Why I Chop Wood and Carry Water
No really. I actually do. For Christmas last year, my husband gave me not one, but two axes. At my request, no less. Through some very difficult days in a toxic work environment, I went out at lunch and after work and did a whole lotta choppin’. Luckily, I had a remote position, and the great outdoors were immediately available to me. Wouldn’t really recommend it in the city. Too much setup time and possible collateral damage. Or at least staring. Folks would definitely stare.
And no, I did not envision anyone’s head as a log. I put my energy into getting the axe to fall where I wanted, splitting the wood down the centre. Since I wasn’t the most skilled wielder of the instrument (probably a sledgehammer would have been more à propos given that my family name may have derived from MacThorliot), it took significant concentration to hit the block of wood for which I was aiming. I would mutter an unvarnished (one might even say facile) mantra such as “I CAN split the wood!”
It was a wonderful way to channel my pent-up tension and anxiety into the achievement of something positive. Now there’s a fine line between acting out your anger (which Thich Nhat Hahn teaches only makes the anger bigger) and re-directing energy. I wasn’t taking it out on the wood. I wasn’t cursing anyone. I was letting energy flow through me and focusing my mind on performing a simple task that had a beneficial result: keeping us warm in our tiny cabina. And one really shouldn’t let one’s mind wander while hefting an axe. Because ya know—intact feet are beneficial in so many ways.
The various woods were also fine teachers. Pine or birch: nearly falls apart when you look at it. Poplar: relatively easy to split. Avoid trying to chop through knots. Oak: must swing with more force, perhaps several times. Elm: discretion is the better part of valour. Know when you are licked.
I came in both tired and mentally refreshed. I got through the rest of the day a little more grounded. And if I was lucky and outside at just the right time, I caught the ravens gliding into the adjacent pine forest to roost. Nothing says WONDER like a good ole currrawwwk.
As for the water… Hauling water from a hand-dug well that lies 25 feet down a steep slope does lend a certain actuality to the idea of “wellness.” Numerous trips up and down the proverbial slippery slope with wild raspberries, the incense of cedar, the chuuurrrr of red squirrels (Nature’s own rattles), gently scrabbling porcupines, and the sweet song of clear water. Depending on the time of year, mosquitoes, black flies, and spider webs in the face.
About 3 times up and down that path with a 10-litre jug of water in each hand really pumps the heart rate up. It also reminds me that I need more exercise. The yogi in me gets to be mindful of the back (lift with the legs) and shoulders (roll them crazy ball joints back into their catcher’s mitts). There’s also the bit—both literal and symbolic—of staying on the path. One doesn’t want to take an accelerated roll over the edge.
Again: focused attention on the movement of the body and the breath. One step at a time. Gratitude for the rest at the top. And the pleasant anticipation of an evening shower with one of those jugs of glorious aqua.
Just yesterday, as I hauled my payload cabinward on our highly utilitarian wagon, I thought, some days this is bloody difficult. Why do I do it? The rustic-life romance would wear thin for most folks after the first two weeks (maybe even after one trip up that hill). It has been three and a half years. Hmm…
Well, all this wood chopping and water carrying brings a certain perspective. It is basic. It is necessary. It is usually not dramatic. It has directly satisfying results—warmth and helping me smell better. And these practices get me away from the internet, social media, politics, and THE NEWS (where I often find myself caught up in the contemplation of far, far nastier things). In truth, homely homesteading keeps me quite busy. Too busy to pitch gravel at our Prime Minister, for instance (though admittedly my more disenchanted thoughts bend towards our friends who dance further right on the political spectrum).
My relationship with the land where I live also helps root me. When I feel angry, depressed, spiteful, or deeply disturbed by human disregard for the Earth and its creatures (c’mon, y’all – a few strands of DNA?), this place reminds me that I am part of, not separate from. Yes, I am privileged. Privileged to have land, a wee cabin in the woods, and all I need to keep me warm, all I need to eat and drink. One day, I will likely have running water again, and I won’t complain about that.
Whether I am play-acting at ‘roughing it’ or not, The Hollow is a home of peace and constant learning. I am in and of Nature. It’s impossible to forget that. It’s in my face the moment I step out the door. I can’t escape an awareness of what David Abram called “the More-than-Human World.” Indeed, the World is so much more than human socioeconomic and political machinations, divisions, competition, and hatred born of fear. I am thankful for the practical focus of chopping and stacking wood before the snow flies. Truly, deep down in my bones, I love being here.
I’ll leave you with the words of Porcupine, who whispered me this one day from high in a pine tree while I was getting water at the well:
Be quiet.
Be gentle to yourself.
Be gentle in the woods.
Don’t go looking for fights.
Now that’s More-than-Human Wisdom.
