Opening the Gate

When I was young, getting out of the car to open the gate was a dreaded chore. At night, it was a momentous feat to climb my mountain of fear to get out of the car alone in the dark, let alone stand nervously as the headlights passed me by and left me running to catch up without looking back at whatever was most certainly chasing me.

After spending the past twenty-four hours visiting my family in the next town over, as we pulled up to the Finnriver gate tonight I stepped out of the car with the same dread I’ve been carrying for decades and got back into the car with a shocking breath of fresh air. Earlier this evening while lying on my parent’s leather couches and watching various sporting events in High Definition (the NBA all-star events and opening games of the Winter Olympics were both featured this weekend) I began to sense the slightest twinge of discontentment at what awaited me back on the farm. I had to hold myself back from describing my cabin to my sister as ‘small’ and ‘cluttered.’ One day of soft wall-to-wall carpeting and endless ginger ales had felt so good.

As Joe and I drove home tonight our chatter was like a freight train. Heading towards an out of sight destination and in the mean time noisy. As I stepped out to open the gate, my mental prattle was slapped silent by the amazing clamor of the quiet night. All at once I was struck by the loud sky of stars and the burgeoning calls of crickets and toads. And just as instantly I was awakened to how wrong I was to lust over the warm house we had just left. The sense of home soaked deep into my skin so quickly that I didn’t even notice the car lights move beyond me. And the cabin even felt amply perfect when I entered.

Joe and I recently found two metaphors to guide aspects of our partnership. From storyteller Utah Phillips we gathered the idea that time is a river and we are standing in it and our ancestors are the tributaries and we can bend down and touch the water and the stones anytime to stay connected. And recently we were taught of the native mythology of the salmon representing a return to home and origin, as they are creatures that travel far and yet always find their way back.

In addition to working on being comfortable in the dark, our time on the farm (however short or long it may ultimately be) is precious for its potential to guide us through relearning the mythologies that shaped us or our ancestors. It is a time when life is lived with all senses engaged. Our comforts have been exchanged for awareness and our indulgences for curiosity. In this state I hope to become more familiar with the meaning of home and the importance of return. What is it that we should be returning to? Is it best to return rather than advance? Before long it will be my job to pass along these lessons. I cannot approach this responsibility without preparation.

Not long ago my dad told me that when he first moved to live in the darkness of the mountains he was afraid at first. I asked him how he managed all those years. He told me that he forced himself to simply stand in the dark and witness that nothing frightening would happen. I cannot teach the children of my life not to be afraid of the dark until I myself am not. I cannot partake in a revival of mythology until I have searched for meanings with my own hands. I believe the best place to do that is here, where I can walk down the field to see the salmon returning up our creek. Where I can be most intimate with the life cycle of the plants and animals around me – both domesticated and wild. And where I am required to use my body each day in a way that is constructive to both the day’s work and my own physical health. There is no other place to explore the meanings of continuation and return than the place that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to stand in a dark solitary moment just a little longer.