When we brought my son Morgan back up to Nashville to fly home to Portland, Oregon, we spent an enjoyable evening at an Irish Pub. The band played bawdy folk tunes with lots of audience participation. It was fun, bringing back old memories of when Ron played the Northeastern folk circuit amid small pubs, folk festivals and the like. What struck me most about the evening, however, was how completely alien it was from my world. I live in a completely different realm up here on Carroll Ridge; this modern version of Bilbo's shire that we've created is completely outside of the urban/ suburban lives we once knew. I am like the magical Inn Keeper who washes the sheets and hangs them on the line to catch the fragrance of the summer breeze preparing for the next guest so that their dreams may be magically imbibed with the scent of the tricky south wind. It sounds crazy, but this exactly how I feel.
People come here from everywhere, as if they are called by the fairy ring to find what they are seeking. Artists and writers are always seeking something when they come to this way station. Years ago I was a practicing midwife's apprentice. We would nurture women to go through the most powerful event of her life, and then she would be gone… off into the world far from the realm of birthing and labor pains, and into the world of parenthood. Occasionally we would receive word from the outer realm on how the young family was doing, but in modern society with families spread across so many states following the job market, more cases than not would disappear after a few heartfelt notes and I would be left with a sense that they had crossover into a different world.
HillHouse, I am slowing coming to realize it is a lot like that. Dexter the guardian dog will bark at night as she scans the perimeter for what is outside and does not belong. I think of her as the wizard who is maintaining the magical bubble for what resides within our fence line. There are white rabbits that hop freely among the dogs and cats and chickens. My farmer neighbor admitted to me that while driving home one night she saw a white rabbit run along the side of the road near my gate and had to tell herself, "No, I'm not crazy; I did see a white rabbit." (Though she did have to ask me, with a grin, if I did indeed own a white rabbit.)
Apparently the idea of seeing of a free roaming white rabbit is unheard of; it is a sign of the impossible, but not on this farm. Dexter will even bark at hawks that circle in our "fly zone." Hen Wen, our pig, named after the Lloyd Alexander oracle from the Black Cauldron series is the best rototiller I own ~ Is there any question as to why I might feel a little strange when I step outside of my realm and enter the world of French fries, electric guitars and a loud talkative crowd?
Even among my rural farmer friends, I don't quite live in the same world. People come to our place to make art; and farmers who are eking what they can from the land from sunrise to sunset; don't exactly make a place for art in their lives… and yet they do. Appalachian crafts and music are a testament to that. This summer I will be attending a week at Goddard working on my art and I am hoping to incorporate some of the old time crafts into my work. I'm excitedly going to leave my ridge for the great Pacific Northwest for a short while. I have become electrified with new visions that marry my writing to my art to my farm.
Life is good, even if we, too, have not been unscathed by these economic times. Still, there is hope and peace. Which reminds me of one of my favorite fantasy authors, Robin McKinley. There's this character named Luthe in Daria. He lives high in the mountains where heroes can go to be healed. I feel a bit like Luthe, too. Because people come here to be healed, they come to be reconnected to the land, the animals, and the inner voice that can sometimes only be heard when you've got a barking dog protecting your perimeter. Welcome to the HillHouse Realm, we're a bit outside the box here, but I guess that's the point.
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