There are places where effort is quickly rewarded, and others where you feel as though you are bailing the tide: no matter the size or your little beach bucket, or the passion you summon into your two human-sized hands, that water is coming in — lifted and poured onto the sand by the sun and moon! — and then out it goes again, while the waves tug at your heels and pull foot-fulls of grains out from under your feet.

I believe we do best when it isn’t the whole ocean we are leaning against, but a backyard puddle of mud. It is easier to mop up a mess I myself have made or, with a small circle of trusted friends, to clean up small messes my neighbors have left in the neighborhood. There’s even a chance, at that garden-variety scale, that the conversation run heart-sized instead of world-sized, that it run cooler and tamer, and that I might be able to explain something I know to the mess-makers: how to better tend a garden.

When I find myself despairing about government surveillance of absolutely everybody, and their unpalatable spin in defense of indefensible actions (ocean), I take a little breath, look at the sky so much wider than the sea, look at my beautiful frail hands with their gentle increase of wrinkles and age-spots (tide) and turn back to what I can do instead of what I can’t.

~

Here on my little mountain, I have had a pleasant time of it. The planet is heating up, because we are burning it up; but because I am close to the ground here, I have been able to change some small things. This winter my house ran decidedly cool, sometimes as low as the mid-50s when the coals in my little wood stove went from flame to glow to ember. I definitely added some soot to the sky — that wasn’t so good; and I know that my local woodlot solution is untenable for large populations, was discarded in the cities long ago and for good reason. At the same time, I learned what heat meant, a knowledge that had been eluding me here in the States, where central heat equals invisible heat equals infinite heat. I learned consequence and, just as I discovered some world-skills during my brief tenure as an organic farmer, discovered this winter how great my margin of security really is, and my capability can really be.

It’s as though, when I learn something small (when we learn any small lesson), I have taken a short step up the slope, and can see a bit further over the crest of the hill. Ah, how interesting: I can do without this, I can do without that, and still live well… maybe even better.

~

With that long and misty preamble, I arrive at the motivation for this text. This winter, heating with wood, I became acutely aware of energy; acutely aware of every drop of oil, or split of wood that was burned to keep me comfortable. I turned the furnace thermostats down to 50 degrees, and they never kicked in. When the season turned, and the variable days of spring brought some warmth, I began to watch for the time I would clean up the stove and park the remaining half-cord of wood in the garage. Several times I was ready to begin that spring cleaning, when some icy wind dipped down from the north and convinced me otherwise.

Finally, though, it was done. Sweaters and slippers took the place of coals, heavy blankets and yes, at times a sleeping cap, made a bridge between March and April, accompanied by big mugs of chai or hot tea, and thick soup at lunch time. The windows were cracked open, were raised and lowered, and finally flung wide. The screens were brought down from the attic and up from the basement. The whole world smelled of earth, then green the size of shoots and buds, then flowers. Here in my home office, the birds grew louder and more numerous as the vacationers joined the year-rounders. Ah, spring.

But here was a discomfort. It started as a slight annoyance, and grew to a resentment so sharp that I’m sure I began to make faces and grumble, and finally curse. A sound that would in the past have been invisible in the background, once caught my attention, became a grating voice I resented each time I heard it: though I used no heat at all, and delighted in the cool but comfortable early season, my oil furnace would kick in almost once an hour!

What!

I had become so sensitive to heat and energy use, I heard it almost viscerally. Every time it kicked in, I could feel dollars drizzling out of my bank account. I could see that little oil gauge falling quarter-inch by quarter-inch. Damn it! Is there something wrong with the damn thing?

~

Of course there was nothing wrong with it, not even with its ingenious design. It was doing just what it had been designed to do, and pretty darned efficiently, too: it was keeping my little reservoir of hot water hot, and ready for use, the instant I asked for it.

We grow so accustomed to comforts that are of little practical use.

I take a shower once a day, when I am being fastidious (or sweating a lot). I wash dishes at the sink once a day. But I burn oil round-the-clock for this little bucket of hot water I throw over myself, or use to clean a few dishes.

One day, after hearing the oil burner kick in and out one too many times, I stormed over to the basement stairs in a pique, cursing and mumbling to myself like some old crank, and slapped the “emergency” switch from On to Off. THERE. I let out some sort for aghast sigh, and felt the frustration disperse. Maybe it was an emergency.

I looked at that switch: huh! And all of the subconscious/unconscious processing of the previous few paragraphs came into a sudden, gentle understanding.

For the past month, the furnace has been blissfully asleep. And since it is sleeping, I find that I hesitate to wake it up at all.

If I take a shower at the end of the day, the water in the pipes is warm(ish),  the warmth of the day asks for a shower that cool(ish), and suddenly I am living in accordance with a natural rhythm instead of a whenever-I-want rhythm. Most of the dishes clean superbly well in cool water; I have learned to take greasy pans wipe them with a paper towel while still warm — then add a little water and soap to clean what’s left without using any more electricity of oil for hot water. With bigger piles of dishes, I might put the kettle on for a few short minutes, and fill a larger pan… learning what my parents and their parents knew so well.

From such mundane moments, victories that are larger in fact than in appearance. If the power goes out tomorrow, I know something about living light.