In May 2011, after four years of life on McNutt's Island, we moved to Montreal. This blog remains, though, as a (sort of) daily record of our time on the island, and a winding path for anyone who would like to meander about among its magical places. For additional perspectives and insights I recommend Greg's book, Island Year: Finding Nova Scotia (2010), and my Bowl of Light (2012). I'll continue to post once in a while. If you do want to read this blog, one option would be to begin at the beginning of it (which is, as we all know, in blog-world, at the end), and read forward, concluding with the most recent entry. It's a journal, really, so it does makes more sense if you read it that way. But, you know, read it any way you like.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Good Friday

We spent Good Friday redeeming more of the old farm.  Greg continued clearing. He has worked his way down the path toward the lower orchard. Yesterday he got as far as an old well. This well was covered over with dead spruce trunks and brush, and we only happened to glimpse it last summer, a few feet off the path.  If they are open, the old wells are dangerous for the sheep. I would not like to have to rescue a sheep who has fallen into one. Soon, Greg will build a wooden frame with a hinged cover.  It's on his list. In the meantime we will trust the sheep to keep to the safety of their familiar path and not go wandering off in search of anything new and exciting.  

The old wells themselves are not very useful to us, at least not yet. But they were essential to the settlers who built them, who first redeemed this land. Now, no longer practical, they are good for the soul. Their dark glimmer hints of hidden depths beyond the familiar paths.     

While Greg worked near the lower path, I continued to clear the field behind the vegetable garden. It was its hundred year clean up, I think. Last year it was covered with spruce trees and its outlines were vague. It was only the memory of a field.  Now, the spruce cleared away, you can see the stone wall along the lower road and the two old apple trees that border it. As I raked my way down the wall I found clumps of emerging daffodils near each apple tree. They have been hidden for years, their glory unseen and forgotten, like the wells, and as good for the soul.  

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