I'll be a Spring

Dear blog,

It's been a beautiful autumn day. I feel like I've had so much sun, my head, and nose feels hot and sunburned. 

Now, it's night, it's hard to believe how warm it was in the day.

Especially inside my little tent capsule. Yes, we are still sleeping outside. 

Bess and I come inside mostly when it's been windy, or rainy. The very last day of September into the first of October were some of those days.

Wet, windy, cold.

It was so soggy. We were quite sad. 

We thought our camping outside was over. Yet, when things dried out, we came out too.

Neither of us want to call it quits. 

It feels a little extreme at this point.

But once you've tasted something good, you come back.

You explore it.

You learn about it.

And it feels like it reciprocates.

I feel like I'm learning about myself, and the earth.

I feel like the cold isn't something so threatening, nor as harsh as I thought. But a flavor. A flavor that has facets, like snowflake. It has a smell, and a spice of its own.

It is something quite crisp, and fresh, and clear. Quiet, and meditative.

Bess and I both agree, sleeping outside has changed us, made us better people. More like nature, and more sensitive to life. More earthy, and allowing.

 

The night before last, I was warm, except for my face, and nose.  The cold air bit my nose. I dreamed I went to the library, and instead of books, the shelves had food for you to check out.

            Strange. I must be hungry I thought.

A spider had crept under the folds of the tarp on my tent, seeming to shiver.

            "What are you doing?" I asked it.

            "Keeping warm," it said. "sheesh, like you."

            I tried flicking it through the mesh. But it wouldn't budge.

             I inspected the water condensing on my tent. Beautiful dewdrops clung to the inside of my tent, and I was worried because my laptop seemed damp.

            I had created my own climate, it seems. I'm making rain in my tent. I'm apparently creating clouds in my tent.  Hot breath, and cold air.

                        I jumped up and went inside to start a fire in fireplace, and do some other morning cleansing rituals. Then I came back out, and laid down.

            It was so cold, my fingers didn't appreciate writing, so I put them back under the covers, and fell asleep again.

            It's an odd thing.

            Every night, my mom asks us. "Are you sleeping outside again?" My answer, is usually. "Probably. Maybe. I'll have to see how cold it is. If it's too cold, I'll come in."

           

            Though, last night, even before we went to bed, it was getting chilly. 

            Bess and I were both thinking that we might not.

            But my sister and I both agree, there's something missing on the inside when we sleep. The ground feels as if it keeps you warm, even if the air is cold, like an electrical current.

            Though, last night, my tent's zipper decided to split, and not zip up, no matter what I did.

            I fiddled with it for too long. And because there are two flaps to the door, I zipped up one door, and hoped I would not freeze. I had myself, and my tent piled with blankets.

            For the most part, I was toasty, so toasty that I got up a huge sweat. I started raining, and sweating. Though the sweat made me cold, later.

            It's been interesting, taking in the October earth energy. The stars have been so clear, and it feels like when it's that cold, sounds carry farther. And you hear things you wouldn't normally hear or even be aware of inside.

            Animals stirring. Birds, cats, dogs. Trees, and leaves, and branches, and screech owls.

            There has been a pack of coyotes howling for the past few nights, all yipping, and calling out. 

            It feels as if all the animals are stirring outside. And the moon's not even full.

            The crab apple is dropping its fruit exponentially. They hit my tent sometimes when I'm sound a sleep, so loudly, it startles me awake.

             They seem like they are getting louder now its colder. They plop onto the house's roof, and roll down the awning, like a pinball game, plopping onto the ground, or into the rain gutter.

            This morning, I went inside and started a fire in the fireplace, like the day before, so the living room would be warm.

            And I found my sister had gone in the house, early around five or six, because she had gotten cold, and got in the bathtub to keep warm.

            I told her I was pretty warm, except that my zipper on my tent was splitting. It had done this a while ago, and I fixed it. But I was thinking maybe it was dead for sure.

            She was sweet, and came out, and got some pliers, and fixed it for me. She is strong from using a hammer all the time.

            So I was so happy about that. I hope it stays fixed.

            Then I went to go feed my chickens and milk my goats, she was there, fixing the milking stand that the goats had destroyed.

            She fixed that, made it better than before, I think.

            After we did animals, I went inside, and toodley dooed around, when my sister, popped in again, and said she wanted me to come on a bike ride.  Just a short one.

            I could tell she had something she wanted to show me.

            "You look like you want to show me something?"

            Her eyes glowed.

            "Yes. I do. Something on our bike ride."

            So I followed her outside, and she led me up to the bikes.

            There was an extra bike there that had stopped working.

            "I fixed it!" she said. "And I put green goop in the tires, so now we can take three people, maybe our neighbor on a bike ride."

            This was true, so many times we only have two bikes working at a time, so visitors don't have the option to come with us.

            I was very happy about this, and asked if I could try the bike out.

            She said. "No. You should try your bike.

             "Okay."

             I hopped on my bike, and started peddling. I could feel it was more firm to peddle, but there was something missing. Riding it felt smooth, and soft.

            I stopped.

            "The Click! It's gone!"

            Oh my gosh! Bess had fixed the click in my bike. I got off my bike, turned around and gave her a hug.

            "You fixed my bike!

            She told me about all the shifter gears needing oil, and a spring gear thing was bent, and she showed me how all the little parts worked. We were both thrilled. It had been getting dangerous to ride. It would lock up, so I couldn't pedal, and click, so I couldn't move. So I would often times have to jump off my bike, or take my feet of the petals release them, and then start again.

            "How did you fix my bike?" I asked her.

            She told me, "I wasn't sure how to fix it, but then I pretended like I was the one who had invented it. And that helped me figure it out. How things worked."

            I was so thrilled, I went up a hill, and down a hill, and there was no click, and I could go up the hill without having to get off my bike.  Before, if a dog was chasing us, or we were trying to beat a car, my bike would just make it so I couldn't pedal. I could never really get up to speed.

            She fixed it!

            "You fixed so many things today!" I told her.

            She smiled, and said, I got up, and asked God what I should do today, and he told me to fix things, like your zipper, the goat stand, and bike.

            I was so amazed about all the beautiful things she had fixed, I told my mom, and we all three had a conversation about springs.

            It made me think about how many springs are hidden everywhere.

            So I scribbled some thoughts down.

        I dedicate this writing to her, for she was my muse this morning. My spring in autumn.

 

           

 

I'll Be A Spring

 

Springs.

They are so tiny.

Hidden under most things that are shiny.

 

Springs.

Things you may not see.

Yet, they keep everything working perfectly.

 

Springs.

The magic way your toast pops up.

 

You'd be surprised, if you knew many springs you use on your desktop.

 

My keyboard has springs a plenty.

A Spring beneath each letter and key. Springs are the door, that make my words something your eyes can see.

Springs that make your toilet flush.

Springs in handles, and locks.

Springs to keep the pressure just right, not too much, not too tight. 

Springs are things of might!

Springs.

Such little contraptions.

But without them.

There's not much action.

Springs.

Firm, and bendy, they twirl around. Tell me is there anything where a spring is not found?

 

Springs go back to their original size.

A homing beacon, they seem.

Springs make inert objects come alive.

 

Hidden in the folds of life.

Springs are hidden. Under the tumult and strife.

Look deeper and you'll find springs make up the fabric of life.

Spring people who never stop.

They spring into action.

They hold.

Or stop.

 

The tension on water, that holds its place, then gives away to a ripple of grace.

 

Hidden springs that move the stars. Springs that keep this the world of ours.

 

Springs that keep the sky always blue, even after so much smog we do.

Springs in our minds.

Springs in our joints.

Springs in our steps.

Spring holding the seasons fixed and steady, firm and flexed.

 

Springs.

Perhaps in this soul of mine.

Though it has been stretched by trouble and time.

Pulled too far, and used too much.

And when I feel that my spring has turned to autumn.

I'll wait for my soul to sing, even at the bottom.

For no spring if it's true, will stop doing what all good springs do.

And even if it gets stretched out. And tired. 

Remember your soul's springs are resilient, made out of unbreakable wire. 

Wait for the seasons, the frost, and cold.

Spring will come.

It's coils grow, with each year.

A spring, a tree-ring.

 Forged in fire, with every tear.

Springs hidden beneath bones, and flesh.

A spring, a dawning, a paradise, something blessed.

And so, I hope to see the spring.

The original piece, and blueprint of me.

A spring, a well, that ever flows.

To a garden, that grows, and grows.

Springs hidden beneath each soul.

Flowers blooming most beautiful.

And if my job is to be a spring.

To flex, and bend, and be hidden under everything.

I'll be the spring that makes the latch on the door work.

Opened or closed. I know my worth.

Though small, and hidden.

A mere twirl.

I'll not shirk my job.

I'll be a spring.

A beautiful curl.