becoming winter

There is no place I would rather be on earth than in the beauty and splendor of Northern Vermont, as it drags me pitching and screaming through one season and into the next.

Well, it is that time of year again. When those of us in the North transition hard from one life and into another. I know I say this every year, but it never gets any easier. The shift from Summer to Winter, green season to white, has its own heavy sting; but I do not think it is any easier to make the mirrored move from white to green. We are so extreme here. And we occupy both ends so completely that the process of shaking off and shedding one to become the other is turbulent, uncomfortable, disorienting, and upsetting. Every single time.

We have gotten our first snow in the mountains. When I drove up to the farm yesterday, I was greeted with over four fresh inches. For the most part, everyone I know groans about this. Even though we would all say in the very next breath how much we love winter and love snow. Nonetheless, the transition is tough. There are so many boxes that we should tick before winter is here in earnest, and I cannot think of an instance when we were all squared away in time. There is always the wood to have gotten up in time, and the cars with their snow tires and studs. We delay as long as we can, for one reason or another. Denial, resistance, busyness, or some special combination of all three more likely.

My milking mentor, Nate, popped in to check on me while I was doing chores and asked whether I am a fan of the snow or not. I said that I love the snow but that I always struggle to become the version of me who lives in winter. That shaking off the summer me is uncomfortable, and I resist it. Even though I know that I chose this life. Like, why must I continue to resist this life that is almost entirely of my own design? Whhhhhhhyyyy? And he replied something like, But isn’t that the point? Having to choose it again? Isn’t that how you know its real?

And of course, yes, this is the answer. Anything to shake it up and wake up to the particular realities of this one life that I continue to choose for myself. I brutalize myself like this on purpose. So as not to fall asleep at the wheel of my own remarkable existence. But, woof, is it ever uncomfortable. Learning and relearning the same lessons over and over and over again. I can do it, though. I am here for it. There is no place I would rather be on earth than in the beauty and splendor of Northern Vermont, as it drags me pitching and screaming through one season and into the next.

Nate is full of smart little one-liners that give me something to chew on for a decent stretch of time. I am sure he has no idea. Maybe conversations just hit better in a cold barn covered in cow shit. He trained me to do the afternoon chores, primarily centered around milking the 56, give or take, cows that make up the current milkers, over the course of four shifts. When he first showed me how to connect the pipe from the milking machine to whichever tank its going into, he said to me: “Now, I can pretty much guarantee I am making this look way easier than it actually is.” He was clamping two shorter lengths of pipe together with one hand while balancing the end pipe in the other. He did it fast and without any fanfare. It looked straightforward and simple. I have done it a dozen or so times since then, and I can assure you, it is neither. It is clumsy and awkward, and I am still a little self-conscious if he, or my boss Paul, happens to watch me do it.

And yet. Isn’t that just the whole story about everything? That shit is hard when it’s new? That learning is difficult and takes time and repetition and consistency? The real-life reminder of this has been timely and precious for me. It has revitalized my appreciation for everything that people make look easy but is encoded with all of their practice and experience. The whole story, of which I can only imagine, that leads up to this moment right now, in which I simply witness the grace and fluidity of someone else’s earned proficiency.

I love it. These little insights. Working in a barn several afternoons a week, surrounded by cows and the very real work of feeding and milking them, turns out to be very agreeable work for me. I feel well-suited for it. I love the quiet and the repetition and the variability within the sameness. I think I have been missing this regularity and earthiness for most of my life. Or longing for it. It’s so practical. So uncomplicated. So necessary. It is milk after all. Made from sunlight and soil by way of grasses and slow-moving, heavy-bodied, and nearly constantly gestating ruminants.

I like the cows. I like the barn. I like the farm and its expansive nest up inside a dip of massive hillside. I even kinda like the raccoon that inevitably creeps up on me at some point during chores. Even though he may be short for this world. I mentioned him to my boss last night, and my ongoing surprise every time he makes himself known. Paul offered me the handgun in his truck and said I could go ahead a shoot him if I wanted. I laughed out loud and was like, listen, I have no problem with him being killed, but I have no experience with firearms and would rather not be slinging a 5 mm while milking. Not sure if that is in my job description. Ha. My boss messaged me tonight to let me know that he is gone. All 40 pounds of him. It never feels good to practice that particular aspect of animal management, but I will not miss him.

That’s it for now. An update from stick season on the verge of winter. I can do this. Once again. And again and again. So can you. Onward.