Neville Lens: Pictures And Words

Winter, Wood, and the Missing Piece

 

View of the barn across the street on a walk to the woodshed

 

 
It's that time of year when everyone begins to talk about how many cords of wood they have had delivered.  Important topic.  Wood is the main source of heat for many of us living here in the country.  But when I think of wood, I think of that 'stacking' thing.  There is an art to stacking wood, an art I have never fully mastered.  Yeah, I'm able to get my wood stacked and it looks fine.  At least to me.  But, there were many years when my entire wood pile came crashing to the ground while I was removing one log.  I barely survived a serious disaster.  This year I hired someone to stack most of my wood.  I felt slightly guilty when I saw numerous friends' posts on Facebook and viewed their impeccably organized wood piles, which they had of course stacked themselves.  I reminded myself that I had assembled a few little log racks late summer and stacked all those racks with wood on my own.  Forget the guilt.  I finally admitted that I don't embrace some of these country chores like others do.

Despite my non-interest in stacking wood, I love a wood fire.  Nothing better to warm up the house when the winter's chill begins to move in.  Wonderfully romantic. The warmth,  the crackling, the smell.  Close to perfect

Something is missing here though.  I am mesmerized by my wood fires.  I love the mountains, rivers, lakes, and my friends.  Yet, I long for the ocean.

Soon after I bought my house here in Pennsylvania, a completely land-locked area, I entered a period of confusion, which exists to this day.  I had lived in Key West for over twenty years and being near the sea had always felt like home.  Shortly after I settled into my country home, a literary journal in Key West was focusing their first issue on the healing power of salt and the sea.  The confusion about my living situation prompted me to submit an essay for their first publication.

The journal didn't accept my submission, I admit to going  off on a tangent, but they sent me copies of their journal until their final issue.  That was great for me because I fell in love with the journal and it kept me connected in a small way to my island home.  The journal was called "The Secret Of Salt."  There is a "secret," and only those who know the sea deeply can truly understand. 


Here's my essay:

It is only in recent years that I have been drawn to the remarkable quality of wood.  There is a certain allure with the smell of wood and the special warmth it provides me during the long cold winters.  These days I often feel that wood has healing qualities very similar to the solace I used to find with the salt and sea.

I don't recall how or when this happened.  I remember thinking that I would live on my island home of Key Wet forever.  I was captivated by that island like one is attracted to a crazy lover.  I was addicted to the tropical waters, my love of sailing, the wondrous feeling of dried salt on my body, and the scents and smells of a place that never quite leave you.  I had found a home that was closer to whatever I thought God was at the time.  I was a free spirit and wonderfully happy.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find myself living on a remote hilltop in rural Pennsylvania some twenty years later.

Today is it early morning when that first hint of light is attempting to wake up the world.  I walk out slowly to the woodshed and gaze at the fresh snow that has fallen during the overnight.  The bitter cold temperature hurts, but the utter stillness comforts.  I gather as much wood as I can possibly hold to heat my little house for the morning.  My mind wanders to a time in Key West many years ago when I read about snow and silence in a small northeastern town.  I had secretly longed for this experience.  I wanted to hear the nothingness, to know this totally different world.  And today, the only sound for miles around is my boots crunching in this icy snow.  I have arrived. 

In the morning's quiet, I walk back to my house.  I quickly throw the kindling, newspaper, and logs into the wood stove.  I am proud of how adept I have become at starting fires. In only a matter of minutes, a roaring fire engulfs my small stove and the heat begins to make its way through the chill.  Sooon I am surrounded by a warmth, which only one who knows a wood fire can fully comprehend.  I am totally at peace and want to be nowhere but here.  Yet tonight, I will dream of Key West.



Winter morning - view from my house.

 



the sea

 

Wood stacked on the porch last year - by me!