Daily Rhythms

Every morning I check my favorite weather forecasting app to see what the day will bring to our peaceful hillside. Then I plan my day. I choose my indoor hours and what will occupy them, and my outdoor hours, pondering the tasks on my wish list.

My outdoor wish list is wondrous to behold. There are things to plant, prune, compost, harvest, scythe, feed, train, water, blaze, repair, trench, bolster, and watch. I've learned to do the things that need to be done soon, to save me the ultimatum of needing to be done NOW.

Last night, a friend informed me that an ice storm was on its way, descending sometime mid-afternoon, today. I realized that the two small citrus trees that had grown enthusiastically all summer might need a bit of protection to come through this storm intact. I also wanted to mulch the four rosebushes that we'd planted last week, since they were fragile and not feeling entirely at home yet.

Early this morning, I dutifully checked my app, and there it was, cloudy all morning with snow starting at 3:00 pm. I lazed a bit, checking email, finishing up various computer tasks, still in slippers and fluffy sweater. When finally the persistent tap-tap-tap from the skylight penetrated my awareness, I looked up to see snow slamming against the glass. The clock did indeed claim 10:23 am, but my soon had unexpectedly become NOW.

I could easily imagine my poor, fragile friends out on the hillside, trapped, with their feet firmly anchored in the freezing ground, blinking their many eyes against the whipping snow, silently whimpering. I chomped down a fried egg sandwich while I changed into thick, winter overalls and woolen sweater and gloves, boots, and a thick, knitted hat.

In the 11 minutes it had taken me to go from skylight-gazer to insulated winter woman, the weather changed. Snowflakes drifted lazily; the overcast sky gazed innocently, pretending indifference; quiet hung across the valley. My NOW had become soonish. My tasks reordered themselves.

I led the ducks up to the pond and poured grain on the bank, their urgent quacking transforming into contented gurgling, reminiscent of nursing babies. I popped open a fresh bale of hay and stuffed the feeding barrels for the llamas. I swirled the grain tower in the stable, to bring bountiful morsels out for the chickens. I checked water and nesting boxes. Everyone had what they needed to wander comfortably through a stormy afternoon.

The citrus trees were soon cocooned inside layers of clear, plastic sheeting, securely pinned in place. Dried leaves mounded around diminutive rose twigs, secured with coffee bags and cardboard, those multi-tasked, wonders of permaculture. I easily imagined the tiny beings nestling into their new covers, snuggling down, out of the wind and snow, drowsing peacefully as winter raged around them.

My NOW and soonish had become done.  The gentle beings that had come to live with us in this valley were fed and sheltered.  The snowfall might turn into an ice storm in a few hours, but everyone entrusted to my care would remain safe.



And then I turned to the most important task of the day. I stood and watched the day around me. I felt the gentle hillside, the trees peaceful in their winter rest, the pond frozen in anticipation of spring, the pastures crammed with grasses who were sending their roots deep into the soil, steadily readying themselves for sunshine and warmth, which was surely, surely just around the corner on this first week in January. I let peace wash over me, as the breeze dipped and danced and the snow flurried and swirled, standing warm and impervious inside my insulated armor, wondering at the beauty of our world.
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Joy in Our Hearts