More piñon lore, and something else!
This is what resin-heavy piñon looks like. Here and there in the woodpile, there are chunks that have buildups like this. I know when I find them, because they weigh twice as much as they should. These I set aside and chop as small as I can get them to use as fire-starters. All I have to do is lay a piece against a log, light it with a single match (!), and bury it with other pieces of firewood. I hardly ever use paper or other kindling.
Organic gold, winter ease
Good piñon burns with an aroma like exotic incense. A few times a month, I’ll be lighting a fire, and my wife will ask, “Are you burning incense?!” — we keep some in the bathroom, for obvious reasons — and I tell her no, I’m building a fire. It doesn’t pop or crackle, either, but burns silently and fiercely. Aside from forcing me to clean the chimney once a month, I have no complaints. And it’s a great comfort to have something HOT to stand next to, as opposed to the dank chill of a centrally “heated” house.
The woodpile itself is considerably less of a joy, especially after a snowstorm. What with having to sweep the snow off so I can find the wood, trying not to fall on my ass, and tracking a load of snow and frozen slop into the house with me, I would just as soon have a thermostat to turn up. Good luck with that, though: these old adobes don’t even have overhead light fixtures!
Unlikely setting for, um…
But today was different. This afternoon, when I reluctantly walked outside to get some wood, something happened.
There’s still a ton of snow lying around, easily over a foot deep in many places away from the house. Where we walk on it, especially around the woodpile, the snow has turned to solid ice — you can just imagine what daytime temperatures in the 40s and overnight lows in single digits do to all this white stuff. Today, though, what I noticed was how warm and quiet it was on a Sunday afternoon. The air was perfectly still the way it often is during a New Mexico winter. The only sound was a nearby raven making a continuous soft clicking or gargling call they give occasionally. There was no one else around.
As I stood in the sunlight on the dirty ice amidst the melting mud and snow, listening to the maddened raven, I suddenly realized that everything was, well, “perfect.” What’s more, I was happy. Wide awake, no cogitation, no anxiety. No separation! The quality of the moment was as high as it ever gets. I was ringing in the present like a tuning fork, and NOTHING MATTERED.
(More please, and make that a double.)
No related posts.
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
I like to think moments like this are available to all of us, no matter where we live: you just have to be “in the moment” to be aware of it. Thanks for sharing yours.
Oh, absolutely! Nobody HAS to be in New Mexico or anywhere else. It’s not a function of place, but of something else.
I cal l that being one with the Tao. Good moments, indeed.
Namaste…
Sure it’s a function of place. No need to assume otherwise as long as you accept that time & place can serve-up such moments of perfection to anyone who might reflect on it.
You’re right. Sloppy language on my part.
I don’t know about “reflecting on it,” though. Can’t describe any of this. Outside of words.
I love your woodpile stacking technique. I’m taking notes!
Seriously, have you considered packing up those piñon firestarters in little packages and selling them online? People make a bundle selling “fatwood” firestarters for ridiculous amounts. As for me, I make my firestarters out of egg cartons, candle stubs, and dryer lint.