I write this under the sleepy, half-drooping eye of the waning Adar moon. It is 42% full and on its way to getting smaller. (I know this courtesy of the nifty gadget I have installed on my desktop - which you can access by clicking the title of this post.) It is wrestling itself free from the tangle of branches that have captured it just outside my window.
These moments of encounter are always a delight. It is as if I have once again discovered one of the greatest shows on earth unfolding on the biggest stage we know free for the asking. But these moments also conjure up a bit of regret. They carry the same emotional mix that comes with bumping into an old friend. On the one hand, we are thrilled to see them, to gaze upon their face, listen to their voice and be in their presence. On the other, their very presence reminds us how much we miss them.
To rediscover the moon means that I am aware of how often I ignore it. Each time I promise to be more faithful, more attentive, more present. And each time I am not.
The moon, though, is very forgiving. It always comes back. And today, as I again make my amends, my apologies and my re-acquaintance, I think about the complex character of this glowing orb: the constancy of its transit over the stretch of a year and its changeable moods across the course of a month.
On the one hand, the moon, like the sun, plies a predictable path through the expanse of heaven, day in and day out, year in and year out. No matter the storms that are raging or the fights we are having. No matter if everyone is watching, or no one is. The moon is faithful. It will pursue and complete its journey.
On the other hand, unlike the sun or the stars, the moon is fickle, presenting a new face on a daily basis. Open or shut, dark or light, joyous or fearful. In this, it is just like many of us, fighting or celebrating or sometimes surrendering to the moods and passions of each new day.
There is much that the elegant joining of these two aspects – change and constancy - can teach us. We are volatile creatures, after all, tantalized by, dependent on and subject to change. We are also stable creatures, soothed by and in need of repetition, return, and the constancy of home. The moon offers us a way to weave both into our lives.
Even as the daily storms of life swirl around us, catching us in their vortices and turning us all about, even as we seek adventures that sail us past the ends of our maps and send us off the edges of our world, we can be comforted by the constant passages we are bound to keep, the well-worn paths now ours to trod, the promises that lead us home. Change and constancy; surprise and habit. The moon is our model in this complex dance.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Perek Shira - nature as text
It is early March, and, though I am mindful of all the countervailing arguments, I am still hoping for one more whopping, traffic-stopping, history-making, child-delighting, society-slowing, sofa-cuddling, awe-inspiring snowstorm.
But I hold this admittedly minority view all the more desperately because to step outside these days is to feel Spring stirring in its chambers, pacing outside the door, waiting to be let in.
The birds are more active, too, more present and more vocal. The buds are pushing their way up and out. The air has lost its sting.
It is at this time of year that the remarkable and mysterious book called Perek Shira, the Book of Song, comes to mind. It is of unknown date and origin, but is a lilting celebration of God's creation, arrayed in 84 short sections of praise to the natural world. It focuses on the different elements, species, aspects of the natural world from light and darkness to rain and dew, cats and lions and wilderness and seas.
What makes this short, enigmatic book unique in all of Jewish literary history is that it weaves the worlds of nature and Torah together. Indeed even more, it treats nature like Torah, as a text to be studied, loved and mined for all the moral, theological and spiritual meanings it will yield.
To the modern mind, Perek Shira is likely to be seen as more charming than substantive, more delightful than instructive, more a curiosity than a text for study. But it is nonetheless a captivating and remarkable book. For we need to imagine this book being written in a culture that kept nature at arm's length, fearing the possible pagan seduction of nature, fearing that the confusion of Creator with creation would bring Jews to worship the created instead of the Creator.
And yet, in spite of all that, this book was written. True, it was almost lost. It is not part of the canon of mandatory texts that are taught in yeshivas or seminaries; not part of the standard curriculum of congregational schools. But it is making a come-back. A true sign of the times. ("Google" Perek Shira and see all the hits you will get.)
It is not properly about nature itself. Nor is it about nature as resource or commodity. Rather it is about nature as a messenger from God, a tool of the Divine, a call, a prod, an inspiration to a dispirited people. The book seems to have been written in a dark time for the Jews. In response, the book seems to be saying, Do not despair! The answer to your needs, the cure for your despondency, is all around you. See and listen. Nature, that is, God's messenger, offers you hope and guidance, fortitude and promise.
Embedded in its short passages are these fundamental messages:
1) praise God the Creator of all
2) celebrate nature for it is God's creation
3) learn from nature for it possesses unique lessons for the Jewish people when read through the lens of Torah
4) the bleakness around you will not endure
5) if you do good, you will merit goodness in return
6) work hard
7) be moral
That is Perek Shira on one foot. Now we must go and study.
But I hold this admittedly minority view all the more desperately because to step outside these days is to feel Spring stirring in its chambers, pacing outside the door, waiting to be let in.
The birds are more active, too, more present and more vocal. The buds are pushing their way up and out. The air has lost its sting.
It is at this time of year that the remarkable and mysterious book called Perek Shira, the Book of Song, comes to mind. It is of unknown date and origin, but is a lilting celebration of God's creation, arrayed in 84 short sections of praise to the natural world. It focuses on the different elements, species, aspects of the natural world from light and darkness to rain and dew, cats and lions and wilderness and seas.
What makes this short, enigmatic book unique in all of Jewish literary history is that it weaves the worlds of nature and Torah together. Indeed even more, it treats nature like Torah, as a text to be studied, loved and mined for all the moral, theological and spiritual meanings it will yield.
To the modern mind, Perek Shira is likely to be seen as more charming than substantive, more delightful than instructive, more a curiosity than a text for study. But it is nonetheless a captivating and remarkable book. For we need to imagine this book being written in a culture that kept nature at arm's length, fearing the possible pagan seduction of nature, fearing that the confusion of Creator with creation would bring Jews to worship the created instead of the Creator.
And yet, in spite of all that, this book was written. True, it was almost lost. It is not part of the canon of mandatory texts that are taught in yeshivas or seminaries; not part of the standard curriculum of congregational schools. But it is making a come-back. A true sign of the times. ("Google" Perek Shira and see all the hits you will get.)
It is not properly about nature itself. Nor is it about nature as resource or commodity. Rather it is about nature as a messenger from God, a tool of the Divine, a call, a prod, an inspiration to a dispirited people. The book seems to have been written in a dark time for the Jews. In response, the book seems to be saying, Do not despair! The answer to your needs, the cure for your despondency, is all around you. See and listen. Nature, that is, God's messenger, offers you hope and guidance, fortitude and promise.
Embedded in its short passages are these fundamental messages:
1) praise God the Creator of all
2) celebrate nature for it is God's creation
3) learn from nature for it possesses unique lessons for the Jewish people when read through the lens of Torah
4) the bleakness around you will not endure
5) if you do good, you will merit goodness in return
6) work hard
7) be moral
That is Perek Shira on one foot. Now we must go and study.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
the nature of wood
I had a fight with my stove today. I suppose it was bound to happen. I was ignoring the beech, burning almost exclusively the tulip poplar, which is easy to split, easy to saw, easy to burn. My beech was clearly getting jealous, feeling neglected and overlooked. So, in honor of my success in splitting the beech logs, and eager to make amends, I went to burn my beech.
What I did not know was that here, too, beech is a bit bitchy. It is a finicky burn. It likes much a hotter stove, a more fire-y box than the poplar. It takes more heat, more energy, to get it to burn. The small bit of tinder and starter logs I can use to get a raging poplar burn going did not do it for the beech. The box stayed cold; the early flames died down. The beech resisted all efforts to coax it out of its angry funk. It sat there, arms folded, wrapping around and around itself. (That is what the circular markings in the bark looked like; the wood closing in on itself, keeping me and the flames out, refusing to open up and embrace the fire.)
I tried several times to make up to it. I slipped rolled up sheets of newspaper, peppered with tinder, under the two beech logs, lit them and watched as the conflagration roared. The beech, I hoped, would surely warm to this. I tried it once, and twice, and a third time. Nothing doing.
With tinder harvesting still a few days away (the fallen twigs are both largely covered with snow and very wet), I dole out my tinder quite sparingly. It was time to stop throwing good wood after bad.
So I did the only thing I could. I cleared out the slightly charred but resistant beech logs, and started a fire with my reliable poplar. Once I got that up and going, I gingerly placed the smaller beech log in the readied stove, in the belly of the beast, in the midst of the flames. The beech finally warmed to my ministerings, forgave me my transgressions, and gave itself to the fire.
What is amazing is how the beech burns. While the poplar seems to absorb the fire, taking it into its core, soaking in the flames, the beech wears its fire like a coat. The flames appear to float upon its surface, like those that dance upon liqueur poured into a dish or upon food en flambe. The flames of the poplar wrap themselves around the log, licking the wood as if to taste its goodness. The flames on the beech, quite differently, go shooting out, as if escaping through castle portals, never looking back, never acknowledging the source of their energy.
It is obvious by now that I am totally captured, totally enrapt, by the whole enterprise of burning wood. What I love is the intimacy of knowledge that I gain through handling it and observing it. To know intellectually that wood has different grains, different densities and hardnesses, different feels and qualities, is one thing. We all know this. George Nakashima, the great wood-worker and furniture maker, lived his life and honed his craft in response to the distinctive gifts of each piece of wood.
But to see it for yourself, to experience it, to watch your wood act out its distinctiveness under the press of your hand or behind the tempered glass of your stove, is to be awed, to become a humble student of the mysteries of nature.
For me, it is my stove. For musicians, it is the touch and sound of their instrument. For scientists it is the particular valence of a metal or the measure of a wave-length. Whatever it is, we each need that connection. For the sake of our souls, for the sake of the world, for the profound sense of awe it can bring us, each of us should find a way to become intimate with the physical world. It is a profound gift and healing teacher.
What I did not know was that here, too, beech is a bit bitchy. It is a finicky burn. It likes much a hotter stove, a more fire-y box than the poplar. It takes more heat, more energy, to get it to burn. The small bit of tinder and starter logs I can use to get a raging poplar burn going did not do it for the beech. The box stayed cold; the early flames died down. The beech resisted all efforts to coax it out of its angry funk. It sat there, arms folded, wrapping around and around itself. (That is what the circular markings in the bark looked like; the wood closing in on itself, keeping me and the flames out, refusing to open up and embrace the fire.)
I tried several times to make up to it. I slipped rolled up sheets of newspaper, peppered with tinder, under the two beech logs, lit them and watched as the conflagration roared. The beech, I hoped, would surely warm to this. I tried it once, and twice, and a third time. Nothing doing.
With tinder harvesting still a few days away (the fallen twigs are both largely covered with snow and very wet), I dole out my tinder quite sparingly. It was time to stop throwing good wood after bad.
So I did the only thing I could. I cleared out the slightly charred but resistant beech logs, and started a fire with my reliable poplar. Once I got that up and going, I gingerly placed the smaller beech log in the readied stove, in the belly of the beast, in the midst of the flames. The beech finally warmed to my ministerings, forgave me my transgressions, and gave itself to the fire.
What is amazing is how the beech burns. While the poplar seems to absorb the fire, taking it into its core, soaking in the flames, the beech wears its fire like a coat. The flames appear to float upon its surface, like those that dance upon liqueur poured into a dish or upon food en flambe. The flames of the poplar wrap themselves around the log, licking the wood as if to taste its goodness. The flames on the beech, quite differently, go shooting out, as if escaping through castle portals, never looking back, never acknowledging the source of their energy.
It is obvious by now that I am totally captured, totally enrapt, by the whole enterprise of burning wood. What I love is the intimacy of knowledge that I gain through handling it and observing it. To know intellectually that wood has different grains, different densities and hardnesses, different feels and qualities, is one thing. We all know this. George Nakashima, the great wood-worker and furniture maker, lived his life and honed his craft in response to the distinctive gifts of each piece of wood.
But to see it for yourself, to experience it, to watch your wood act out its distinctiveness under the press of your hand or behind the tempered glass of your stove, is to be awed, to become a humble student of the mysteries of nature.
For me, it is my stove. For musicians, it is the touch and sound of their instrument. For scientists it is the particular valence of a metal or the measure of a wave-length. Whatever it is, we each need that connection. For the sake of our souls, for the sake of the world, for the profound sense of awe it can bring us, each of us should find a way to become intimate with the physical world. It is a profound gift and healing teacher.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Reds Wolman, z"l
"Reds" (Markley Gordon) Wolman died this week. While most of us have not heard of him, there is a whole universe of friends, family, admirers, disciples, students, and beneficiaries who are bereft today, aching as they rarely do upon the loss of an 80-something year old man who lived a full, rewarding and energetic life.
But Reds was no ordinary man. To me, first and foremost, he was the father of an old friend, from way back in high school days. Chana Elsa and I went to Park School together, and while I did not know her father well back then, I could see his imprint and legacy on his remarkable daughter. Even when young, Elsa, as she was known back then, possessed a combination of confidence and humility, like her father; smarts and athletics, like her father; generosity, kindness, a warm laugh and willingness to help anyone who needed her, like her father; a sense of grace and an eye for beauty, like her father. My heart goes out to Chana Elsa and her family at this time of their loss.
But there is of course more to the man. Reds was a pioneer in water courses, streams and how geomorphic forces help shape the land around us. He was like the part of nature he studied, a constant, quiet, influential force, shaping and nourishing the landscape of the lives of those around him just as the water he studied shaped and nourished the landscape around us.
And he was a constant and influential presence at Johns Hopkins University for more than half a century. In addition to his other positions and contributions there, he served as the first director of the Department of Geography and Environmental Engineering from 1970-1990, and most recently as director of the Center for Environmental Health Engineering at the Bloomberg School of Public Health.
He was equally known for his kindness to all, from the University president to the greenest, newest, most fearful graduate student. His combination of modesty and brilliance, socratic teaching style and confidence in his students, natural curiosity and a lightness of style, encouraged his students to rise to their greatest capacities.
In his office is a gift from a student of an academic family tree. As reported in a JHU magazine, "The first few lines show the names of some of Wolman’s early graduate students. Branching off of these names are Wolman’s students’ graduate students in geography and geology and then, those students’ students in these fields. As of 1995, the tree boasted 47 children, 106 grandchildren, 17 great-grandchildren, and four great-great-grandchildren. It’s still growing."
Reds understood that to make his scholarship and science meaningful, it couldn't stay in the ivy-walled academy, but had to move to application. Which is why he had a double appointment to both the Department of Geography and Environmental Engineering and the Bloomberg School of Public Health. He was one of the early environmental prophets, walking in his father's footsteps (Abel Wolman pioneered water safety and devised the formula for safely and effectively chlorinating drinking water).
Reds was a gentle, kind and gifted man, who made everyone around feel the urge and urgency of contributing whatever skills they possessed to the betterment of all. He will be sorely missed.
May his memory serve as a blessing.
But Reds was no ordinary man. To me, first and foremost, he was the father of an old friend, from way back in high school days. Chana Elsa and I went to Park School together, and while I did not know her father well back then, I could see his imprint and legacy on his remarkable daughter. Even when young, Elsa, as she was known back then, possessed a combination of confidence and humility, like her father; smarts and athletics, like her father; generosity, kindness, a warm laugh and willingness to help anyone who needed her, like her father; a sense of grace and an eye for beauty, like her father. My heart goes out to Chana Elsa and her family at this time of their loss.
But there is of course more to the man. Reds was a pioneer in water courses, streams and how geomorphic forces help shape the land around us. He was like the part of nature he studied, a constant, quiet, influential force, shaping and nourishing the landscape of the lives of those around him just as the water he studied shaped and nourished the landscape around us.
And he was a constant and influential presence at Johns Hopkins University for more than half a century. In addition to his other positions and contributions there, he served as the first director of the Department of Geography and Environmental Engineering from 1970-1990, and most recently as director of the Center for Environmental Health Engineering at the Bloomberg School of Public Health.
He was equally known for his kindness to all, from the University president to the greenest, newest, most fearful graduate student. His combination of modesty and brilliance, socratic teaching style and confidence in his students, natural curiosity and a lightness of style, encouraged his students to rise to their greatest capacities.
In his office is a gift from a student of an academic family tree. As reported in a JHU magazine, "The first few lines show the names of some of Wolman’s early graduate students. Branching off of these names are Wolman’s students’ graduate students in geography and geology and then, those students’ students in these fields. As of 1995, the tree boasted 47 children, 106 grandchildren, 17 great-grandchildren, and four great-great-grandchildren. It’s still growing."
Reds understood that to make his scholarship and science meaningful, it couldn't stay in the ivy-walled academy, but had to move to application. Which is why he had a double appointment to both the Department of Geography and Environmental Engineering and the Bloomberg School of Public Health. He was one of the early environmental prophets, walking in his father's footsteps (Abel Wolman pioneered water safety and devised the formula for safely and effectively chlorinating drinking water).
Reds was a gentle, kind and gifted man, who made everyone around feel the urge and urgency of contributing whatever skills they possessed to the betterment of all. He will be sorely missed.
May his memory serve as a blessing.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
outdoors
There is nothing quite so satisfying as splitting wood. You get to choose your target; analyze your problem; design a solution; follow through with your plan; use your physics, your muscles and your smarts and voila. Either you succeed, in which case you have firewood ready to be stacked or burned; or you don't, in which case you review the situation, correct your mistakes, and try again.
No committees, no forms to fill out, no waiting for an answer, no wondering the outcome, no one else to blame, no excuses.
I split lots more wood today. I am almost running out. About 2 or 3 more sessions and all my wood will be ready to burn. Need to come up with Plan B on how to get more.
Amidst all this snow, and more on the way (which, I confess, I am delighted to see. If this is going to be an historic winter, then, by Gd, let's do it in grand style. I know. Think about the city budget, the state budget; think about lost earnings and taxes; think about lost school days. But I do so love the snow and it rarely comes to Baltimore in such a boisterous way. Yet, what else is winter for? And did you see, that traffic deaths are down by half so far this year? While reasons are always elusive, some do believe it is because of the snow and the fewer miles traveled.) my trees are budding.
My beech, standing majestically before my home like a sentinel guarding us summer, winter, spring and fall, has sprouted its tiny, tightly wound, reddish-hued leaf spirals. My apple trees, the ones I planted last spring and covered with netting to protect them from the deer, survive! They too are sprouting buds, the soft, fuzzy kind that entice you to stroke them. Or if you are deer, eat them. Gratefully, they were neither touched by human nor eaten by deer.
And I went to see how many more of my pine limbs were freed from their snow casings. Not too many. But I was able to see for the first time precisely how many downed limbs there were, and there are a lot of them. I will have my hands full sawing all those limbs, and those of my neighbor's, over the next little while. I may need to call in assistance, with a power saw.
However, I managed to rescue some of the still-attached limbs. As pine design would have it, the raft of needles on the ends of branches easily get trapped in the mounds of snow tumbling down on them. Wisely, the branches are flexible, able to bend in great arcs to accommodate the dislocation and disturbance. Still, it didn't seem right seeing all those branches bending down and still stuck on the ground. So I began to dig them out.
This is not all that hard to do, but you do need to be mindful of where you are standing, lest you be catapulted into the air courtesy of the branch you have just liberated. So, I learned how to carefully position myself, dig just so to loose the needles from their wintry bed, stand back and be treated to the whoosh of freedom, and the silent gratitude of the tree.
Just in time for the next storm.
No committees, no forms to fill out, no waiting for an answer, no wondering the outcome, no one else to blame, no excuses.
I split lots more wood today. I am almost running out. About 2 or 3 more sessions and all my wood will be ready to burn. Need to come up with Plan B on how to get more.
Amidst all this snow, and more on the way (which, I confess, I am delighted to see. If this is going to be an historic winter, then, by Gd, let's do it in grand style. I know. Think about the city budget, the state budget; think about lost earnings and taxes; think about lost school days. But I do so love the snow and it rarely comes to Baltimore in such a boisterous way. Yet, what else is winter for? And did you see, that traffic deaths are down by half so far this year? While reasons are always elusive, some do believe it is because of the snow and the fewer miles traveled.) my trees are budding.
My beech, standing majestically before my home like a sentinel guarding us summer, winter, spring and fall, has sprouted its tiny, tightly wound, reddish-hued leaf spirals. My apple trees, the ones I planted last spring and covered with netting to protect them from the deer, survive! They too are sprouting buds, the soft, fuzzy kind that entice you to stroke them. Or if you are deer, eat them. Gratefully, they were neither touched by human nor eaten by deer.
And I went to see how many more of my pine limbs were freed from their snow casings. Not too many. But I was able to see for the first time precisely how many downed limbs there were, and there are a lot of them. I will have my hands full sawing all those limbs, and those of my neighbor's, over the next little while. I may need to call in assistance, with a power saw.
However, I managed to rescue some of the still-attached limbs. As pine design would have it, the raft of needles on the ends of branches easily get trapped in the mounds of snow tumbling down on them. Wisely, the branches are flexible, able to bend in great arcs to accommodate the dislocation and disturbance. Still, it didn't seem right seeing all those branches bending down and still stuck on the ground. So I began to dig them out.
This is not all that hard to do, but you do need to be mindful of where you are standing, lest you be catapulted into the air courtesy of the branch you have just liberated. So, I learned how to carefully position myself, dig just so to loose the needles from their wintry bed, stand back and be treated to the whoosh of freedom, and the silent gratitude of the tree.
Just in time for the next storm.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
On splitting wood
I am getting pretty good at splitting wood. At least the softer pines and tulip poplars. The well-worn axe I am using, courtesy of a friend, has a sharp, cutting edge on one side and a blunt, flat, broad hammerhead (otherwise known as a maul) on the other. It is also adorned by an extra helping of weight slipped on the handle and slid down to the end. I soon discovered why.
I am sure there are almost as many ways to split wood as there are people wielding axes. While I am very much still learning and experimenting, and would definitely welcome advice and anecdotes about how to make things go better, I am enjoying finding my way. Here is what I have learned so far:
1) Always split wood from the end, never from the side. This is obvious to anyone who has tried it but a revelation to those of us who had to discover it on our own. The impulse to split the wood from its side is clear: it offers a larger and more secure target. Logs are not known for their pristine cuts. That is, their ends are often uneven or slanted so that they don't stand up very securely. Laying them down gives you - the aggressor - greater ability to prevent them from moving around when you work on them. But as physics would have it, wood approached side-on is immensely resistant to your muscular efforts.
2) Despite what some folk suggest, I do not make a notch with the axe first and then slip the splitter (a heavy, metal, sharp-edged wedge) into the groove. I find that I am not adept enough at aiming the axe and end up with splintered and gashed wood. Instead, I position the splitter over a chosen section of the end of the log. If I am lucky, the wood is well-enough seasoned that it has developed cracks. Using them to my advantage, I place the splitter on them, and use the maul side of the axe, aided by the weight, to hammer the end of the splitter securely into the wood.
3) Securing the log on its end while using both hands (arms and back) to smash an axe-head, maul side first, into the splitter is a bit challenging. This is the system I have devised to date: I set the log against a brick wall by my garage which is met by a slight ramp at 90 degrees. Then, I use my foot to wedge the log into the corner where wall and ramp meet. So far, so good, meaning success in splitting the wood without doing injury to me, the wall, the ramp or the cars nearby. But I am very much open to other suggestions!
4) I have devised various methods of dislodging the splitter when it gets wedged deeply, unbudgeable, into the log. But I would welcome any tried-and-true methods to (a) either avoid that uncomfortable dilemma altogether or (b) easily or at least reliably free the wedge.
One distinct measure of progress though is that while on the first day that I took up splitting wood about a week ago, I split only two logs before so bruising my hands that I could not hold a pen or type without discomfort, today I split six logs, nice big logs, several into quarters, without an ounce of pain. There is something immensely comforting in sitting before a fire whose wood comes from the trees on your land and was split by your own hand.
Next, I just may install an outdoor hand-pump, stick one of those low-rise rotary wind-turbines on my roof and see how far off the grid I can go! (Check back with me on that after I broach this with my husband.)
I am sure there are almost as many ways to split wood as there are people wielding axes. While I am very much still learning and experimenting, and would definitely welcome advice and anecdotes about how to make things go better, I am enjoying finding my way. Here is what I have learned so far:
1) Always split wood from the end, never from the side. This is obvious to anyone who has tried it but a revelation to those of us who had to discover it on our own. The impulse to split the wood from its side is clear: it offers a larger and more secure target. Logs are not known for their pristine cuts. That is, their ends are often uneven or slanted so that they don't stand up very securely. Laying them down gives you - the aggressor - greater ability to prevent them from moving around when you work on them. But as physics would have it, wood approached side-on is immensely resistant to your muscular efforts.
2) Despite what some folk suggest, I do not make a notch with the axe first and then slip the splitter (a heavy, metal, sharp-edged wedge) into the groove. I find that I am not adept enough at aiming the axe and end up with splintered and gashed wood. Instead, I position the splitter over a chosen section of the end of the log. If I am lucky, the wood is well-enough seasoned that it has developed cracks. Using them to my advantage, I place the splitter on them, and use the maul side of the axe, aided by the weight, to hammer the end of the splitter securely into the wood.
3) Securing the log on its end while using both hands (arms and back) to smash an axe-head, maul side first, into the splitter is a bit challenging. This is the system I have devised to date: I set the log against a brick wall by my garage which is met by a slight ramp at 90 degrees. Then, I use my foot to wedge the log into the corner where wall and ramp meet. So far, so good, meaning success in splitting the wood without doing injury to me, the wall, the ramp or the cars nearby. But I am very much open to other suggestions!
4) I have devised various methods of dislodging the splitter when it gets wedged deeply, unbudgeable, into the log. But I would welcome any tried-and-true methods to (a) either avoid that uncomfortable dilemma altogether or (b) easily or at least reliably free the wedge.
One distinct measure of progress though is that while on the first day that I took up splitting wood about a week ago, I split only two logs before so bruising my hands that I could not hold a pen or type without discomfort, today I split six logs, nice big logs, several into quarters, without an ounce of pain. There is something immensely comforting in sitting before a fire whose wood comes from the trees on your land and was split by your own hand.
Next, I just may install an outdoor hand-pump, stick one of those low-rise rotary wind-turbines on my roof and see how far off the grid I can go! (Check back with me on that after I broach this with my husband.)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
on pines, pain and the lessons from snow
The weather has been gentle these last few days, allowing the snow to release its grip on our homes, our cars, our streets, our trees, our mobility and perhaps most of all, our spirits. It has pulled back from its monstrous presence, returning to a more reasonable scale, allowing us to believe, somewhat, that we can now manage it and our lives a bit better.
In its retreat, it has opened up access to the leading edge of the downed pine limbs that litter my front lawn. I decided, therefore, that it was time to begin harvesting them. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed by the lessons I learned.
In the quiet of this early, sunny Sunday morning, I stepped outside, almost directly onto a small bird, sitting quite still, but quite alive, on my front door mat. I imagine that it must have just flown into the glass of my door, and was recuperating from being momentarily stunned. But its gentle vulnerability almost collided with my unseeing stride. We barely avoided a small but distinct tragedy, in both our lives. Luckily, we passed each other, both apparently unharmed, for the bird was not there when I returned.
Still, the possibility of deep, unintentional harm was on my mind as I gathered my saw and trash can (into which I was putting the bounty of my harvest) and headed toward the pine trees.
The snow was deep enough that I could not get to most of the limbs. But it had cleared enough to reveal a fuller sense of the scope of the loss and the story behind it. It was classic: a limb from up high had taken on too much snow and snapped off, taking with it, in a cascade of gravity, several of the limbs that lay beneath it. Many branches lay in a heap, tumbled one upon the other. They were difficult to untangle, especially those still encased in snow. They will have to wait for other 40-degree days. Then I should be able to free them.
I knew that the limbs that were down would be too green, too fresh, to burn now. I will need to leave them be, let them settle and ripen. They will have a full year to season before next year's winter. But what I hadn't anticipated was how difficult it would be to saw this fresh, sappy wood, and how surprisingly pungent and intoxicating the pine scent would be.
It took me but a half hour to fill my large garbage can with middling sized wood, the kind that fills the gap between the kindling and the large logs.
Throughout I was aware of the metaphors of human pain and hurt that this mild devastation of timber revealed.
There are times when someone - either we ourselves or someone we know or love - becomes laden with a burden they can no longer support. Weighed down without relief, they eventually tumble, unwittingly, unwantingly, taking with them those around them, even those who sought to hold them up.
In the immediate aftermath of the fall, it is hard to disentangle one pain from another. It all just sits there, in a heap, hurting. But as time moves on, the snows recede, the edges begin to reveal themselves, the full and distinct extent of the loss appears. There is, at first, nothing to be done but weep.
Only then, only after that, can the healing begin. At least a little bit. Even when healing dares to come, it moves not in a constant, linear direction. In the sunlight, the snow can melt, loosening its grip, offering promises of freedom and renewal. But come night, the snow freezes, encasing the branches once again in a frigid grasp.
Still, over time, the weather warms, the branches claim their new shape, things settle. And in the midst of this cleaning up and clearing away, the reviving scent of the pine is released, as if to say: there is life even amid this loss. There is a spirit that renews us even in the rubble. Keep working, keep clearing, for the fragrance of experiences of life past will carry us to the blessings of life yet to be.
And hopefully, by this time next year, the downed limbs will be seasoned, ready to release their hard-earned energy into the flames that will soothe our
spirits, and warm our homes.
I will go out again later this week, and saw and gather more wood.
In its retreat, it has opened up access to the leading edge of the downed pine limbs that litter my front lawn. I decided, therefore, that it was time to begin harvesting them. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed by the lessons I learned.
In the quiet of this early, sunny Sunday morning, I stepped outside, almost directly onto a small bird, sitting quite still, but quite alive, on my front door mat. I imagine that it must have just flown into the glass of my door, and was recuperating from being momentarily stunned. But its gentle vulnerability almost collided with my unseeing stride. We barely avoided a small but distinct tragedy, in both our lives. Luckily, we passed each other, both apparently unharmed, for the bird was not there when I returned.
Still, the possibility of deep, unintentional harm was on my mind as I gathered my saw and trash can (into which I was putting the bounty of my harvest) and headed toward the pine trees.
The snow was deep enough that I could not get to most of the limbs. But it had cleared enough to reveal a fuller sense of the scope of the loss and the story behind it. It was classic: a limb from up high had taken on too much snow and snapped off, taking with it, in a cascade of gravity, several of the limbs that lay beneath it. Many branches lay in a heap, tumbled one upon the other. They were difficult to untangle, especially those still encased in snow. They will have to wait for other 40-degree days. Then I should be able to free them.
I knew that the limbs that were down would be too green, too fresh, to burn now. I will need to leave them be, let them settle and ripen. They will have a full year to season before next year's winter. But what I hadn't anticipated was how difficult it would be to saw this fresh, sappy wood, and how surprisingly pungent and intoxicating the pine scent would be.
It took me but a half hour to fill my large garbage can with middling sized wood, the kind that fills the gap between the kindling and the large logs.
Throughout I was aware of the metaphors of human pain and hurt that this mild devastation of timber revealed.
There are times when someone - either we ourselves or someone we know or love - becomes laden with a burden they can no longer support. Weighed down without relief, they eventually tumble, unwittingly, unwantingly, taking with them those around them, even those who sought to hold them up.
In the immediate aftermath of the fall, it is hard to disentangle one pain from another. It all just sits there, in a heap, hurting. But as time moves on, the snows recede, the edges begin to reveal themselves, the full and distinct extent of the loss appears. There is, at first, nothing to be done but weep.
Only then, only after that, can the healing begin. At least a little bit. Even when healing dares to come, it moves not in a constant, linear direction. In the sunlight, the snow can melt, loosening its grip, offering promises of freedom and renewal. But come night, the snow freezes, encasing the branches once again in a frigid grasp.
Still, over time, the weather warms, the branches claim their new shape, things settle. And in the midst of this cleaning up and clearing away, the reviving scent of the pine is released, as if to say: there is life even amid this loss. There is a spirit that renews us even in the rubble. Keep working, keep clearing, for the fragrance of experiences of life past will carry us to the blessings of life yet to be.
And hopefully, by this time next year, the downed limbs will be seasoned, ready to release their hard-earned energy into the flames that will soothe our
spirits, and warm our homes.
I will go out again later this week, and saw and gather more wood.
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