the last days of february bring with them an ennui, a longing. a yen for color and life and warmth. elsewhere in the country, signs of spring begin to emerge: green shoots, buds swelling on trees, perhaps even a flower. as another snow squall descends, blotting out the world, one line from robert service loops through my mind: “the white land locked tight as a drum.” even in this, though, the signs–subtle as they may be–are there. the extra minutes of morning light, the dry p

driving over ice-glazed roads under a sky quilted white, seams stitched with blue. contemplating the state of the world, which, perhaps, isn’t the way to start the week off right. instead, back home, i focus on the criss-cross maze of deer tracks etched across the snow. last night i was awakened by the resounding clang of antler against gutter; a buck searching for edible browse alongside the house. today: a bald eagle, silhouetted against the sky, perched high among fractal

My experience of late, and that of many others with whom I’ve talked, is one of time hurtling forward. Faster and faster. Dizzying and relentless. Defying nearly all efforts to rein it in. One thing I’ve found allows me to pull back just a bit. To pause. To notice the moment and savor it. And that is ritual. Not elaborate or time-consuming ritual (indeed that’s the very thing I am trying to avoid—the rapid consumption of time). Rather: ritual as slow, mindful attentiveness

Before I begin today’s post, I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to those following my blog. Welcome to the world of coffee and woodsmoke. I appreciate your support and hope you enjoy your stay on these pages! The local grocery store here is called “Town & Country.” I reckon for many visitors even the town seems pretty country, but when you take the time to drive just a half an hour out–maybe not even that far–the difference makes itself known. Time slows down and sp

Walking along an ice rink road riddled with puddles, there is a whisper in the air; an undercurrent. Spring is not here yet in the north country, but there is a promise in the breeze. Hold on just a little longer, says the wind to the buds that have begun to swell on the trees. The morning sunlight has shifted, now angling gold through the bay window. I look up and a bald eagle soars overhead, low enough that i can hear each wingbeat. vanilla caramel cashew buckwheat clusters

Daybreak reveals a heavy grey blanket of sky, coming to rest just above slate mountains’ rise into icy peaks.  It looks like November.  Filtered light makes its way through, silhouetting skeletal trees, whispering across brittle, tawny grasses breaking through the snow’s thin crust. We’re easing into winter this year.  Cold, snowy days followed by mild, almost springlike weather; this past weekend saw nearly 50 degrees, and I took the opportunity to harvest the remaining 7 lb

Autumn has arrived.  I was away on travel for just over a week, and when I returned the season had changed.  Days and nights cool, crispness floating in the air.  Every here and there, a cluster of leaves bright yellow amidst the otherwise deep green foliage.  The light slants to golden, illuminating everything it brushes from within; the wind tinged with a cool northerly edge. The garden is at–perhaps just beyond–its peak.  The snap peas continue to yield, but their leaves a

I’ve been on a bit of a Montana-themed reading bender of late: Ivan Doig’s This House of Sky, a whole slew of Jim Harrison’s short stories (Legends of the Fall, The Beast God Forgot to Invent, The Woman Lit by Fireflies, The Summer He Didn’t Die), and, as of last night, Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It.  As a general rule, I’m not one for forewords in books; I’m usually impatient to get to the work itself, and find myself rushing through the pages numbered i-ix hurrie

I had pie for breakfast today.  I mean, I didn’t *only* eat pie.  But pie was definitely present.  Maybe topped with a couple of tablespoons of coconut ice cream. There are several reasons for this.  First: Monday.  Second: it’s “healthy” pie, filled with plums! (I keep telling myself this.)  Third: pie reminds me of Alaska–and as you know, I love Alaska.  Alaska may have been where I baked my very first pie, and it’s certainly where I’ve baked most of them.  This is because

Weekends go by so fast.  This one was a good one.  Summer days in Montana, celebrating the best the season has to offer. Saturday began with a trip to the county fair, where two-day old Vietnamese potbellied pigs suckled or slept under the warmth of a heat lamp.  So tiny, so delicate, so clearly brand new to this world.  One tiny piglet awoke from his nap, stood up on spindly legs, tottered, and then gave a long, slow, delicious stretch.  A stretch worthy of any practiced yog

Years ago, I had a word-of-the-day calendar.  I love this idea, this ritual of bringing a new concept into the everyday.  Of diving into the depths of language and storytelling and perceptions of consciousness.  I love losing myself in books, poems, songs; strings of words woven together to produce a richly colored tapestry of the human experience.  I love how lyrics and prose can transport, can switch on the projector inside the brain–or perhaps it’s the soul–and spin reel u

This past weekend was the summer solstice, the longest day of the year.  Which made me both happy (so much sunshine! so much daylight!) and sad (don’t start getting shorter yet, days!).  When I lived in Alaska, the tradition was to strip down into your skivvies (or less, if you were so brave) and jump into the frigid waters of the lake in celebration.  This year, here in Montana, I wasn’t quite so bold (not to mention that I wasn’t near a lake); instead, I opted to participat

When I think back on all of my years of schooling–everything I read, everything I heard, everything I memorized (and the many things I promptly forgot)–there are a few little gems that have stuck with me.  One of them, from my college soils class, is this: “Dirt is just misplaced soil.” How perfect.  Dirt is just misplaced soil.  A weed is just a misplaced plant.  These are the things I think about as I’m digging in the garden.  And the digging is starting to pay dividends! G

I am a morning person.  The first few hours after waking are, to me, the most perfect and pure part of the day.  Everything is new: the air is fresh, the slate is clean, and it is blessedly quiet.  No clutter, no chatter, no chaos. The moments of morning are sacred.  They offer the opportunity to set an intention and tone for the day.  For me, part of setting that intention and tone flows from the meditation of the morning ritual: rising with the sun (at least now, as we enjo

When I saw the forecast for this weekend–40s and rain–I sighed.  It’s spring and I want to be outside, hiking and gardening and soaking up sunshine!  But it’s May, one of our wettest months here in Montana, and we are in desperate need of the moisture after a winter nearly devoid of snow. Besides, when I awoke on Saturday morning and heard the patter against the window pane, I smiled and snuggled deeper under the covers.  I was reminded of the luxury of rainy days.  Everythin