For the last few days, Tara and I have spent an hour or two each morning stacking wood. It'll be a year or more before we start burning these logs to heat our little cottage, but the work fills me with an immediate sense of joy. It just feels right. I think it is because the effort we're expending contributes directly to our survival. Somehow, that's more rewarding to me than the usual scenario of working to make money to pay for our survival.
We're not the only ones who've been building up our winter stores—as we work, little critters scurry around us, preparing for the snowy season ahead. We've been spotting chipmunks constantly the last few weeks, thanks to the racket they kick up, crunching loudly through the forest floor over fallen leaves. I've lost count of how many times we've assumed the sound must be from an animal fifty times their size!
When we're finished stacking the wood we split last weekend, we'll have about two cords stockpiled, and it will be time to split another round. This is a job with no end; so far, I can't say as though I mind!