The hops are blooming, making little cones. An easier transition for them: NY to CA. Both the hops and the rosemary prefer it here. The chamomile, sadly, didn’t make the move.
This weekend, we’re moving to a new house to have heat, proximity, less coyotes on the driveway. Last night, as if the coyotes knew we were packing, the mountain was alive. Putting the cake tins away, I heard a howl that turned from howl to something full sad. It was a long, extended, and low cry. One of those cries that’s described as being “from the belly.” Jesse and I watched, from the window, as a group of coyotes moved toward the sound, ears up, and seemingly higher on their paws–like they were standing on their toes, trying to get somewhere without anything noticing. All nearby dogs, anything that could put out a call, started making noise too. The coyotes ran into the thick of the bushes and we lost sight of them, but knew the whole scene meant one of them had been hurt. Pack mentality.
We brought dinner for new friends who just had a baby and this seems the same.
There’s a deep and tangled part of me that feels disappointed that, on the mountain, there wasn’t a pack to come and help us. The last three months have felt like the halves of me have been halved and quartered. It’s been a thinning experience. I can’t help but think it’s good because I know you have to be disconnected to connect, but I did want to feel community, help, and support. Chelsea, an incredible artist I’ve been lucky to get to know, wonders about value and this time on the mountain has really given me a sense of values: my sister texted me every four hours when I was alone and sick, just to make sure I was still–at least–okay. My mother and father sent licorice in the mail and resisted the inclination to tell me how much they missed me. Mary and Chelsea brought me back to writing and making. Jenny talked to me about yoga for connection and Lauren sends the best emails for a laugh. There’s been support and community; a kind of a pack.