One I Can Keep

I awoke at a quarter after four this morning, a full hour earlier than is usual for me and for a moment I considered rolling over and drifting back to sleep. But the nearly-full moon shone through a thin scrim of high clouds, and the air drifting through the window was the warmest it’s been in many a morning, and so I stepped gingerly down the stairs, kindled a pair of fires, made and drank a cup of coffee, and by 5:00 I’d clipped into my skis and was gliding past the darkened forms of the cows in repose. I did not take a headlamp, but I did not need one, and I soon found that certain effortless rhythm one can find on skis when the snow is just right and you’ve been cross-country skiing almost since you were born.

I skied for an hour, and while I skied, I thought about how lately I’ve been wishing I could do things I cannot do. Or maybe it’s things I could do, but for any number of reasons, do not do. I mentioned this desire in passing in my Christmas story post, and it has been recalled by recent visits with an array of folks whose talents, in some way or another, exacerbate this itch. First, a visit with Lucian, a blacksmith of prodigious abilities, and also the sort of fellow who can sew a satchel of great function and beauty from the hide of a pig he tanned with his own hands, and furthermore, carry in that satchel a wallet he made from the hide of a muskrat he tanned with his own hands. Then Nate shows up, clad head to toe (and I mean this quite literally) in clothes of his own making and who furthermore had just emerged from spending a month in the woods, living in a wall tent he constructed (if you want to see more of his work, I highly recommend his site, which has links to photos of his work on the “projects” page), which itself was heated by a stove of his own design. Finally, yesterday’s visit with a young metal working neighbor who is so damn skilled he actually designed and fabricated his own cider press. And I’m not talking some cobbled-together, quasi-functional blob of metal and wood. The darn thing is a work of art, set into a charming little pressing house that – guess what? – he also constructed. I think he was 21 when he built it.

Well, tarnation. You could see how a simple fella like myself could get a little down in the mouth over it all. It’s not as if I consider myself utterly lacking in skill. I can claim a sort of crude competence in the many unheralded talents of rural living. I can sharpen a chainsaw, knock together a simple-but-sturdy pole barn, hand milk a cow, and slaughter a hog. I’m halfway decent with equipment and power tools, and am generally unafraid of the sort of brutish, muscle-borne labor that only goes further out of fashion with every passing year. I possess a certain misplaced confidence-bordering-on-arrogance that I can get done what needs to get done. I might screw things up, and Penny might ultimately have to bail out my sorry ass, and the results may not be all that easy to look at, but it will happen, by gum. Likewise, it seems to me that simply living well is its own unheralded craft, and while my life is far from perfect, it’s a rare morning that I do not arise with genuine enthusiasm for what the day holds. There’s gotta be some skill involved in that.

I don’t think it’s terribly productive to wish to be something I am not. Nor do I believe that very many people – including myself – are capable of change simply by deciding to change. Or perhaps it’s merely that I lack the particular tenacity such decisions require. On the other hand, I have seen that I am not immune to certain changes that might, when viewed from a particular angle, even be construed as growth. My reservoirs of patience and empathy have deepened in recent years. I am, as a whole, more resourceful than I was a decade ago. Or even a year ago. I’d like to think I have become a better parent and partner as I have aged, but I suppose I’m not the best judge of this. But again, I did not set out change in these ways. There was no determination made.

It is almost the New Year, which for many means New Year’s resolutions, a quiet promise to change one thing or another. I’m not much for such self-declarations. I will make no resolutions to become more skilled with my hands. There will be no pig hide satchels hewn by Hewitt in the coming year; I will continue to wear my thrift store duds with my usual styleless style. When I need metalwork done, I will hire my neighbor.

But still I derive a certain quiet inspiration from those around me who are so much more capable than I. In a way, it’s not an inspiration to emulate their particular skills. In a way, it may not even be inspiration, so much as a reminder that the more closely I align the day-in, day-out particulars of my life with my own set of beliefs and principles, the more fulfilling my life becomes. Because I think those skills-of-hand-and-heart originate from knowing how one fits into the great big world around them, and knowing how to find that place. I think they originate from feeling connected to something larger than one’s self. I believe they evolve out of living the life one was meant to live, without much concern over what others think of that decision, and goodness knows too many people are not fortunate enough to know what such a thing feels like.

So, no New Year’s resolutions for me. Well, ok, maybe one: More early morning skiing. Yeah. That seems like one I can keep.