We stacked a cord of wood in silence yesterday. There are no shortcuts when it comes to stacking wood. Or most other chores. Or anything really. Piece by piece, two at a time, maybe three or four if they’re smaller logs.
My silent teen and I worked together. At one point, the side of the pile he was building up was getting a lot higher than mine. An undulation of fir and maple silhouetted against the wall. I asked him to work with me to even it out. He gave me a look. They must teach that look in eighth grade. It’s the one thing he’s mastered during this year of distance learning. Look given, silence maintained, he continued to stack where he’d been stacking.
I steamed. But I didn’t say anything more.
The ripple of wood against the wall became a wave, east side rising to a crest, west side looking like it had been pulled in by the undertow.
Thump-thump. Two more stacked. Ten steps to the mess of split wood awaiting its turn at order. Reach, grab. Reach, grab. Ten steps back to the woodpile. Thump-thump.
Rhythmic and constant like the ocean I’ve seen twice in five years. Each thump-thump put us two logs closer to moving the entire pile. A cord of wood is a lot of wood. Stacked, it measures 4’ x 8’ x 4’ so 128 cubic feet. It’s enough to fill a full-size pick-up truck’s bed twice. A lot of wood to stack in silence. Maybe 500-1000 logs.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I look up and see the top edge of the pile has smoothed itself. When did that happen? Must have been while I was still feeling annoyed about The Look.
I sometimes think no one listens to me.
When that happens, I have a tendency to get louder. Dogs and other animals don’t respond well to that, and neither do people since people are animals, and neither do children since children are people.
I’ve had to reach deep into my bones at times to discern when I’m trying to control a situation versus when I’m setting boundaries. When I begin to get louder it’s probably about control. Boundaries I can say once, softly.
Wanting the woodpile stacked at an even rate was control. It wasn’t a boundary, it was me wanting to control the situation. It was really hard to continue in silence after I asked him to change what he was doing and he ignored me. But I did it. I let go of control there, just a little bit, just for a little while. It was enough that I’m going to tell my therapist about it so we can celebrate: for an hour on Tuesday I didn’t need to be in control!
You know what happened in the silence? There was a point at which the wood could be stacked no higher so he had to move over and fill the low spots. I didn’t need to direct that to happen, it was going to happen anyway. Straight across, as high as we could reach. I didn’t need to make that happen. Even if it hadn’t happened, what was the worst that would have happened?
We began the second course in front of the first. With the last log set in place, the ducks and chickens came over to pick bugs out of the splinters, all that remained of the massive heap that had been there two hours ago. My teen went back to his room. I swept.
Not to tell you what to do, but rather I’d like to invite you to consider contemplating the following...
What do you notice about your body when you’re maybe trying to control a situation?
If you imagine spending two hours in silence, how does that feel? Is it different if you’re alone or with someone? If you’re working on a task or doing something else? Perhaps notice what being in silence feels like this week if the chance arises.
What’s present for you right now, in this moment?
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