A large part of rural living means spending time outdoors, be it shoveling snow or tending to one’s garden.
When inside, it’s easy to become oblivious to what’s happening outside: the seasons, the animals, and the greenery.
But when I’m outside, I can feel a transformation in me.
I’m no longer a person of the twenty-first century. When I gather, tend, and cultivate, I’m part of the circle of life. I’m doing what people have done for thousands of years. There’s a distinct connection between the work of my hands and my past as a human being.
I’m only repeating what has been second nature to my grandmother, great-grandmother, and beyond. The work brings me closer to them.
As I bend down to pick up a freshly chopped piece of firewood, my eyes are close the ground; I catch a glimpse of tiny, red pearl-like berries growing on the forest floor. I can’t help but wonder what these berries are and whose eyes have been lit up by this type of discovery, too.
A hundred years ago, did other men and women–long gone by now–catch sight of these berries? Did these tiny jems bring as much delight in centuries past as they bring to me? I’m sure they did.
Did little discoveries such as these help to lighten the load of a long day’s work? I hope so.
When I’m snapping an apple off a tree or grabbing a tomato off the vine, I get a surge of connection. It’s as though the past is living through me, reminding me of people who once were.
This feeling of connection is powerful. I am not a mother, but I can only imagine how it must feel to give birth to a child. What feelings of connectivity there must be in that, to know that for millions of years our ancestors have been loving and feeding their children.
What makes you feel connected?
Cooking. Cooking from scratch, and cooking for others. I love the feeling of abundance and capability that comes from cooking a big meal from scratch, for friends.
My grandmother used to cook Christmas lunch for 40 people, a full proper hot English traditional Christmas lunch (roast, all the trimmings, pudding, brandy sauce). But she did it on a farm in the Australian outback, in the heat of summer – with a only a woodfired oven and a coolgardie safe – no fridge.
I have no idea how. But I think of her often, when I taking on a cooking project and bite off more than I think I can chew.
Milking my cows. We have 2 jerseys that we milk just for our family, and I love the barn when it’s quiet — watching the cats play, hearing the cow munch hay, seeing the chickens scratch. I lean my head against the warm cow and it’s very restorative. I know that my grandmas and many generations before them did the same thing.
Here are some sweet vignettes about Laura-Jane’s very own grandma, Connie, who still wishes to be part of nature. Connie carries cups of water in the basket of her walker to the house plants in the interior halls of her nursing home(s). But she loves watering them so much, she doesn’t wish to stop until she gets tired. I remember the wet floor underneath the plant at the entrance of a couple of different nursing homes.
I especially remember the potted plant on top of the piano at Cokely Manor! Eeek, the poor wet piano, underneath the plant pot!
And she added a bit of “compost” (her tea bag, if not more organic stuff!) to the flowers in the table centers.
You might think this Connie (she’ll be 100 on March 4th, 2009) is ’starting to lose it’. Ok maybe a bit. But more than that, she is enthusiastically remaining part of the circle of life.
And yes, these nursing homes have lovely courtyard gardens, which Connie knows are watered and tended already, so she doesn’t try and water them with her teacups (or does she!?!?!)