Last night, or as it really was, last late afternoon, Gus and I scuttled around in the twilight wrapping up the day's loose ends. Gray clouds stretched across the sky like thick wool roving and the mud that caught and slipped under my feet only two days ago held firm. In the early morning I had witnessed some fool barn cat putting her faith in the pond's glassy edges, the ice having finally begun an earnest spread of its thin and veiny webs. I could neither imagine this prowl to be safe nor that a cat two tail flicks away from feral would give one iota of a damn about my thinking so. The latter, however, did not stop me from dry ground preaching while watching her for some time. She, unmoving, watched me right back. I was thinking of her as we crunched blind and without reserve over newly frozen earth toward the chicken coop, a mired path recently traversed gingerly and now plodded over with sure-footed abandoned. We seem to know without being told sometimes, don't we? The earth's smell (or absence of), how hard the wind bites, at which angle the sun hits, the crunch to be heard from the underside of a boot- all little barometers in their own rights, all announcing our home in the season, all pointing to where exactly our feet or paws can safely land. After some consideration I have decided to lay down the mantle of ice prophetess shouting her worries from a distance and across species, and instead am nestling deeply into the comfort of the steadfast and natural world. I imagine the cats, unmoving, are already pleased.
On my thirtieth birthday I finally invested in a pair of long-desired clogs. I wore them so relentlessly that after a time they felt like perfectly acceptable footwear for events like Early Morning Chicken Chores in Light Snow, or A Quick Stall Muck. Shortly after my thirty-first birthday, a rotten-but-loved dog in my charge ate the left fellow. I was encouraged to keep the right- just in case you find its mate at goodwill! -but decided I would rather not tangle with whatever bad juju accompanies a single shoe to the secondhand shop, and so relinquished them both. As my thirty-second birthday loomed last month, an unexpected pair of clogs came my way- both the left and the right. I have aggressively broken them in since with a wide range of clog-friendly and not-so-clog-friendly activities (just ask the chickens). I might even love them more than the satisfaction of heaving a blue hubbard squash to the ground in lieu of common kitchen butchery (a clog-friendly activity). With this most recent arctic blast in the north country, I am now doing the hard work of convincing them that both my feet and Very Thick Wool Socks should be simultaneously allowed entry. As they say, love will find a way.
Slow fashion - handmade, secondhand, independent, and/or ethically produced clothing and footwear - has become more important to me over the years. With all that we strive for on our homestead, I think it makes sense. It's been an absolute pleasure to welcome these clogs into my evolving and hopefully more thoughtful wardrobe. Thank you Sandgrens Clogs for this timely gift! Both the craftsmanship and style of your clogs are tops. To see more of Sandgrens Clogs' beautifully hand-crafted clogs, you can visit their site or instagram @sandgrensclogs. I'm wearing the Tokyo clogs in nude, which you can find here.
Thought I heard my cow tonight. At one point thought I heard kittens, too. Gus and I were cutting sage for a homegrown potato soup when the worrisome sound of unattended young froze us both. Thank the lusty farm heavens it was only a couple of well-known pullets, wild hatched by a hen months ago. Mmm..but don't you never know. Barns warmed by huddlings of farm animals have quite the draw for stray mothers. Like I said though, just a few pullets mewling about the impending winter. (Boy has the temperature dropped.)
Back to that good cow though. I thought I heard her bellow tonight and for a second I was running to put boots on, worrying about the manner of high jinks I would find her in. Quick as I stepped to the front door though I remembered. Not our cow, not anybody's cow. (At least not on this mortal plane.)
Was struck by the winter-pink sky under which we clipped herbs tonight and how seasons keep rolling, no matter where your heart's stuck grieving. Tried to find it more meaningful than cruel. (I don't really feel like saying more so I'm not going to.) (I think I've got the right.)
