Place entry #4

35 degrees. Sunny and calm.

This is dangerous weather. The staccato dripping of the icicled eaves; snow slides off the roof with a hiss. The dirt road is a quagmire of brown puddles, deep ruts and mud. I’m in danger of letting my guard down, of being lulled into the belief that winter is on its way out; that the green shoots of spring are just around the corner.

I’ve lived around here long enough to know better. I cannot hope for spring; if I do, my heart will break when the snow falls again or the thermostat plunges, when winter wraps us up once more in its icy grip, as it surely will do. The best bet is to live in the moment, to take this day as a pleasant aberration and nothing more.

Today I will sit. Usually the woods are a backdrop to my body in motion. I hike and snowshoe, and swish past on skis. Part of this movement is born of necessity; it is usually too cold to sit still for long. Since today’s weather does not demand constant movement, I’ve opted for stillness.

I cut across the yard in my mukluks and head straight for the pines. The sun is as high in the southern sky as it will get. The pine’s shadows stretch out on the white snow. I walk to the spot of my future shack—woodstove, bookcase, desk and chair—a little octagon clearing hemmed in by red pines.

I turn in the direction I envision my window someday to be, towards a little rise that gives way to the neighbor’s property. Once the memory of my crunching footfalls recedes, I hear the birds. High pitched, squeaky and soft, they are diminutive sounds. I can’t spot them at first; I crane left and right at the volley of calls. Finally, there is the light scrape of claws on bark.

It is a black-capped chickadee; black head, off-white underbelly, grey wings, and puffy little chest. The songs are different in pitch and duration; some sound oddly electronic, like a phone ringtone. I spot a few more chickadees, flitting from branch to branch. I have been immobile long enough to feel completely unobtrusive, a feeling I don’t ever get banging around in the woods.

Suddenly a chickadee flits a little too close to my head. I duck and fling my hands into the air, but by then the chickadee is off on another branch. My heart is racing. I feel foolish to be startled by such a small critter. It hits me then that part of the reason I am so rarely still in the woods is because I want the animals to know I’m there.

Hiking through Yellowstone, scared witless of grizzlies, I played a kazoo incessantly, hoping to head off any animal encounters. But I’m not just fearful of ‘mega-fauna’. A chickadee is enough to set my heart fluttering.

I stay rooted in the spot, amongst the shadows and sunlight; I need to court stillness, to sit still. To overcome fear.