one resolution

Today I rode a horse into the woods. He has not been tacked up since October. He was jittery and tense, strong in my hands and ultra-sensitive to my leg. He has gone a bit wild, this winter, whereas I've gone the opposite. I have drawn into the comforts of my warm home. I haven't been out in the woods on horseback all winter because I am comfortable indoors, and, to be honest, I'm afraid of what I might encounter. Horses don't like to see moose -- first their ears prick in the direction of the animal, before I can even see it. Then they stop completely and stand stalk still, their head up, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, all of the senses trying to determine the exact cause for alarm. Their bodies tense. By the time the moose is visible, they've already decided their instincts were correct, and they usually choose that favourite response of theirs: flight. And I happen to know there's a moose and her calf living somewhere near my house. Plus what sounds in the night like hundreds of coyotes.

Nevertheless: today, my horse and I went into the woods. First we rode out onto the frozen lake. Right to the middle of it, where we stood and looked at the expanse of white running southeast until it blurred into the blue-grey treeline and curved around the bend out of sight. I have never stood in the centre of a frozen lake before. Now I can't imagine why not. Afterwards, we turned back into the forest and followed a trail worn down in the snow by paw prints. I can't be sure it wasn't made that way by our own dogs, but I'm fairly certain this was a well-travelled coyote route, as I often hear them howling from this direction. Eventually it fizzled out, so we had to blaze our own trail through the bare, spindly bushes. We finally emerged into the big field, where we had to wade through three-foot snowdrifts. I am lucky to own a horse so large as Sebastian. I always know he'll make it through.

Afterwards, I was sore. My back, shoulders and arms ache from the effort it takes to hold back an excited horse for an hour's romp through wilderness and countryside. But it felt good. Familiar. I know he will be more manageable each time I ride him. By spring we'll be galloping unconcerned through our back pasture. Down the lane that winds through meadow and forest, all the way to the lake.

For now, this afternoon was just one resolution achieved.

wilderness goals

Today, my dog followed some wild animal -- coyote? rabbit? -- down a bunny trail in the snow. I followed her through the trees past naked aspen and birch, an abandoned osprey nest, a tangle of red-barked bushes, until I found myself standing out on the frozen lake in the bright sunlight. There were no more animal trails out here in the open. Just clean snow. It felt like wandering through the woods into a vast meadow. But I knew there was water under where I stood -- or at least, there had been at some point. The dog was already so far away, bent on catching her prey. I felt quiet, and alone and wonderful.

I have not been out in the wilderness enough. Living in the city, I made a point of it. I'd drive out here, get on my horse, and explore that lakeshore. Discover paths in the woods made by deer, follow them until they turned into nothing but bush. Once, while we galloped through a long field, a red-tailed hawk flew just in front of us. I have never felt like such a free, wild thing.

But now that I'm out here, the woods and the lake and the meadow -- they're all just the backdrop to the mundane ins and outs of my regular life.

It's February, now.

A new goal: get into the wilderness at least once a week.

As for January's goals (complete my four sewing projects, ride a horse, write a poem, buy a calendar), I did do a few of them. I sewed one summer sundress, with much frustration and some swearing and lots of wishing my mom were there. I did not ride a horse, but I did learn to drive a team of them and have, in the last week, driven four sleigh rides. I wrote a poem about a coyote. I bought this calendar.

how i go to the woods

How I go to the woods
Mary Oliver

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone,
with not a single friend, for they are all
smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.

I don't really want to be witnessed talking to
the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree.
I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible.
I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise
of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned.
I can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me,
I must love you very much.

a creed

This is the personal creed of Dr. J.W. Grant MacEwan. I put this up on the bulletin board in my office to remind myself to always endeavour to leave things better than I found them. To know every day that my dependence on the land is fundamental. And to help myself not to settle for an ideology that is handed to me; rather to insist upon searching for one.

Dr. MacEwan wrote extensively on matters of conservation and the truly human stories of how Western Canada came to be the way we know it today. He made a massive contribution to the mythology of this region. He believed that we must nurture sustainable relationships with our environment and with each other in order to innovate. Also, he liked horses.

*

I believe instinctively in a God for whom I am prepared to search.

I believe it is an offence against the God of Nature for me to accept any hand-me-down, man-defined religion or creed without the test of reason.  I believe no man dead or alive knows more about God
than I can know by searching.

I believe that the God of Nature must be without prejudice, with exactly the same concern for all His children, and that the human invokes no more, no less of fatherly love than the beaver or sparrow.

I believe I am an integral part of the environment and, as a good subject, I must establish an enduring relationship with my surroundings.  My dependence upon the land is fundamental.

I believe destructive waste and greedy exploitation are sins.

I believe the biggest challenge is in being a helper rather than a destroyer of the treasures in Nature's storehouse, a conserver, a husbandman and partner in caring for the Vineyard.

I accept, with apologies to Albert Schweitzer, "a Reverence for Life" and all that is of the Great Spirit's creation.

I believe morality is not complete until the individual holds all of the Great Spirit's creatures in brotherhood and has compassion for all.  A fundamental concept of Good consists of working to preserve all creatures with feeling and the will to live.

I am prepared to stand before my Maker, the Ruler of the entire Universe, with no other plea than that I have tried to leave things in His Vineyard better than I found them.

Dr. J.W. Grant MacEwan, 1969

coyote

At night, I listen to coyotes. I can feel them coming closer. As winter wears on, they are drawn inward to our little patch of civilization in their wide wilderness. The other night as I fed the horses, I could hear their cries. They sounded so close, I was surprised I couldn't see them. The dog ran back and forth at the edge of the horse pen, barking. His warnings made no difference. The coyotes called anyway. Have you ever heard them? Do you know that strange cry? It almost sounds like children screaming. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

And when I returned to my house, the dog suddenly took off barking up the road. In the moonlight and shadows, I couldn't see where he was headed, until his barks turned to whines and I saw him running back towards me. Something followed him, but stopped dead in its tracks when I stepped out onto the road. It had silvery fur and crouched low to the ground. The dog paced back and forth in front of me, barking.

This is not the first time I have seen one. This fall, I encountered one while out riding my horse. The coyote stood in the middle of the road through our back pasture and stared at me. I was confident that he would be scared off by my presence, but he didn't move. Finally, unnerved by his steady patience and unblinking stare, I turned to leave. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was standing right where I'd left him, watching me. Waiting for me to leave.

This morning I wrote a hasty, ill-constructed poem about these creatures I find myself sharing my home with. I have been thinking a lot about them. About their society. How a group of wild dogs might act. Do they understand the barking of the dog when he warns them to stay away? Do they recognize him as one of their own, just with different fur and a deeper voice? How close will they come?

Sometimes I stand on the deck of my house and listen to them calling to each other in the night and I wonder what their voices mean. Why do they sing together? I stare into the dark tree line where the crying comes from. I never see them there.

I hope this poem will turn into something better.

*

coyote

sometimes i think it’s just you and me out here
mostly when your cries sound like children
somewhere close by    and desperate

hungry

i stand at the edge of a wilderness and look for you
but you are much too clever to be seen
are you scared?    or are you sure of things?

on the road where we met: you stared   
unmoving    until i moved first
i know you watched until i was out of sight

and i must never take for granted the patience of a wild thing.

before january 31st

Before the end of January:

1. Sew the four projects I bought fabric for on Wednesday. (They're really easy projects.)
2. Ride a horse.
3. Write a poem.
4. Buy a calendar.

Seems simple enough.

new years day

I need a calendar.

And a studio space for writing and making.

And to miraculously stop being so messy.

And to have more energy, and to feel more comfortable.

Beyond thinking a little about what I need more of in my life, I haven't come to any decisions for new years resolutions. I can't decide what I'm willing to commit to. (Probably "be more decisive" should have been on my resolutions list for the last ten years at least.)

I guess, here's something tentative:

1. Read every day.
2. Create something once a month.
3. Start riding again -- including taking some lessons.
4. Organize and personalize my office at work so it feels less like some generic person's office and more like my own happy, inspiring workspace.

And I want to say something about cleaning more, but really, I don't want to clean more. I just want to suddenly find myself in a nicer, more organized environment. As if by magic.

As for the obligatory reflections on the year just passed: I hardly remember 2012 at all. I feel very far away from it already. We drove past our old house last night and it looked so perfect and familiar and, at the same time, foreign. Our lives are so very different from the ones we had living there. Not better or worse, I think -- just so completely different. For a minute I wanted to drive around back, let myself in and go to bed in our old room with all of our things there. But we don't live there anymore.

I wonder if we ever will again.