I remember being little and stacking wood with my dad. Back in those very old days, when I was really young, it was fun, and I am sure I was probably more of a hindrance than an asset as he tried to get through it without tripping over me.
As I got older, I was much better help, but maybe not quite as good company? I was helping in between school work, job and social commitments. Life was so tough as a teenager, so I thought. š
I could see the gray autumn sky above, and hear the few, dead, rustling leaves that were still hanging on to the old apple tree. They whispered to us as we worked, watching us go back and forth, back and forth. Pile to pile.
Inevitably, a layer or two always got shed, even the hat, as the body warmed up from the work.
Still, the pungent smell of fresh cut wood conjures up memories of the process, and my thoughts drift back to the fireplace and wood stoves that it stoked.
I can see Dadās steel-toed, laced-up boots, and the variety of different colored shammy shirts that he would be donning. Back and forth, back and forth we went.
Such mundane work ā yet so satisfying to take a pile of wood and stack it into an organized way. To sweat and see progress, and feel satisfaction and a great sense of accomplishment. At the end of the day a body that was exhausted from the physical labor the pile demanded.
Content mind, tired muscles, and toasty warm feet resting on an ottoman. Flickering shadows and heat from the orange burning fire, pop, pop.
I spend the majority of my days communicating about farming, sitting in an old oak, swivel chair, behind a big, wide roll top desk. I get great enjoyment out of what I do every day.
And yet, my body aches to find that place of work, where most days are about the physical and mundane tasks that keep a body moving and a soul delightfully full.
As I sit here, my mind drifts ā¦ to stacking wood.
With love,
Kate
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