I could be content . . .

I just brought in a few days wood for our fire.  My wood is wet.  The sewer system is frozen from the pump house to the house so shower and toilet are not operational.  Back to bucket and sawdust.  We are emptying out our two bedroom apartment to stay here in our straw bale, one room cabin for the rest of all time.  It is cold out.

So why do I feel so happy?

I could be content to walk out on a beautiful bit of land to gather wood and pine needles to keep me warm.  Content to grow a beautiful garden (dreaming of high tunnels and woodchips and compost and worms).  Content to sit each night with my guy and explore all the realms from every direction.  Content to feel the sun on a freezing day hit my face with grace and beauty.

A part of me is weary of striving for more every minute.  The Yogi’s say when a person reaches a certain age they enter the forest years.  During this time, stuff becomes meaningless (get rid of it) and simple pleasures become blissful moments, and peace is watching the fruit of your labor and your loins plant their own gardens and pick their own fruit.  I think I am entering my forest years.

I could be content with that.

The other day I used a chainsaw for the first time.  Probably that is not normal for the forest years, but if you live in a forest and you burn wood, it is a necessity.  My husband has bought me protective gear—chaps to keep from cutting my leg off.  I liked it.  I felt powerful and strong and fresh cutting through a log and then sledding the chunks of wood to the splitter and splitting them and stacking them.  When I was done my cheeks were pink and my arms were tired, and I felt like a kid who just got off the skating rink.

I could be content with that.

The other night I went to an event called “Dinner with Amazing Women.”  I was a bit shy about going—and a bit leery.  I was afraid it would be one of those horrible networking events where everybody wants to pitch and sell.  It wasn’t.  It, quite simply, was dinner with amazing women.  Women with children, grandchildren, with spirit, with ideas, with pleasure and pain, with vision and fear . . . I fell in love with all of them.

I could be content with that.

Could.  What a strange word.  “Could” always has a hidden word behind it.  Could . . . but I’m not?  Could . . . but I can’t.  Could . . . if only.  I think I will erase that word from my vocabulary.

I am content with that.

See—just that easy.

Give us this day, our daily wood.

Peace to all of you and may you be content with all that you have even when it sometimes sucks.

And blessings to Jamie, my niece, who is at this moment in labor and having a first baby, my grandniece.


As always, please share this with friends you think would enjoy it and subscribe if you’d like to get my weekly posts.  And do, do, leave comments.I am really content when you touch in with me. And if you are local to Northern Minnesota, do check out the website for our brand new Many Kites Learning Center in Bemidji.

Share on Facebook


I could be content . . . — 9 Comments

  1. In a world that often seems like it’s gone stark-raving mad, your work brings me down to earth in a good way.
    Thank you.

  2. I don’t think anyone is more fortunate–and living a more beautiful life–than you and Milt. So happy for you. And love you.

  3. It is so important that you share your life and understandings. Thank you for bringing me back to the forest. Keep warm and content my friend.

    • Hi Phyllis,

      Yes, let’s savor the joy. I can tell from your posts that you are having a wonderful and inspirational time. I’m still fine tuning Albert and will get back to you when it is ready. I had a change of heart about the cover.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *