Fall Equinox, give or take, 2022

I moved to the Connecticut River Valley on March 28th, 2010, my 25th birthday.

I’ll be moving to the Lake Pend Oreille watershed of Sandpoint Idaho by February 28th, 2023.

1 month shy of 13 years.

That’s 4,720 days of living here. That’s 168 new moons. 168 full. That’s 24 equinoxes. 24 solstices. 12 birthdays. 1 back surgery. 7 winter squash harvests. 7 seasons of wash, pack, deliver. 7 incredible farm crews. Lived in 6 apartments. 2 tiny house locations.

Countless swims in Lake Acadia, the Levenger’s Pond, the Upper Hadley Reservoir, Lithia Springs, the Fort River, the Mill River, the Swift River, the Westfield, Buffum Falls, Mormon Hollow Brook, Cranberry Pond, Cranberry Brook, the Sawmill River, the Quabbin Reservoir, Pumpkin Hollow Brook, Lake Wyola, Fiske Pond, Dunbar Brook, Spalding Brook, Tully Lake, The DAR, Ashfield Lake, the South River, The Conway swimming pool, The Chesterfield Gorge, the Green River, the Deerfield River, likely more riverine lovers whose names and nights I don’t remember in this moment. And the mother of them all, the all-accepting, ever gracious, Connecticut River.

I’ve taken my tears and my grief and my giddiness and my despair, my loneliness, my joy, my overflowing love to Rattlesnake Knob, Rattlesnake Gutter, Pigpen Ledges, Long Mountain, Mt Orient, Norwottuck, Bear, Tink, Little Tink, Mt Tom, Goat Peak, Mt Toby, Stoddard Hill, The Horse Caves, the dogbane patch, the fen where Ben laid down on the ice shelf and watched the February water flow.

I’ve taken my heavy hearted prayers all along the meadow between Pomeroy and Potwine.

I fished the rock dam during the shad run. Didn’t catch anything but jock itch.

I walked the sandplains at dawn listening for gobblers and god.

I saw bear prints in the mud at Bennet Meadows.

I ate mushrooms and floated down from Vernon dam to Munn’s Ferry.

I harvested fatwood from downed pines, pitch and white.

I built a house and moved it twice.

Lived with water.

Lived without.

Grew food.

Grew mold.

Grew good.

Grew old.

I’ve walked for days in the rain with Willie and Foxy and cried for 3 hours when we reached the closed visitor’s center.

I’ve walked from the Notch to Puffer’s Pond.

I’ve walked from my house to the post office.

I’ve walked.

And I’ve driven.

God, have I driven.

I drove to Hawley and learned how to drink and party and play stump and toss up a timber frame.

I drove to Wendell State forest to sit between two brooks and be baptized by a well-aimed raindrop.

I drove to the Sunderland Corner Store for a good year and a half.

I was a walking sausage, egg and cheese for a good stretch there.

I’ve made fires for myself and others.

I’ve made fires I didn’t light.

I made fires I kept burning for 4 nights.

I’ve made fires I light and forget to tend.

I’ve made coals from friction.

Read loads of non-fiction.

And can recite Carl Sandburg’s Wilderness with imperfect diction.

I’ve commissioned 6 embroideries.

Made 3 myself.

I’ve come home to a fire already made in my house.

I’ve come home to a gift of a giant burl and not known who left it.

I’ve come home to a bundle of dogbane scraped and placed on my porch.

I’ve come home to James Frank doing Tai Chi under the walnut.

I’ve come home to a Foxy dog wagging and wanting.

I’ve come home.

And now.

I’m leaving home.

And I don’t know yet how to say thanks.

Because, you see, none of the beauty above, did I find or make or encounter or experience, completely by myself.

There is a story.

For each memory.

And each story has a cast of characters.

How do I say thanks to Neill for showing me fire?

How do I say thanks to Dan and Karen for the wagonfuls of love?

How do I say thanks to Norwottuck, the glacier, Lake Hitchcock and the hike Tamsin and Suz and I walked that brought me there?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks for the guys at Sibies who would write the Celtics’ score on the outside of my sub sandwich wrapper when I worked the door at the Moan and Dove?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks to Greg for living his life like an oak tree who’s canopy I can always see?

How do I say thanks to Judy for sending me out and bringing back in a way that will be forever changing my life?

How do I say thanks to Erica for her song, her sapping with me, her holding circle with me, her never ending flow of beauty?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks for all the meals, all the visits, the hand massages, the bedside cries when my back was fucked and my spirit despairing?

How do I say it?

How do I say thanks for these lungs that heave and hug my ribs and that my ribs were made to float and protect?

How do I say thanks for miracles?

How do I say thanks to Al and Suzanne for being land, for being earth animated as people, for accepting their role and stepping into it even more?

How do I say thanks to Lawrence? For always being there, always being there, always being there. For me. And for about 500 more. How?

How do I do it?

How do I say thanks to Magdalena, Kate and Kyra?

How do I say thanks to Nate, Andrew, Willie, Greg, Martin?

Anna, Sky, Tamara, Billy?

To Walker and his iron mule?

To Ryan and his home moving skills?

How do I say thanks to Becca for opening her land to me while the Covid Moment was in full swell?

And to Rich and Susan who helped me land and build my house in their precious Eden?

And to the women I’ve loved and the women that have loved me?

How do I say thanks for holding my heart so well?

How do I say thanks to all the circles I’ve been invited to sit in?

How do I say thanks to everyone who’s ever joined me in an effort?

How do I say it?

How do I sing it?

How do I dance it?

How do I moan it?

Cry it?

Whimper it?

Grieve it?

Cleave it?

Heave it?

Believe it?

How?

How does one swim in 60 waters — and leave?

How does one swim in love — and leave?

How does one walk trails, walk paths, walk tree lines, field edges, waterlines, riversides, and deep divides — and leave?

Can I bring all this with me?

Can I bring all of you with me?

Can you keep some of me here with you?

Can these rivers carry some of me after I’ve left?

Can these mountains hold me in their ore?

Can you hold me in your heart?

Can I hold you in mine?

Can I believe that I’ve been saying thanks? That I’ve been saying I love you? That I’ve been squaring my tab?

Can I believe that?

Does the sunflower go through turmoil as it collects the sun’s rays on its way to death, its way to leaving?

Can I trust that my dropped antlers have been just enough and are feeding just enough mouse and vole?

Can I?

Its hard to leave this place. These people.

I don’t know my shape in any other tank.

I don’t know what the watershed of Sandpoint will make of me, or I of her.

I don’t know what ponderosa pine pitch smells like.

I don’t know where my trails are for my grief walks.

I don’t know where my swims are that mark the big moments, the sad moments, the hard moments.

I don’t know where the dogbane patch is. Where the basswood can be harvested. Where the folks are that want to gather around the fire.

I don’t know.

All I know is — I’m leaving.

And I’m sick about it.

And I don’t know how to say goodbye to a place a people a land after almost 13 years.

But.

One thing I do know.

Is that I am innnnnnnnnnnnn looooovvvvvvvvveeeeeeeee.

In love.

On love.

Under love.

Tucked up and wrapped in mountain-textile love.

Stuffed with the abuela’s homemade recipe love.

Illuminated by a hundred thousand flickering candles of love.

I am in love.

I am of love.

I am more love than I am bone.

I am more love than I am skin.

I am more love than water!

Than frykkin’ WATER!

I am walking love.

And I have one person to thank for that.

Well…

I guess that’s not true now that I think about it.

I have hundreds of thousands of people to thank for this great love that my four tires are spinning helplessly in.

Hundreds of thousands of hands to shake, cheeks to kiss, necks to hug.

Hundreds of thousands of fires to start, tend and bring wood to.

Hundreds of thousands of gatherings to call and invite these people to.

And this is my life now. The manifestation of that desire to say thanks.

To all the ancestors that watched and waited and learned the ways. The ways of animals and plants, sky and stars, trees and seas, shelter and shine.

To Kelly’s ancestors.

To my ancestors.

This is my thank you.

This is how I say Thank You for bringing my love to me and me to my love.

This is how I say thanks to this land. These people. This community.

By playing my role in this great chain.

My Thank You is my life.

My Thank You is why I call us into circle.

My Thank You is why I want us to talk and share and gather and encourage and love each other.

Because.

Without the fires lit, the food hot, the spirit bright in the hearts, I would not have made it.

My ancestors would not have made it.

Kelly would not have made it.

Her ancestors would not have made it.

We live our lives in beauty now to support love finding love in our descendants.

Keep it up.

Keep making it hard to leave.

Keep living lives of beauty and wonder and artistry.

It keeps us alive.

It keeps us fed.

It keeps us warm.

And it brings love to the fore.

That’s my Thank You.

Bringing love to the fore.

May it find you.

And buoy you.

And may your uplifted, buoyant spirit bring another up.

And another.

Love radiating up and out.

I have so much to learn.

I am grateful to keep trying.

Keep practicing.

Keep remembering that every moment is available for love.

I lost track of that painfully the other day on a call with a dear friend, Andrew.

I was reminded of it again by the grace in his approach to our repair.

My life is rich with people who bring love to the fore.

Rich rich rich.

And rivers too.

And mountains too.

And meadows, and forests, and farms, and neighborhoods.

And soon.

I’ll bring you all with me out to Idaho.

Out to the rivers, the flowers, the moose beds, and mountain rain showers.

I am not traveling light.

I’m bringing a watershed of love with me.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Thanks for reading,

Peter McLean