i’ve heard it said that winter is never far away in the north country. you can feel its presence just beyond the mountain; hovering, biding its time. it’s time. this past week, three snowstorms worthy of january: the first, heavy wet flakes just right for building a snowman; the second, cold and powdery; the third, falling right now, steadily, steadily; deep. when the clouds lift, the newly dusted mountainside will reveal scars–stark gashes of white across a forested flank

the neighbor mows his lawn and the air smells sweet; later, spicy as rain releases the balm of creekside cottonwoods. thunder rumbles low, a child’s laughter peals. we dance to silly songs and play outside with rocks and sticks. the sun feels hot on my arms for the first time this season. backlit illumination on the dog’s fur, making her glow. leaves begin to unfurl, willow and crabapple, currant and gooseberry. the apple tree still in bud, silvery grey and fuzzy. these are t

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

There are things we believe.  Things that ground us.  Things that hold us close–more than we can ever hold them.  Things divine, that reflect our inner light; things that tap into and reveal who we really are, that embody what it means to truly live.  Things that are infinite, timeless, and eternal. The great Jim Harrison captures the essence of such things in his poem “I Believe,” from the collection “In Search of Small Gods.”  I reread this poem other day, and started ponde

This year marks 50 years for the best band ever. Forever. So many of my friends from near and far, from different chapters and far flung corners of the Earth, converged this weekend at Soldier Field in Chicago for the Grateful Dead’s “Fare Thee Well” shows.  It pains me more than I can describe not to be there!  Through the wonders of YouTube, I can watch the performances–Friday night’s rendition of Ripple (amazing!) left me choked up–but there is nothing that can compare to

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

Change is the only constant. That adage, attributed (or misattributed, depending what you read) to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, rings especially true for me this month. Flux upon flux. Shift upon shift. Seasons progressing, flowers unfolding, lives evolving, coming, going … all beneath clouds scudding across the sky.  I took my first stand up paddleboard yoga class this past weekend and it seems a perfect metaphor for life: standing steady and moving through the flow—tru

The lowing of some happy cows; that was my weekend alarm clock.  It made me smile as I lay in bed, early morning sunlight slanting through the blinds, hearing them moo.  As the days wore on, I would see the little herd standing on the ridgeline across the street, silhouetted against the sky.  There is a little calf amongst the group.  It seems to have the energy of my herding dogs, running circles round the cows just the same. This weekend was beautiful blue sky, sunny and wa

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

The pause. Pausing is not something we seem to do much of these days; running from one task to another, then another; filling our so-called “down time” with texting, email, social media, television.  It’s exhausting.  And it makes the pause, when we do, all the more powerful. In yoga, kumbhaka is the pause between the inhale and the exhale, between the exhale and the inhale.  The pause represents pure potential, endless possibility, boundless creativity.  When we stop and not

This past weekend, we had a one-day break in the rain.  There is nothing quite like feeling the sun on your skin after so many grey sky days.  Muscles sequentially relax–muscles you didn’t even realize were tense in the first instance.  Couple that with the bouquet of floral essences that hangs in the air after a rain, and it’s a little slice of heaven.  I’m pretty sure everyone in town took full advantage: hiking, biking, gardening, barbequing.  I joined them–going for a hik

On Monday, May 25th, we celebrated Memorial Day, a day of remembrance, respect, and recognition for those who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.  The holiday offers an opportunity for reflection, a chance to honor those who have given their lives so that we might live ours–so that we might do our best to lead our lives in an honest, genuine, and gracious manner. Throughout the holiday weekend, I was reminded time and again of how many honest and genuine peo

Eating in season.  Tis the season!  While I will admit to buying the occasional exorbitantly-priced half pint of blueberries in the depths of winter (a reward for shoveling the sidewalk and driveway once again?), there is, as we all know, nothing like the taste explosion of a height-of-season homegrown tomato or farmer’s market-fresh bunch of kale. Just as I love the change in seasons, I find something so reassuring and right about the progression of foods at market: first ga

I finally returned home to Bozeman this past week after a couple of weeks on the road.  I do love traveling–experiencing new places, and old places anew–but Dorothy says it best: there’s no place like home (even when it’s snowing and blowing, in May).  Perhaps it’s because, after decades of peripatetic wandering, I find myself rooting in a place.  I long for this place, this home, when I’m away. It’s good to be back. And back in my kitchen, of course.  I hadn’t been home for

Zone 4 It’s almost time … We’re so close … But not quite there yet … With the sunny mild weather we’ve had this spring, it’s taken every ounce of willpower I have not to start planting (the foot of heavy wet snow we got a couple of weeks back reminded me why I’m waiting). But just give it a week or two and the cool weather seeds will be sown and home-grown deliciousness will soon follow. My love affair with gardening began when I was as young as I can remember. One of my ea