Frosty Grass, Burning Embers

The usual alarm, aka my cold face, wakes me in spite of the many layers of blankets. Stepping out of bed, I grab the clothes near my feet that I placed under the covers the night before. I finally learned how to make it tolerable to get out of bed on a cold Montana deep winter morning. I resorted to doing this because cold clothing is painful. My chronic illness and weakness would make my back physically hurt when it touched my frigid morning clothes.

Dressing as quickly as possible in hopes of beating the fatigue already invading my arms, I finish my look by grabbing the blanket from the foot of the bed. Putting the makeshift cape on my back and shoulders, I grasp the front opening with my hands and try pulling the two sides close enough together to touch.

Dawn hasn’t broken yet, as I exit my bedroom and head into the cold dark living room. I listen for the brewing coffee pot, but there isn’t one. How I miss that sound. With so many food allergies, not being allowed coffee on a morning like this is like kicking a person when they are down. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it feels like missing a long-lost friend.

I approach the large picture window and open the curtains. This allows me to see what I’m doing without turning on lights and waking anyone else.

“First things first…how does it look?” I say in a low whisper to myself as I open the wood stove door with my one free hand. 

“Damn.” No burning wood left. It looks completely dead…or is it?

Grabbing the poker, I stir the ash that is spread out on the bottom of the wood stove. Any orange embers? Any sign of life? I’ll take anything.

“Well, hello there. Will you work?” I say when a tiny orange spark glows back at me.

Gathering some kindling stacked nearby, I set to arrange it in the wide opening. I open the flues on each side, trying to get as much air in as possible to breathe life into those pitiful embers. I also leave the front door slightly ajar.

“Let’s see if that works,” I say as I step back, already tired and needing to rest. I haven’t been on my feet for fifteen minutes yet. Please don’t be one of those days.

Walking back to the picture window, I look out into the darkness at the lone streetlight glowing on the corner of the intersection. I inhale deeply, pausing slightly before I sigh out as my shoulders slump under the weight of the blanket. The coldness pressing through these aged windows causes me to involuntarily take a step back to get out of its ring of influence.

This old house, these old windows, the deceptive warmth of the wood stove.

I observe the frosty field in front of me that abuts the front yard. The streetlight defining the corner shines and accentuates the snowflakes falling in big puffs to the ground. The streetlight’s aura stops just short of my front yard. The frosty grass is almost completely covered with snow and ice…again. It just seems like there’s no hope for the poor grass to win the battle and break free, demanding to be seen…and live.

Some days I feel numb, but not cold, wrapped in my blanket, standing and staring out the window. Other days I feel thankful for the window, even though it doesn’t keep the cold out. Yesterday the dormant grass was fully visible and ready for spring…I can barely see it today.

I find myself sighing again, not realizing I’ve been holding my breath. Why? Why am I holding my breath and why am I still breathing? It is so difficult when your body wants to retire, but your spirit refuses to.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die, but I also don’t want to live like this. 

Sometimes there are dark days and sometimes there are dark cold days. Sometimes they come one after another to the point where I lose count. It’s amazing how much time can pass without noticing it. When nothing is changing, everything around me becomes a blur. 

I think I finally understand now. I get why when someone is shipwrecked or stranded, they start marking days somewhere to document the passing of time–otherwise it would be just one very big, long unbearable day. 

The snow continues to fall as I wonder why the grass doesn’t ever seem to get a break in Montana. When the grass finally gets an opportunity to grow, like yesterday, it’s more like a punishment because the weather goes back to its preferred rut and mentally beats it down again. False hope.

I shuffle over to our wood stove again. I find myself getting angry at it for taking so long. It’s not really the fire I’m getting mad at though. It’s my body. The fire refusing to cooperate reminds me of my daily struggle with chronic fatigue and how long it takes for what is supposed to work to work. I can’t give up; it would be like letting the fire go out. What difference would there be between sitting here in the cold house looking out of the world passing by or being buried under the snow with the grass trying to fight for its right to live only to get knocked down again. Futility.

Am I that grass?

Do I keep fighting for my health even though there is no known cure? Is it pointless? Is the grass trying to grow now even though it’s covered in snow? The grass seems defiant, fighting anyway. Or is it just stupid?

That beaten grass keeps fighting year after year. Winter after winter and yet in the summer, you would never guess that things were once so bleak. Snow, sleet, warm sun, repeat.  

Those tiny days—when my body cooperates with me—give me enough strength for the long days that are so difficult. I wish today was one of those tiny days.

Sitting back down on the floor in front of the fire to rest while I check its progress, I am able to shed the blanket that was keeping my back warm. I smell the heated metal that always comes just before the fire finally engulfs the wood enough that it will continue to burn when the door is closed.

I hear the popping of the pitch pockets that help ignite the flames faster. It was almost time to close the door completely. I miss the stove that had the window in the front. You could see the fire working even when you can’t feel it yet. Closing this door, I had to trust it is still working and doing its job even if I can’t see it.

Movement in the hallway causes me to look up and see one of my younger kids walking sleepily towards the beckoning fire sounds in the living room.

“Hi, mom.”

“Good morning, Sweetie.”

We smile at each other, and he assumes his position in my lap in front of the fire…using my chest as his blanket for his back to keep warm as the heat gradually extends its tentacles throughout the living area.

The fire talks to us while we whisper back and forth to each other, not wanting to wake anyone else. We sit in silence for a little while more letting his hair tickle my nose as I kiss the back of his head.

Once we are both warmed up inside and out, we slowly close the windowless door and hide the fire from view…hoping it was tended to properly so that it will eventually permeate the rest of the house.