“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.”

–Robert Louis Stevenson

Greetings Dear Ones!

I am writing to you from the waiting area of an automotive repair shop for several key reasons—mostly because I have an automotive in need of repair, and because I need to keep busy while the mechanics decide how many of their children they need to fund through college with this latest bill, and finally, because I have no knitting here. I am praying that these nice men don’t keep their own secret blog about nutty customers and the things they keep in their cars! Ha! Let’s just say that I have never broken down moments after I have thoroughly cleaned and detailed the vehicle. No, some poor bloke is in there, knees by his ears as he tries to get the seat back, amidst all the schrapnel of a Woman On The Move. All the popcorn that did not manage to lodge itself in my bra as I munched while driving, is now on the floor. There are still a few sheep turds in crevices I won’t reach until Spring, since nothing really smells bad below five degrees here. (As I am editing, I want to clarify that the sheep turds are in the CAR, not my bra!!)

I had no idea how much work it was going to be to “not” go to work anymore. For several weeks now, I have been without a “real” job (I don’t count music or teaching gigs because they are way too much fun!) and I have never worked harder in my life. Going into business for myself is an 80-hour-a-week endeavour and I am still feeling like a slacker. Each day, there are a myriad of things I have to do to get ready to do what it is I want to do. Spiritual Teachers talk about the need to “get ready to get Ready.” I’m getting ready to get ready to get ready to get ready… Mostly, I am getting ready to kick one of those teachers. Quotes like “you are exactly where you are meant to Be; trust in the Divine Timing of all things” have no relevance for a person wandering the sunless acres of a nameless big-box-retailer in search of mirror brackets, or getting notifications from suppliers that my merchandise has “been returned to sender” because the delivery van, with the full power of a Global Positioning Satellite at its command, cannot locate Hermit Hollow.

Naturally, Red Alerts have gone out to all the members of The Committee Dedicated to Thwarting the Forward Movement of Nancy Bell: Need a business phone line? Visit Verizon a minimum of three times for ninety minutes each only to find out SON (a founding member of the committee) has dropped his phone in the toilet and nothing can proceed on the account until his claim is processed. (Have we mentioned he dropped it in NOVEMBER???) Need insurance? This will take at least two meetings. Ditto bank. Ditto landlords about how to use the commercial lift or mail boxes. Want to get wool and alpaca fur carded into roving locally by people who advertise this service? The resulting email chain will rival the Bible in length. Committee Members have been on stand-by, working round the clock to ensure I am perpetually dancing that dance of one-step-forward-two-steps-back which is only fun if one is in the arms of a really hot cowboy on Tequila night. (Oh, my Achy-Breaky heart… ) But No.

It’s 6:30 am, no tequila in sight, and my car is the first to volunteer to make sure nothing much gets done today. Brakes and something called “rear bushings”, which sounds vaguely horticultural, or like the car has grown excessive leg-hair since it moved to Vermont, are the new priority.

It’s tempting to get down in the dumps at times like this. It’s tempting to think that the world is against having a cute little, mostly harmless, seamstress shop fully operational. For a start, when my car IS functioning, the moment I leave the secluded drive that leads to Hermit Hollow, the first thing I encounter… (drum roll) is OTHER CARS. I don’t know why but it startles me to find the roads here occupied by Other Vehicles. Who are these people? Where are they going at 6:30 in the morning? What could they possibly be DOING at this hour that requires them to drive in FIRST GEAR in front of me for TEN MILES? (it’s not like I’ve already over-caffeinated myself on Tea & Tarot by that point…)

I start feeling very “woe is me…” until I realize that only someone of Unbelievably Grand Magnificence would require an Entire Empire to intervene between her and her mission to get to a hardware store. Clearly, I am Someone to be reckoned with. My little innocuous doings have attracted the attention of a mighty power—is it… Satan, maybe??? (Please read that last bit in Dana Carvey’s Church Lady Voice!) The nuns I grew up with—The Sisters of Perpetual Dread—would have said it was the Devil, trying to thwart Good Work, since the Forces of Darkness are attempting, always, to extinguish the Light. (Basically, if you are having a hard time trying to do some Good, it’s a sign that the Good is Very Good. So keep going. This is so you can feel Magnificent while you are feeling damned.)

I have had some good conversations with Scientists since then and I now accept that Darkness can never extinguish the light. Darkness is merely the absence of Light. It is not the black crayon that can scribble over a clean page. One can lie down in an entire field of Summer Darkness and still spot the lightening bugs (or fireflies, as some like to call them).

Right now, the only Black and White that interest me are in the paint cans I must find. I need white for the walls, black for the steps, and colonial green for the walls of the new dressing room. I also need a box of 2 ½ inch GRK screws, a handrail, and a curtain rod. Experience has taught me not to march into a hardware store and announce that I am looking for a screw, so I produce a sample from my pocket and say to the gentleman before me, “Got any of these?” He nods and leads me to the right section. On the way, I notice a stack of hog panels. I have been looking for hog panels for months now! I have scanned online for free ones, used ones, old ones. I have been to three local feed stores, a Tractor Supply, and something that used to be an Agway, all in vain. The Agway place had a couple of sixteen-footers and the clerk said if I bought one, I could come back with a saws-all and cut it any length I liked. Instead, I just gave up. Stopped searching. Stopped caring. That was months ago. And now, in the quirky way that the Law of Attraction works, BOOM. Here they are! Sweet little eight-footers! No need to cut them! I stop, clap my hands, and squeal with glee. My enthusiastic rapture alarms the man who is leading me to the screws. This is a place where Serious Carpenters shop. My leather gloves, work boots, and filthy Carhartt jacket don’t fool him one bit. Momentarily, I completely forget all about the other items I need as I rejoice over the Benevolent Abundance of a Universe that has Magically bestowed the Hog Panels of My Dreams upon me!

What are hog panels, you ask? And why the devil would a middle-aged woman who has never owned a hog in her life need one? Well, briefly, they are welded wire livestock panels, made from heavy-weight galvanized wire rods, ideal for creating temporary chutes or barriers when one needs to treat stock animals. They are almost a MUST on a little farm or homestead. Hermit Hollow does not have any, which is shocking, because it has pretty much Everything Else one could imagine and too much of other things besides. (Have I mentioned that Hermit Hollow is not actually all that Hollow?) Those friends who have ever come to help shear and spent the afternoon losing ten pounds of sweat and sanity will thank me! These panels will make shearing in the Spring a far easier task.

Back to the paint: I need white paint and black paint. “We don’t have such things anymore, Ma’am,” I am informed by the paint clerk.

“Isn’t there just a basic…?”

“No. They all have names. They are numbered and labeled. You have to choose a specific shade,” he says, shrugging.

For the next twenty-two minutes, I peer at paint chips, trying to decide which one is “white.” I finally settle on one called “Mountain Peak,” though I am sorely tempted by “Bavarian Cream,” if only for the name. I have to decide which will be more important—climbing these walls or licking them? The decision takes longer than I’d like to admit. In the end, I like the idea of being surrounded by mountains—my walls can talk to the hills outside the window, which are beautiful. I start singing “Climb Every Mountain” then get distracted by trying to find out what color matches my own skin tone. I have always wanted to know what “color” I am. It turns out that I am different all over--parts of me are “Antique White” (of course they are!) and parts are “Pelican Beach,” presumably after the Pelicans have left. I check my inner wrist—“Vapor”, my neck—“Grandma’s China”, my upper arm—“Stoneware” ; I am just bending over, trying to figure out how I am going to match my inner thigh, which I hope will be “Royal Silk,” when the clerk returns to check on me. Suddenly, all my “whites” flush deep pink hues instead. To distract him, I ask if he knows what color he is. He is not amused. “Speckled,” he says without blinking. First the hog panels, now This. Neither of us can wait for me to leave.

Eventually, I load the screws and other purchases into the car, along with the hog panel, which barely fits, and squeeze myself beneath it all to breathe, re-center, and read some quotes. I have been relying heavily on inspirational quotes (and popcorn) to re-ignite my motivation on rough days. I have to read things like “One day at a Time,” many more times in a Day than Prudence thinks is necessary.

What if everyone out there is like I am, I wonder? It boggles the mind to think about the synchronicity of a capitalistic system at play with thousands of people doing their little errands, accumulating “stuff” without which they cannot use their “other stuff.” How many of us, are driving crouched beneath impulse buys like hog panels? How many of us are doing our best but manifesting things out of synch? How many of us are giving up on dreams only to have the surprise of having them come true? How many are trying to find and show their “True Colors?”

I have the colors of a Mountain in my paint bucket but before I can move it, as Confucius says, I must carry away endless buckets of little stones. So many dreary little jobs clog the way. The “prep” seems endless. I know that “the extra mile” is the exact distance between those who accomplish everything they want and everyone else but I am limping. I would rather feel sorry for myself and find a REAL gallon of something labeled Bavarian Cream in the Frozen Food Section of my local market. So I look at my damn quotes and see that Saint Francis, that goody-goody, is reputed to have said, “Start by doing what is necessary, then what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” Somehow, this feels like Useful Information. Nothing takes the place of Perseverance. I remember the summer in college when I worked on a farm with over a thousand ex-racehorses. The only way to do anything quickly was to go SLOW. If I proceed calmly, and rein myself in gently, I will make progress.

There IS a Devil in all these details. But it cannot touch our Light. Bless us, it CANNOT. Shine on my darlings! Shine On! Keep up your Good Work.

Yours aye, with sew much love,

Nancy