Eat, Pray, Shovel

I’m a single woman and I live in Belfast, Maine, for maybe three winters now. Like, it seems, many of the transplants here I have been privileged to meet, I chose this place as the place to plow through the dark night of my soul.

“Too late” I discovered structural dangers in the house I bought here. Exactly like my psyche, the house required gutting, reinforcing and rebuilding. Due to an unquestioned belief that I could make a better living south of here, for the first couple years I split my life working my high paying part-time job in Boston to pay for the renovations and working here on the renovations. The commuting took its toll and fourteen months ago and I simply surrendered and let the job go.

These days the bulk of my time is spent quietly, doing spiritual work and writing. And this winter … shoveling.

This winter it was time I took on the shared driveway as my responsibility. Was it practicality that opted for shoveling rather than paying for a plow? Or the romance of the snow itself?

In the beginning I relished the honesty of shoveling and was present with the experience. The combination of the healthy movement of my body, the shushing of shovel and the assured eventuality of transfer of snow over time provided a sense of accomplishment – and during the bigger snowfalls of late, sometimes even wonder. This year I sniffed the snowflakes and delighted in their sparkle, sprinkle or plop depending. Repeatedly I meandered back and forth in patterns broken only by Milo, the playful cat next door whose midnight black back allows an unparalleled field for flake appreciation. Each unique snowfall graced a specific recollection such as what snow made for the best childhood forts, or fluff in faces from falling off fiberglass saucers of the seventies. Clumps of it melting off knit mittens on the hot-air register at home. And then there was snow ice cream. (Gather fresh clean snow, add cream or half and half, pour in vanilla and sugar to taste. Stir and eat right away!) I enjoyed it all over again.