On bright blue days delight comes easy.


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At three and a half, our son seems to be doing that “kids are adaptable” thing with aplomb as he settles in up here amongst the stone walls and glaciated ridges. At three his feelings are also acute and immediate, and this long winter of preparation and packing was not easy for him. But now that we’re here and our days have some semblance of normalcy to them again, he seems to be taking in stride the loss of so much that was familiar. He’s so here, so now, and has just gotten right to work building up a brand new familiar. Of course the move means enormous changes for my husband too. But his days here are busy and new, and he’s the first to say he’s very much looking forward to a year without his nose buried in QuickBooks.

Me? In truth I half feel like I’m still treading water. I’m not melancholy. It’s nothing like October, when the decision to leave our farm was still so raw. But it’s not July yet either.

Case in point? This Hudson Valley winter. This, friends, is going to take some getting used to. No, it’s not Arctic. It’s not even New England. But it is COLD. And brown. And icy. And long. Perhaps I’ve been coddled by too many easy Virginia winters – because I did grow up in Pennsylvania, and I did live in New York City for much of my twenties. I’m confident that in time the heady southern springs will be less the thing I yearn for come March and more just a part of how we tell our son about the place where he was born. I remember that in the first months of my pregnancy in 2009 I thought I might burst with vernal delight, that clamor of blossoming trees and all that green seeming to cheer on the tiny new life in my belly. I suppose that bit of magic did set the bar for spring pretty high.

But I’m confident too that, soon enough, the northern bellwethers will come to be just as comforting as those Virginia redbuds and dogwoods and wisteria. Look at that amazing skunk cabbage in the marsh, two photos up – do you know it makes its own heat, upwards of 60°F above air temperature, melting its way through the frozen ground, confidently and without complaint, to thrust its speckled burgundy spathe through the mud?? Geese are everywhere, filling the skies with their glorious racket. And who could’ve expected I’d come to be so enamored of mud? If our boots are crusted with it and our floors splattered and smeared, can it be too long before I linger with my coffee at sunrise on the back deck?

If I’m half homesick, missing blossoms and Kaffeeklatsches and our land, well then, I am also half drunk on my own delight in all that is new. When were those stone walls built? What kind of rock are those cliffs carved from? Those evergreens are enormous – what are they? If these hardwoods ever get leaves again, will I know them by sight or will I need to go on long walks with my Peterson guides? What’s this – oh, ouch! It’s a chestnut! Right there in the yard! And look at those marshes! And all those ponds! And those vast black dirt onion fields! Of course there are people here too. They run diners and ice cream shops, and they know how to make the kind of bagels and pizza I’ve been missing for years, and they invite us over for breakfast, and they tell us where the playgrounds are, and the good Indian lunch buffets too, and how on this sweet green earth one can procure a library card. (You might think this would be easier to procure than, say, raw milk, but you would be wrong.)

From such diverse and abundant raw material we are beginning to piece together our days. Sometimes the skies are too grey and the winds too fierce, and my resolve to get us outside in all kinds of weather just doesn’t stand a chance against my kid’s grumps. On those days we bake, or we keep unpacking our books, or we take long and winding drives. But sometimes the skies are blindingly blue and so we tug on our boots and zip our coats and off we go. I tell him about cattails and we laugh as the dogs leap the creeks and I swear one day last week we startled a pheasant up out of the rushes. We stop at luncheonettes for bagels and coffee, and the waitress at one already knows that my kid would like two crayons, one red and one blue please, and she cuts the straw down to size for him special. We are missing our own vegetables like the dickens, but we need to eat fresh vegetables just the same, and it’s lots of fun trying new cabbages and squashes from the big Asian market. There is a great spot for coffee just down the road – I have not had a lovely little luxury like that since my NYC days. We’re looking up swim classes (what with all these ponds), and while I haven’t found a great spot yet for bulk grains and spices, buying fresh milk is as easy as going to the farm and paying for it. We’re trying out a weekly parent-child class at a small Waldorf school. On weekends we sometimes stick close to home but more often, so far, we are taking advantage of what seems like unbelievable good fortune: living within easy driving distance again of family and old friends. If things work out here, my son will grow up knowing his cousins and with loads of aunties both kith and kin.

So here we are. On bright blue days delight comes easy. On harder days I am trying to take cues from the skunk cabbage, burgeoning through the frozen mud, and of course also from my resident bodhisattva, who cries when he is sad, eats when he is hungry, laughs when life is funny, and gives the best hugs.

 

14 thoughts on “On bright blue days delight comes easy.

  1. shari

    beautiful writing, lisa. i miss southern springs like crazy, still, after five years of being in vermont. but, it sounds like there are so many good things in the hudson valley. so happy to know that you are writing here. loving every single post. xo

    1. Lisa

      Thanks so much, Shari. Yes indeed – the density of resources here is truly something to behold. And as I begin to place myself more in the natural environment around us, I feel more and more at home.

  2. Meganwf

    Love your words of gratitude. It can’t be easy and I really appreciate your post. So special.

  3. Pat

    I’m smiling now remembering how your grandma used to always say “poor little honkers” every time she saw the geese in Bucks County. Every single time.

    Your post also reminded me of that glorious picture of the muddy boots you took not long after you arrived in VA. You should share that.

  4. KC

    I totally understand! We are in such an upheaval right now. The girls are handling our move with as much grace as possible. in the three weeks we’ve been out of our old house the girls have already forgotten it. children move on so fast.

    1. Lisa

      In ways that makes the move a little more heartbreaking, yes? These places that mattered so much to us, where we learned to parent – our kids won’t remember them. But of course they’ll be so important in family lore.

  5. Carrie @ Rhubarb Sky

    Sigh. I could read your words all day. You somehow make even a tumultuous time sound lovely!
    And, oh! I love that your curiosity turns to the natural history of place!
    Your new normal will emerge… Keep an eye on that bodhisattva of yours! So much wisdom to follow there for certain!

    1. Lisa

      You are so kind, lady. And yes – what peace and connection and lack of suffering comes for both of us, when I meet him where he is.

  6. erin

    i love how you describe that “meeting him where he is resulting in peace, connection and lack of suffering. if all kids had such love and grace. xo

    i love reading about your embracing of the new learning curves of place-making and place-understanding, while letting go and grieving the place it all began for your li’l bodhisattva. bittersweet, and my, don’t the little ones just pull us forward whether we’re ready or not?! xoxo

  7. Amy G.

    I have lost touch with you and just finding out you have moved. i’m looking forward to catching up and reading through your blog. glad i found you again!!!!! i hope all is well and that you find excitement and blessings in the transition and settling in.

    1. Lisa Post author

      Oh Amy, I’m so glad you found me, and for the chance to reconnect! It must be almost entirely my fault, having drifted so much from Flickr. I always think I will be back – and I don’t know if that’s denial talking, or if I will find in some new season a way to be there more again.

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