. My home.
It's true that I don't always recognise the importance of things in my life until I might lose them. Perhaps this is why like go-and-return relationships; I always know they're important. It's also true that I probably don't have to leave Threshold if I don't want to.
Still, fall is turning here. I finally cleaned the chimney and lit the woodstove a couple days ago. The stove is the warm heart of Threshold. When it's running the indoors becomes a place of its own, alive: not merely the brief refuge from sun and heat it becomes in the summer. The stove beats once or twice per 24 hour period in a slow rhythm of cooler to warmer as I add wood.
The fencing is always only half-done. More winter shelters need to be built. Snow is forecast, or at least frost & precipitation, and I need to get the beans and the green tomatoes in.
I've been spending some time at home lately. Working those very long days at work gave me some leeway to drift away a little bit with banked time. I don't have any all-consuming work projects right now, or even any really engaging ones. I've still been filling the pigsheds with hay for the winter and ashing the chicken house, but I've also been sitting in the fresh hay and letting the piglets suck on my jeans hem and scratching behind their mothers' ears. I've rearranged the basement so I can eat in front of the fire.
And I have found that Threshold is home. Threshold is *my* home. It is the extension of my skin; I am coming to know it with the kind of intimacy that will build and build until my blood and my memories are layered into every inch of her.
Today I am preparing to head down to Washington State to a pagan event. Later this fall I'll need to do the 24-hour round trip to Vancouver again with a trailer to pick up some things. In anticipation of leaving I find... I'll be leaving my skin and my home behind. Today I've taken off work to can the beans, pull in the tomatoes, and clean the chicken sheds. I should pull everything off the ground in case it snows too, so nothing gets caught in the snowblower. All those things that are necessary to do, all those pieces of the rhythm of the year, they are part of Threshold and part of my self and part of my life.
These words aren't much. Looking up from the laptop I see painted drywall and the old second fridge that needs replacement and booze that needs bottling and things to do. I'll step out into those things soon and get swept away, for just a day, into what I think I can call contentment.
These words aren't much. I haven't had a home for over twenty years. I've only had a series of waypoints I needed to leave. I've loved some of them; I love everything. But.
Threshold. My home.
