Journal, 12.7: A Different Type of Outdoors(man)

"“There’s no world in which a garden makes sense.”

“God spoke today in flowers, and I, who was waiting on words, almost missed the conversation.” Ingrid Goff-Maidoff

Hello my friends,

My wool socks are doing their job of keeping my toes warm, despite the hours spent outside in the bleak cold. The never-ceasing drip of the rain, setting into ice as it dribbled off the roof, was almost enough to keep me inside. After all, the wool socks covering my toes stay a bit warmer when they’re close to the small-but-mighty kitchen fireplace we put in years ago. I always dreamt of a fireplace in my kitchen, ours adding value in both atmosphere and necessity this time of year.

Still, even though the siren-song of the fireplace did its best to lure me into remaining indoors, my heart is often warmed elsewhere. Elsewhere, of course, being outdoors.

Our Pacific Northwest culture here has done well to label some in our midst as “outdoorsmen” - that is, of course, those who enjoy spending their time hiking the mountains, skiing down slopes, parasailing off cliffs, kayaking down white-water rivers, hunting, fishing, and the like. Their social and inspirational batteries are charged by the adventure that awaits them in the… you guessed it… great outdoors.

Then there are those of us who recharge in our outdoors.

I’ve yet to find a desire within me to ski down any slope or hike any mountain. But the gravitational pull of a different type of outdoors is as attached to my being as my own shadow. A desire so great that even in the lull and chill of winter, I will respond to its call, be it to tend to greenhouse needs, gather eggs and layer in bedding, or trim back unruly roses.

I feel no extreme need to venture into greater outdoors than those which our little plot of land can provide.

Those outdoors, however, are as vital to me as air in my lungs.

So it was on this particularly rainy, chilly morning. I’d filled my belly with espresso, olive-oil-tea-cookies and a smattering of salami and cheeses - plenty enough sustenance to propel me forward into the physical demands of winter gardening. “Time outdoors” this time of year unfortunately (fortunately?) means heavy lifting of branch piles, awkward positions on ladders trimming back fruit trees, heavy wheelbarrows full of mulch and soggy leaves. Much of this season is also spent bent over, nose to toes, digging deep enough in beds to tuck tulip and daffodil bulbs to the dark depths of the soil. It is physically demanding, without a doubt.

I suppose in this way, my outdoorsman-compatriots and I are similar. Our love of the natural world, in the various forms that it takes, has demands both physical and emotional - taxing and filling us all at once. We are willing to make the sacrifice, laying down comforts and ease on its welcome mat.

An Italian gardener with a large vegetable bed once said to me “There’s no world in which a garden makes sense.” - they’re demanding, fickle, full of thorns and weeds, and unforgiving. Yet at the same time, I would add “There’s no world in which a garden doesn’t make sense.” - they’re fruitful, energizing, incredibly beautiful and endlessly inspiring. How can we hope to understand and deeply appreciate our natural world without first understanding the natural world at our doorsteps?

By late morning, the sun had broke through the drizzle and grey, shining on my face for the first time in eight days. Eight, long days. I was beyond happy to see it, grateful that I’d already made the decision to garden regardless. While pruning and gathering some rose hips for tea, I lifted my eyes to the sky - allowing the rays to dance across my skin and shine through my closed eyes. The earth was still and cold - the quietness outdoors this time of year is a far cry from the absolute furry of buzzing and chirping in the summer and autumn garden. We often joke that without meaning to, we started an insect and bird sanctuary - I’ve lost count of the variety of bees, butterflies, and birds that now call are our homestead home. They’re quite vocal about their happiness.

So am I.

Hello my friend! I shout to the sky, the great outdoors of my outdoors envelope me from the soil under my feet to the crisp air surrounding my rosy nose.

Indoors, food grown in this very same soil, from this very same air, simmers slowly on the stovetop for lunch. Today, it’s slow-simmered chicken broth with dried beans, kale, onions, garlic, and bay - with imported Italian heirloom grain pasta for good measure (lest we be too precious about it all).

I return to the cocoon of the kitchen (which now, and always, smells like broth) feeling not only energized by the physical exertion of my labors in the flower beds, but equally warmed in my soul - it’s once again lifted up where it belongs.

I can now tuck in cozy and calm by the fire for the late-afternoon, rested and content in my efforts - my belly now full of rich, hot soup spooned up generously by the ladle-full. God has been very gracious to grant me the ability to tend to my wild and precious gardens, to raise animals, eggs, and milk in its pastures. After all these years, our family now knows the swells and lulls of its lullaby, season by season.

Though this season is quieter than most, I can still hear its singing.

I doubt you’ll ever find me on a mountain peak or wind-surfing the waves, but you’ll most certainly find me where I belong.

In my outdoors.

Love,