Guns and whiskey.

We hadn't walked the hills all the way to the creek in a long time, most nights now we just do several laps from our cabin down to the gate.  It's more athletic that way, the steep climb.  Tonight the moon was right though, and besides.  It's my last week.

Two new guys moved in while I was away in Oregon, they are younger and the family names we gave them stuck.  Bucket and Son Won. They're from Washington in the Cascades and bring this amazing new enthusiasm combo'd with that boundless, nameless mountain spirit.  It has a name actually, I'd call it peace.

Also, Em had to leave, which hurts my heart every day.

When we got to the field in the middle of the hills and the valleys circled like a black tapestry backdrop hung in the sky we stood a long while and looked at the stars.  None of us used our headlights the entire time because the moon of course was so wide with the soft white light.  We walked to the bridge, the creek was running high and the air around it was cold and wet as snow or ice.  In the daytime here it's warm in the sun, at night next to the creek by the bridge our bodies caused steam.  At night it's winter in the hills.

In the field walking back Mo and Bucket and I stayed back and I showed them how to use their breath to open their instinct.  Their backbreath, or moonbreath, that subtle wild body we all have but dont use because we think we're higher or better than animals now. It got Mo all jazzed and talking about wanting to take survival classes, how to live in our enviroment naturally. Permaculture!  I was happy, going on to her and Buck about my earth activist training coming up in Jan.  Native plants and invasives and medicinals and eco-diversity and harmony.  We were amped, inspired, energized and grounded from the moon and breathing exercise.  How?  I asked them then.  How did we get so disconnected from our home?

Guns, Bucket answered.  Guns and whiskey he said.  And we laughed and walked up the hill past our gate, in the dark, through the woods.