Icicles on the roof at sundown
I feel a commitment to the land, and yet, I am preparing to walk away. I ponder this paradox. I have been through this before.
A visitor speaks of his fierce attachment to the land. I am intrigued with this expression, and consider his meaning further. A fierce attachment to the land. What I see is a fierce attachment to the past. He remains attached to a memory. An important place in his heart, I see, but as vague and distant as a dream only partly remembered. When he is awake, he is not here. He has built his life and home elsewhere.
For us, it is more, it is less, it is good, it is bad. It is home, where we struggle and strive to be, to make a living, to raise our family, to build our house, to live best we can off of and with the land. We have been committed. We have remained, labored and strained in the face of family conflict, colts dying, financial woes, and weather changing for the worst. We have endeavored and dared to make our dream come true.
Now the dreams have changed. Such is the nature of dreaming. Such is the nature of life. Things change. How long do we remain committed? When does it turn to attachment? When is it time to let go?
In attachment, I see a holding on, a taking only. Attachment. I think of a child clutching to his mother’s skirts, so afraid to let go. Afraid to grow up. Attached. Attachment is a needy state. We cling to what we barely hold.
Where is the sense of commitment? There is no partnership with a land from which we only take. I seek a balance. I must give. I must work on the land, with the land, of the land. I am willing to commit to the land, but not cling to attachments of a dying dream.
Commitment comes only with a struggle. We button up the coat and pull down the hat and brave the storm because this is our home, and home is worth standing up for. We don’t leave when the weather changes. This is all we have. We are willing to fight for our home, our children, our lives, our land.
Commitment. How do I define this? I see a husband standing beside his wife as the storm approaches. He reaches out and holds her hand and they know they will manage together.
And yet, here we are, packing our bags. A bittersweet struggle. A paradox.
Down in the willows before Ute Creek
Years ago, when I moved to the Pacific Northwest with my baby, I was the caretaker for a remote kids camp. Closed for nine months of the year. Only ours. Ours to tend to, to toil for, to wake in the middle of the night and check on a crying lamb, to stay out in the rain through the last light to weed one more garden bed, groom one more horse, or repair one more broken pipe. And I loved it. Learned one need not “own” something to make it theirs. We can commit without attachment. As long I was there, I treated the place as mine: every animal, every pipe, every fruit tree, everything. I felt appreciated. I felt at home. I was committed.
Mind you, this was a seasonal camp for kids, and no where did I see the difference between the sense of attachment and the sense of commitment more clearly than I saw at camp. The campers, or the adults who once had been campers, held an attachment so fiercely to the land, to the camp, to their past. I saw men and women in their thirties, forties, fifties and older, for one week out of every year regress to their childhood reminiscences and once again “be” campers, holding on to a fierce attachment to memories of a land, a place, a way they once were. And then they would leave, go home, return to their life for 51 weeks, return to their commitments and count the days until revisiting camp again.
On the other hand, were the locals, folks who were not amongst the elite of those who had been sent away to experience the world in which the locals lived. These were folks committed to the land. Land on which they struggled to make a living, support their families, raise their children, grow gardens and animals and barns and dreams. Land they knew they could not get something out of, be it a safe and warm home, or a crop to sell, or a beautiful view, without putting into it, working for it, fighting for it. Committing to the land.
And when the weather changed and the mountain threatened, there they remained long after the campers left. They continued to toil, put up with the harsh winters. Droughts. Calving complication. Horse births. Crop failures. Floods, storms, wild fires, children who grow up, spouses that pass away.
Now, the neighbors – a small community of perhaps 200 people spread throughout the mountains – was built with the bricks of some remarkable human beings. Women like I never had the opportunity to know. My friends and neighbors were then in their 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. . Most that I remember were amazing women. Strong women. Women who had homesteaded there. Built their homes. Worked their land. Raised and fed and taught their children there, found a way to scrape by a living, usually on the land. They knew how to work hard, were honest, sincere, caring. It was not a place to “get away.” It was a place to commit to, to work and reap the meager rewards. To hope and dream and struggle through hardships. It was not their vacation. It was their life.
They were surprisingly open to have someone from the younger generation show interest in the old time crafts, and were remarkably willing and able to share their knowledge with me. I was lucky. I wanted to learn it all, and they were willing to share. Many of these women were already widowed. Since I left, three more have lost their husbands. Most still remain on their ranches. All still work hard, for the land, or the community, or their families. Full lives, filled with commitment to a rich life.
Looking north beyond Pole Mountain
I moved away. I’ve grown. I’m not the fresh young thing I was there and then. Now I have a bit of the knowledge they so graciously shared with me. I can bake my own bread, milk a cow, make butter and cheese, grow my own corn. Maybe now – or next time – it will be my turn to help share knowledge. I’m not an old lady yet. Maybe there is stage in between being at the receiving end, and being the teacher. Maybe I just have to live it for while.
I consider this change, and see a natural pattern. I try to see my place between attachment and commitment and make sense of it all as I turn to walk away.
There is commitment in community. Here, I think this is what I have missed. There is no community in attachment. One can enjoy each others company as long as the weather holds. But when the storm clouds roll in and the leaves blow from the trees, one can walk away, each in their own direction, and perhaps each hold that attachment in the back of ones heart until the next summer arrives. Attahcment allows them the hold on and walk away at the same time.
I seek a place to remain.
The irony of it all.
I am not attached. I am too practical to hold onto the past. I am committed only as long as I am here. But I am not tied to nor bound by this land. Between the family conflicts and the ensuing wave of discord; a land that has killed my horses and part of my dream… what a fool I would be to remain in a place and position providing for others dreams when mine is only washing away with the heavy rains of summer? Does one remain committed in a relationship so imperfect, or does one strive for more?
I have compromised enough. I feel myself dreaming again.
I long for commitment as I long for a true home. A sense of being, a sense of permanence in an impermanent life. I am no closer than I was when I moved here, and began these years of commitment to a land I am ready to walk away from. Perhaps permanence, home, commitment, these things are found only within us.
Where does this leave me?
Looking up at Simpson Mountain