On occasion, I have written about this feeling before. Perhaps more so when I first moved into my little cabin. But, every time I go out to gather kindling . . . I get the feeling again.
To me . . . it is something intrinsic to our nature. It is primal. And, we have lost it. It has been replaced by fluorescent lighting, piped in music, and shelves upon shelves of fossil fuel laden food and products.
Yes, I still have to go into the big box grocery store and drive a car . . . the fossil fuel list goes on. But, yesterday, as I was gathering kindling, that grocery store, etc., felt so unnatural . . . I am caught in between.
I carry on with my goal . . . to be as self sustaining as possible. Even when I hear people say . . . there is no way you can grow all your own food . . . or it is so much work. I say . . . the planet depends on me succeeding . . . and . . . my survival is at stake . . . not to mention the reconnecting of my inner being to what it knows is real . . . it is home.
With persistence, I will learn how to grow my food. Last year, so much went wrong in that garden that will teach me what to do better this year. Yes, the cabbage heads didn’t show up, the potatoes were tiny, the pole beans didn’t come up, onions were too small, carrots and beets are so much trouble, and let’s add broccoli and brussel sprouts to that list, too.
But . . . I got 19 pint jars of canned tomatoes . . . and . . . that meant everything to me.
So, kindling . . . it helps start my fires in the wood stove . . . so I can survive the -40 that Nature dishes out. It is a hand to mouth thing. It is not covered in plastic wrap that I need scissors to get into.
My boots sunk into the foot of snow, as I trudged through to an area of trees and . . . watched a rabbit scamper through the field to the other side of the woods . . . heard the snap of each dry branch as I added them to my pile . . . felt the falling snow on my face . . . wondered what kind of shelter I could build in the nook of some trees . . . heard the silence of the gray day . . . enveloped in a milky winter sky . . . felt the knowing eyes of the ancestors guiding me.
Kindling . . . it’s a primal thing.