R.I.P. Yurt

 5 a.m. March 18^th

I woke up unusually early with the full moon illuminating our bedroom. The news reported it as being the brightest and fullest moon in 18 years. Everyone was sleeping, but me. I was almost up the stairs after reloading woodstove in the basement when I heard the front door fly open and someone enter. Who could that be? My heart jumped for a second before I rounded the corner to reveal our Grand Blanc neighbor, Brennan, who had been sleeping in the yurt for the night along with his friend, Jeremy. Along with Jacob they planned to leave at 6:30 a.m. to rent a skid steer and trencher to put in 2,000 feet of irrigation line in the fields.

“The yurt’s on fire,” Brennan told me, his face confirming truth, though I still repeated his statement in disbelief. Before I could repeat it a second time to wake Jacob, he was already up and moving towards the door having heard Brennan’s original statement from somewhere deep in his sleep. He grabbed a flannel along route and put it on in transit. He almost exited in his boxer briefs before I stopped him and threw some pants his way. He hesitated a moment before deciding to put them on. Were these the 10 seconds that could have saved the yurt?

 I heard him mutter something about hose, buckets and water as he was leaving. I ran to the basement and turned on the water that’s connected to the hose outside, forgetting that we own an actual fire hydrant hose and water pump already hooked up outside from earlier field water diversion. Trenches full of water lined the farm. I ran outside and went for the harvesting buckets before realizing the futility of my efforts. From behind the barn fiery, red streaks reached high and foreboding. One of those indescribably auditations of stark realization escaped my lips.

The yurt was a torch. The entire outer canvas and frame blazed, the spread of the fire having been catalyzed by the beeswax/vegetable oil salve coated on the outside of the canvas as a water repellent. Ironic. The bark of the birch trees surrounding the yurt danced with fire. The full moon sat large and ominous high over the western horizon adding dramatic effect.

Jacob embraced me. Tears sat in both our eyes as the magnitude of the moment ands its influence in our own microcosm of reality ebbed and flowed in our consciousness. Interns were supposed to live in the yurt. Their labor and cognitive help is seen as imperative in lessening our own body burden and making this lifestyle one we can physical sustain. Could our bodies handle another season without them? Now with a mortgage and a loan out to pay for the pond, irrigation, produce van and soil amendments we need their help more than ever.

The load roar of the flames tumbled in my thoughts, and the financial and business mind-set finally receded bringing forth the memory and meaning of each of those hemlock cut and sanded 2 x 4s. Images of Jacob’s mom and my Aunt Sue and Uncle Kevin sewing the raw canvas outside on the day of our wedding floated up, as did the months that Jacob spent sewing the top canvas pieces in the garage, cold, in the depth of winter.

The dutch doors were wide open and the burning objects within were displayed for their last viewing. The wood working table angled down to the flooring of the yurt, one side of its legs burned down, flames angled up to precede on in solidifying the reality that nothing was coming out. The top had been converted into a kitchen counter by my father with old, earth-toned tiles, hand-painted images of swiss chard leaves and flowers adorning the bordering of each tile.

The yurt, our tribute to the dedication of a “hand-made life,” to each other and to the life and goals we had created, burned away. The energy of our families and friends as they helped to build and erect the yurt on our wedding day tampered out. The circle we had walked clockwise around holding Forrest in our arms moments before saying “I do” in front of our family, friends and the law was now the ring of fire. The very symbol of our combined nomadic past was being put to rest.

Only a circular glow of burning embers remained an hour after the chimney fire began its elevated sparks. At this time Jacob, Brennan and Jeremy left to pick up the heavy equipment for putting the irrigation in. The intern, Doug, stayed behind to see the fire through to completion. Forrest and I headed in to make hashbrowns and eggs to fuel our six bodies for the long day of work ahead of us.

As the crew started trenching in the lines early on in the morning, 10 buffalo were sighted in the neighbor's woods for the first time since moving to our new home in Mayville. Along with a few other exotic animals our neighbor has a herd of buffalo. They are majestic, beautiful animals, revered as a symbol of abundance. According to shamanistic belief, they teach us that true prosperity comes when we are grateful for what we have.

We were awed, humbled, inspired and at peace.