I crack a few chicken eggs into the frying pan and watch them sizzle in the melted butter. I grab a duck egg from my neighbor’s farm and crack that in too. Three yolky globules stand pat as the whites solidify beneath them. I grab my wooden spatula and begin scrambling. Seconds later, I’m spilling the mess onto a plate. Sea salt, pepper, turmeric….whoops! Too much turmeric. The dish takes a sunset hue. I add a big chunk of butter and stir it into the mess.
Breakfast is served. Hot and silky smooth and healing those winter blues, with a sip of steamy black coffee to wash it down right, filling my body with strength and warmth. It’s early January and it’s pretty cold out there today. The wind has been aggressive – we lost power twice yesterday – and I was about to head out to the barn to start breaking ice off the sheep’s water when the lights came back on. One of the joys of modern technology on the farm: heated livestock water buckets.
At least it’s sunny out. The wind can’t blow the sun away. The earth can only turn its gaze.
When this farm hangs its last Christmas wreath, it sleeps ‘til sugar season. We live in a culture of calendar years and New Year’s resolutions, but on planet Earth things go to sleep when it snows and they wake up when it melts. Oh, the work never stops. I still have to give the sheep hay, check their water, feed the chickens, collect their eggs, boop their little beaks and tell them I love them. I’m even gathering up the pluckiness to venture into the wind and install spouts for the maple tubing. Something I could have done in October, but so goes it, when you’re as wild as I am sometimes. The hard work never stops.
But I’m making it a point to rest more this winter, too. Didn't I just say this farm sleeps? And here I am talking about work, work, work. We should rest more. We should embrace the coze. I turn on the wood stove like a TV and I watch the fire channel. The dogs curl at my feet and the cat sits in my lap. I have a hot tea with mullein, chamomile, peppermint, dried elderberries – all from this farm. I’m reading books about raising sheep and the importance of small farms dotting the landscape. I think we need more small farms than Dollar Generals and sometimes I’m nervous the farms are losing. I’m not resting because I need to hide from things. I’m resting so I can be strong enough to someday smite a Dollar General, so I tell myself. The heat from the wood stove causes me to sweat and it’s the coziest feeling. Feels like a detox. Name a TV show that does that.
The days are starting to get longer already. The birds have decided to brave the wind and get out of the barn for the first time since I put them there in November. As soon as I got used to them going to bed at 3:45 every night, they started staying out until 4:15, pecking at woodchips and occasional forgotten chunks of frozen radish or carrot. I encourage their outdoor escapades by opening the mudroom door and tossing them handfuls of dehydrated cherry tomatoes, a fun find from the back of the pantry. The birds will help me clean out the pantry this winter – old herbs and tea blends and veggies, perhaps some freezer-burned meat. The girls eat well, and their eggs attest to that, and then I eat well. We keep each other well.
From the winter solstice through Christmas and New Year’s, it’s just a big blur, it seems. Most people take time off from work, and we all agree to just circle back/touch base/smell ya later. The world shuts down, at least somewhat. Except in the 24/7 gas station where some poor chump has to watch hot dogs spin while the clock strikes midnight. There’s a sacred quiet on the farm Christmas morning as no one but me and the animals seem to exist in the universe. If you think Sandwich is a quiet town when the seasonal residents are gone, go stand in the pasture on Jesus's birthday and you can't hear a thing but the Bearcamp River splashing a quarter-mile away and the northerly winds sliding down Whiteface into the valley.
One thing I like about the solstice season is how urgently dark it gets. I almost didn’t want to get caught in it. But I went out in it, anyway. Under the stars, which were wearing their shiny winter coats. In Frost’s The Starsplitter, he casually notes the “evening stars/That varied in their hue from red to green.” And I never thought of the damn stars as having colors other than white before. I get teased on occasion for being color-blind so maybe I just never noticed. I went out into the solstice black and studied Orion. Was the brute being fashionable with a green belt, a red pelt over his shoulder? I thought I just might see it.
On the night of the solstice, my friend told me to watch the night sky for interesting things. As the media-watching part of the world panicked over drones, I certainly was on edge when an odd-looking airplane appeared low in the sky, floating along lazily with a slow-blinking red light. But then, in my periphery, I saw a shooting star drop down below the treeline. Exquisite timing. The stars twinkled silently, knowing things. Don't ask questions, just take it in.
But it wasn’t until late on Christmas night when I began to question reality a bit. I took the dogs out before bed and we were standing beneath the stars. I noticed some planet off to the west – not sure which – and just below it, obscured by the trees, I saw a line of bright stars. Five or six bright lights, all in a perfect row. They all seemed to be moving slowly, if at all. My eyes got wide. They were here. The drones. Santa’s sleigh. The aliens. The feds. I dunno! I grabbed the dogs and rounded them into the house then went off into the woods to get a clearer view. The lights were gone. I walked down to the pasture….no lights down there either. The planet sat out there, smirking. A normal-looking plane flew high overhead, minding its business. Inside the plane, someone was sipping a Diet Coke and watching Elf on the back of a chair. Did I hallucinate this? Am I okay? Did the aliens land in the woods? I had an Occam’s Razor moment though and did a Google search. Indeed! I had seen a Starlink satellite. This wasn’t the first time, either. They’re pretty weird and you’ll never not be caught off-guard when you see one. But that’s the future we’re gonna live in. We gotta get in touch with the times, I guess.
I’ve spent a lot of time this year trying to be in touch with the times. Dusk is powerful for me – I spent every night this summer sopping it up. My body thanked me as it relaxed my frenzied mind before bed. Getting my eyes on the sunrise every morning has been valuable too – it’s like drinking an energy drink to lay eyes upon the sun rising over Lake Winnipesaukee from Center Harbor. But we don’t always tune in with the darkness, much, I think. We should be in tune with the sun – and the dark. We sit inside with our blue screens, our LED lights, our 10,000 FDA-approved food chemicals, and our fever-dream Pfizer ads offering up the antidote.
I think the antidote is to read Wendell Berry. His poem To Know The Dark feels like a menthol vapo-rub all over my flu-ridden chest.
To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
Speaking of dark feet, one of the joys of a quiet farm winter is noticing animal tracks all over the property. A mouse will tunnel out of its cozy winter hole, travel fifteen yards, then burrow back down into the snow. Mystery visitors will come from the woods, meander toward a rock wall or some confusing dead end, get confused, then travel back to the woods. The dogs take great pleasure in tracking these guests’ activities and we often find their prints going a quarter mile up the logging road off into the hemlocks, back to the Bearcamp.
I spent a lot of time in 2024 celebrating each full moon, learning their names, and connecting with and channeling that energy into my personal life. Full moons feels like a celebration – late nights and wild creativity. Recently I’ve realized the new moons can be just as powerful – we can’t see them, but that’s the point. These are the darkest nights, and they make room for introspection and contemplation. I think I’ll go out each night of the new moon and try to know the dark.
Winter Things on the farm. Work and rest. Play and contemplate. Sun and dark. Poke the fire and crack back into that book. And wait for the sap to flow.
Beautiful