Forest Musings

1.
There is something inexpressibly simple of the forest
and of hard work.

2.
It was our new wheelbarrow's virgin voyage.
It may be a while before I am used to the bright teal of this one.
The old orange one was so well-loved, but though the handles were polished wood from use, the body of the barrow was cracked through.
I went out with a pitchfork and a rake to dress the trails in wood chips.

3.
I know these trails so well. I have walked and run every centimeter of them, barrowed logs and brush and children over them.
I have run these trails with my eyes closed, barefoot in the dark.
I am a part of these woods.

4.
Chopping wood is an emotional thing.
There is a savage joy in the clean cleave of a sharp axe through cedar.
Determination when it doesn't split, but sticks around the axe head, and must be swung back, axe and log together, over the shoulder, and in a clean sweep, down onto the chopping block.
Frustration in those too heavy to lift. Anger in the removal of the blade from the stuck wood, hitting the end with a piece of kindling wood to make the axe fall out. Craftiness in the placement of the maul. Satisfaction in the bludgeoning of the maul with an iron mallet, until the impossible task is achieved and the round is cloven through.
Power and joy in the knowledge of strength.

5.
Sometimes I sing-
A song I know
A song I knew
A song that never was before
As thoughts flow through my lips
Sweet, or strong, or lonely
But always clear in the frigid air.

6.
I get so caught up sometimes
I think of anything-
It's freeing, the silence of the woods
Or the expression of my voice
I can think forever
Or not, for once.
And then I turn around
And the wheelbarrow is full of wood chips
So I stand the pitchfork in the pile
And turn to a load just a little too full
And nearly tip it over trying to move it

7.
It's hard work, you know.
The axe is heavy, and the pickaxe much heavier.
Sometimes I have to run to get the wheelbarrow up a hill, because I know that if I stop, I will tip it over trying to start it up again, so I strain the muscles in my legs and shove the load up the hill with force alone.

8.
It's a thing to be proud of.
I end tired, a little less keen to write reports and essays, or puzzle some problem out of math.
It just seems to trivial, too frivolous.
Chopping wood, doing real, honest work:
That is real.
I am proud of the blisters on my hands, the callouses, the nicks from hatchet blades that scar my fingers.
I made them doing hard work.
I know that it was good.

9.
Some people never find themselves.
In a moment, I know where I am found.
For $8 an hour, the benefits are pretty good.