Harvesting Stones

We are deep into autumn -- on All Hallow's eve, it so happens--a day
whose crone eyes decree decay and change, and spark with new beginnings.
The apples on the old tree in our front lawn are perfect -- large
and both sweet and gently tart, without wormholes or bird pecks. The
kind of apples we can give away or sell instead of chopping into pieces
and scooping out the unseemly blemishes. We can smilingly, confidently
offer them to our friends.

Our planting field, our garden-to-be (or, when we're daring, our farm-to-be)
is like a carpet taking form, a weaving. The ground has been plowed
and tilled, and tilled again, enriched with soil amendments. Today
Andy broadcast seeds onto the canvas -- vetch, peas, rye, clover --
our winter cover crop. Because the earth is moist with rain, we attempt
to shovel the seed into the soil. It is calm in the golden light,
and I feel as if I'm shoveling treasure into the earth. Gold-yellow-green
poplar leaves pattern the brown of the garden. These I turn under
with the seeds, shoveling gold dishes into the dark earth.

After a row and a half Andy gives up and decides to call upon our walk-behind
tractor. He'd thought the wet dirt would clog the tiller, but now
figures it's worth taking the chance. Shoveling has been absurdly
difficult and slow. We'd be at it for days. Soon I see that the tractor
is going well. I lay my shovel on the grass and turn to the task of
pulling stones from the field. It's amazing -- so many stones recline
on top of the ground, even rather large ones. Andy and I pulled stones
from the field after it was first plowed. And again after tilling.
Whenever we walk by, we pull out stones. But earthmother continues
to produce more, to push them up, it seems, like a crop of corn or
a sac of eggs. At first we constructed a few piles of stones, careful
cairns, but now I just fling the rocks into the grass, onto the part
of field I know we'll never plow. Eventually I'll have to gather these,
because we'll still have to mow the grass at some point.

I pull the stones, and enjoy the weight and chill hardness in my palms,
the damp earth on my flesh. I'm glad I'm not wearing gloves. Realizing
this, I press my hand against the earth, leaving prints like leaves
behind.

I step in and out of the field, carefully, not wanting to compact the
soil, but knowing it can't be helped, and knowing that Andy will be
tilling it all again anyway, where I've stepped. As I place the stones
to the side and prepare to return to the field, eyeing for places
where I've stepped before and looking for stones so I have a purpose
for being in that space, I feel as if I'm entering sacred ground.
And aren't I, truly? We are tending the soil, shifting it, feeding
it, nurturing it, tucking it in for the night, so that the earth's
life force may burst forth in the spring and bless us, bless the world.
Here is a place of awakening on so many levels. Life rising to an
organic thriving mass. A galaxy in the garden. It is sacred ground
because things are happening within this space and we are aware of
the happenings, somewhat. We will perform what rituals we can, do
the dance, and see if we can't influence the life force, the energies
greater than ourselves. We will attempt to move with the rhythms of
the unseen cycles and influence them in great and small ways.

I press my hands into the soil again and again. I notice the deep small
marks that also knuckle into the field -- hoofprints. The deer have
added their own patterns to the blanket. One of our cats sits in the
dirt and meows at me. She demands the blessing of my fingers on her
fur, while complaining about the garden's newest initiate: Molly the
dog prances by to nose where our cats have beatifically defeccated
in our field and have primly covered their offerings. Molly grins,
unearths the cat scat, engages in her own comic dance and trots off.

I leave another handprint and remove another stone.

I  shake frozen curly fries out of a plastic bag and spread them on
a baking pan. I pull long shards of ice from the fries and toss them
into the sink -- the stones from the 13x19 inch field in my kitchen.

A number of large yellow-touched-with-red apples crowd expectantly
on the counter, watching the process, and exuding a sweet harvest
smell, their approval and grace. It is autumn, All Hallow's Eve, and
the outside has nudged within. The cheerful gifts of summer shine
gold onto our path as we descend into the long stone nights of the
year.
 

end