"We must not only cease our present desire for the growth of the state, but we must desire it's decrease, it's weakening."

~Leo Tolstoy

Whenever I fall back into Tolstoy, real-life takes on the too-defined, unnatural color of a dream, and I forget to wake-up completely. Tolstoy turns my mind inward, and when I do look around, my view is always accompanied by a sense of astonishment and unease, as though I can't really be certain that what I see is in fact, reality.


Living in the woods has confirmed and strengthened my distrust for the state. It is difficult to remember, while tending my garden, building, chopping down, and in general improving my little world - that the world of politics is an actual force, having an actual, and lasting effect on the world around me; that it may at one point, even touch on my little haven.

One of the many reasons we moved out of the city was to escape some of the over-bearing concern that the state deals out in ever-increasing amounts to those in easy reach. We wanted to be somewhat beyond that reach, and we've certainly found a lovely spot. Our rural town reminds me of much of Michigan's Upper Penninsula, where I'd always noticed a pleasant disregard for the rules and regulations that flow from the capital. I don't want to paint too rosy a picture, there are inconveniences: our town hall is rarely open, all officials seem to be on a very part-time basis, and so we've had an awful time obtaining an address. But I'd gladly take the difficulties of a small town with it's tiny government in exchange for the freedom to do as I like on my land.

"When you go to bed, don't leave bread or milk
on the table: it attracts the dead."
~Rainer Maria Rilke

These past few weeks have been so full of undesireable tasks that take us out from our land, and run us 'round in traffic and crowds. I have a longing to quit my job and cloister myself away in my woods, where I can hear the rain on the roof and light footfalls in the trees.

There is something about the roundness of our yurt that gives the building an sense of pagan sanctity. As though the spiritual edges blur a bit in this space, and things that would generally be driven into the dark corners of a modern home can come out into the open. I feel as though I ought to leave bread and milk out for them: the fairies and the dead, to welcome them in under the wide eyes of our Icons, baptize them and give them a space to be.

My dreams have been vivid since moving. I recently dreamt I met the "dead I feared," they laughed at my fears and befriended me. Primarily, a young dark-haired man who hovered in covered spaces, where low branches made an overhang. Strange dreams for strange, moonless nights, I'm grateful to our dear Maty Bozha for her watchful eyes that see even in the darkness.

"Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still."
Henry David Thoreau

I have been neglectful. But I have excuses, primarily The Great Move, from apartment to yurt, city to country, electricity to primative. We have taken our giant step off the grid and onto our own piece of earth. The move has made us busy with many projects, and these projects are essential. We have a road to improve, an outhouse to cover, a library to build, and a garden to grow. But our projects are easy: we are in love with our new life, and love gives everything a rosy glow - even the horse-flies are a rose-colored nuisance.

One of the great blessings of this new life is a renewal of the sense of poetry in daily life. We were being drained by apartment living, and the move to the woods has reconnected us with the magic of the natural world. It is a blessing to be in the quiet.

"If a man settles in a certain place and does not bring forth the fruit of that place, the place itself casts him out"

Our landlord has been cast out by the little lot he's purchased. In the year since his arrival, we've watched the lilacs wither away, the apple tree - whose blossoms once overwhelmed the side-yard - has barely any flowers, and the roses rot on the bush. Since his arrival, the domovoi has taken the throwing things and run up and down the stairs. He sets of smoke-detectors and flings clothes from the landlord's line.

I wonder if, in part, the house has cast him out because it knows it is onnly his second choice. The house he wanted sits across the street, still for sale, and priced just out of reach. How miserable it must be to be a second-best!

I'm looking forward to leaving, and I wonder if our blessing of the lower level will carry one after we leave. Do blessings of space linger forever, or do they fade? I think and hope it will linger, the new couple moving in are sweet, I'd hate for them to have to deal with a frustrated spirit full on.

It amazes me how many Catholics don't believe in spirits, or ghosts, or hauntings of any kind. How can we not? We who see the magic of creation. How can we put a limit on God's magic and imagination?

These aren't rhetorical questions - I really do hope someone answers!

"A good painting has always been to me like a friend. It keeps me company, comforts, and inspires."
~Hedy Lamarr

My life had for a while fallen out of it's creative stride. The days became repetitive: work, pack, plan, work.. and my art fell off, gathering dust amongst the boxes of things to be brought or left. Change, at least permanent change has always been something that throws me off-balance. I love travelling and wandering, I'm comfortable in wandering and uncertainties, but permanence is distressing. If I were less in love with our new land, I would balk at it all, as it is, I'm so wrapped up in planning that I manage to get very little done.

Tonight I refreshed my motivation. It's a rainy night and we listened to the wet outdoors while pouring over plans for things that must be done this weekend. Things that my husband is already accomplishing. We had roses blossoming beneath the Blessed Virgin again, and incense burning, and good white wine. Tomorrow I have a truck to test - drive, and books to pack away, pots to throw, and I'm thrilled to jump back into certainty again.

"There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of it's inconcievable mystery."

~Joseph Conrad

This week I began packing for our move out of the apartment. I am only packing a little, we still have two months of living there, and I know from previous experience that I have a tendency to pack early and then unpack, messily, the many things I forgot to leave out. I do have 5 boxes of books packed for the move, and 1 box of books that will not be making the move with us. Some of the latter are duplicates, most are disappointments. Their box sits on the bookshelf that will also not be moving with us, looking lonely and rejected.

Our apartment spirit seems to be feeling the rejection as well, his antics have increased somewhat. I'm excited to leave him behind as well this summer, with the ugly bookshelf, the old washer, and the disappointing books. The apartment spirit is weak - though he seems more competent outside in the hallways and the upper levels of the house. He came with the new landlord and keeps the whole house about 10 - 20 degrees cooler than the outside. Occasionally he throws things in the bathroom, hides keys, lighters, and cameras, and recently he's taken to harassing the hallway fire-alarm.

Fortunately for us, my husband and I had the apartment blessed when we moved in, and our apartment has stood up reasonable well to our little demon's attachment. We've had only one, brief experience of feeling a "presence" in a distinct and disturbing way; though I wonder if our unhappy spirit may be contributing to the landlord's nervous condition, maybe he's had more encounters.

I'm not really certain whether our spirit is a discontent Domowoj, expressing his dissatisfaction with the new homeowner, or a demon who has attached himself to either our new landlord or the house, but I will be happy to leave him and his tricks behind us at the end of June.

"It is the responsibility of writers to listen to gossip and pass it on. It is the way all storytellers learn about life."
~Grace Paley

One of the benefits of working a side job as a writer is the constant exposure to people and their stories. My co-workers are people I'm not likely to meet outside of work, our lives run in such different directions, and business is so slow, that the workplace has become a "safe place" for many of them to gossip, share stories, and complain in ways that might be awkward among friends.

It's interesting how comforting distance can be. I've met people on buses, at shops, and at work who will gladly unburden their souls to a complete stranger - relationship advice is the most common. I've had older business women confess to affairs, a college-aged co-worker admit to a sudden, and short-lived marriage, a drug-dealer gush about his beloved pet rabbit, and a bus driver discuss his neighbor's infidelities. When we don't know the person personally, it's easy to view them as we view the priest in the confessional: symbolic, representational, standing in for the people we really need to speak to.