Driving In Stakes

There's a frequently used expression that was on my mind the other day: Pulling up stakes. 

It's what people do when they give up on a place where they've been for a good while, for one or for many reasons, tear up their roots and start over somewhere else.

I've pulled up stakes more than a few times in my life.

But it occurs to me that I'm doing the opposite now.

This week, I staked my property so that when I submit my application at the Department of Transportation, and they come to inspect the site, they will know where I want my driveway to meet the road.

The first-driven stake, photographed along
with my beloved 6-pound hammer, the first of several hand tools
purchased so I can do work on my land.

After driving the stakes, it was time to give the areas
around them a little haircut, to make them easier to see.

This is a funny feeling. It is a feeling I haven't had for a very long time, the feeling of belonging to a place.

I felt it when I was a kid, essentially because I didn't know any better; I didn't know the upheavals that were to come. I thought the shag carpeting and bean bag chairs were mine and would be there for me always.

(An Aside about Bean Bag Chairs)

It's a funny thing about bean bag chairs. They are very lovable. When my sister and I were little we had one each – a red one and a beige one (to go with the orange, brown and beige shag area rugs with the large geometric shapes on them). As an adult, I bought an acid green bean bag chair for my studio. When I told my nieces that I was moving away from Toronto and wouldn't be able to see them as often anymore, my younger niece, who was about five-years-old at the time, immediately asked, "Can we have your bean bag chair?" I believe she requested it because it was something cozy and cuddly that she associated with me. So of course I gave it to them. 

I'm thinking it might be soon time to buy another bean bag chair. Or two. 

Back to belonging

So, yes, I feel like this land is now something to which I belong. Messy and chaotic after years of being left to its own devices, it is very beautiful to me.

When I first bought my land, I hesitated to alter it. I didn't want to cut any trees. I knew I was going to have to cut trees if I wanted to put my tiny home on the land and live there, but I didn't want to. I actually considered hiring a crane and getting my tiny home lowered into a tiny clearing. Now that my friends and I have cut off most of the trees necessary to put in the driveway and my tiny home, I feel differently about it. I can see how selective cutting is enhancing the beauty of the land for me. How letting in more light will give opportunities to trees that have spent their entire lives in shadow. How the brush piles will rot and give themselves back to the land, nourish their brothers and sisters.

And I see how this piece of land is something I can boss and cuddle and manage and love.

I didn't want to do this with a child. (I have many, many reasons for deciding not to have children. Someday, when I'm feeling brave enough, I'll write a blog post about that.) And while my cat is very available to love and cuddle, he is not available to boss or manage. He is a cat, after all, and they don't much like being told what to do. Being in charge of a child didn't appeal to me, but being in charge of this piece of land really does.

If I'm totally honest, I'm experiencing a bit of possessive, control-freak euphoria. It's all mine. I get to do whatever I want there. My decisions. My consequences. My life. My roots. My home.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

I feel very, very lucky. And maybe just a wee bit drunk on power.

See the purple asters like a smoke upon the hills.
In the spring I saw mayflowers on my land;
this fall there are asters. Both flowers are
potent reminders of my Nana,
who was a passionate devotee of
Nova Scotian landscapes, plants and birds.